Hi!! I adore your writing❤️❤️ I see ur requests are open so I was wondering if youd be interested in writing something where Joel fucks the attitude out of reader?? Maybe she’s angry and stubborn for some reason and then she feels better afterward.
Three days since you accidentally saw Joel's truck pull into Tommy's driveway at two in the morning. Three days since you then watched some pretty woman with long hair and a laugh loud enough to wake the neighbours, climb out of the passenger seat, while resting her hand on his shoulder like she had the right to touch him.
Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly.
The thought made you want to break something.
So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right?
He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes.
"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.
Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"
"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?"
He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down.
Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."
"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"
Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"
"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."
"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper.
"It ain't your concern."
"It is my concern when—" and louder again.
"Enough."
He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down.
Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.
"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."
"Don't you dare—"
"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."
The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.
"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."
The words landed like a bucket of cold water.
You blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment.
"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering.
"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"
"But you didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."
"I'm not a cat." You pouted.
"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"
Now what.
You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid.
And still so, so fucking wound up.
"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.
Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.
"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I am."
"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."
"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."
Suddenly he turned you.
The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.
"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."
You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days.
Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent.
"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.
"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.
"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.
"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."
He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.
Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.
"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."
Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine.
The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.
"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.
"You—Joel—only you—"
"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."
Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him.
But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.
"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."
He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands.
Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt.
"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.
You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop—need you—"
He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you.
Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.
"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."
You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you.
Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely.
He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you.
After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.
"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"
You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."
Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."
warnings: intimate, possible spoilers from The Mandalorian and Grogu, way too cute, din being smitten asf, kinda smutty
The hyperspace tunnel finally dissolved into streaks of blue and black, and the old gunship groaned like it, too, was exhausted.
Din Djarin sat heavily in the pilot seat, one gloved hand still on the controls while the other rubbed slowly down the front of his helmet.
Behind him came a tiny, sleepy chirp.
“I know,” Din muttered. “I’m tired too.”
Grogu blinked at him from his seat, ears drooping dramatically in betrayal.
The mission had gone wrong approximately seventeen times.
First, the Hutt they were hired to escort had attempted to betray them. Then pirates got involved. Then the Empire. Then, somehow, an exploding fuel station. Din still wasn’t entirely sure how Grogu had gotten hold of detonators.
The child made an innocent face.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Grogu cooed louder.
Din sighed. “You’re lucky she likes you more than me.”
At that, Grogu perked up immediately, tiny claws tapping excitedly against the seat.
Home.
The ship descended through the atmosphere toward the hidden repair dock tucked deep into the canyon settlement. Warm lights glowed through the dusk, and Din felt that familiar pull in his chest the second he saw the open hangar doors.
Her.
He could already picture her standing there with grease on her hands and that unimpressed expression she always wore when he came back half-dead.
The ship landed rougher than usual.
“Easy,” Din grunted.
Grogu squealed as the ship bounced once.
The ramp lowered with a hiss.
And there she was.
Y/N stood beneath the workshop lights with a hydrospanner hanging from her belt, dark streaks of grease smeared across one cheek. One side of the docked ship behind her was still open from repairs, sparks occasionally flashing inside its exposed paneling.
Din’s heartbeat slowed instantly at the sight of her.
Stars.
Every single time.
She crossed her arms immediately. “You’re late.”
Grogu launched himself down the ramp with a happy shriek.
“Hey, my little green love—”
You barely had time to crouch before Grogu collided with your chest, climbing up you like a tiny monkey. You laughed breathlessly, kissing the top of his head while he made clingy little noises into your neck.
“Oh, I missed you too.”
Din watched silently from the ramp.
He always did that.
Watched the two of you like you were something sacred.
Your eyes finally lifted to him. “What happened this time?”
“Mission complications.”
“That means something exploded.”
“A few things exploded.”
You narrowed your eyes instantly.
Din knew that look.
“I had it under control.”
“You always say that right before you almost die.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
Grogu made a very dramatic sad noise.
You looked down sharply. “What happened?”
The little traitor pointed at Din and babbled furiously.
Din actually stiffened.
“You snitch.”
Grogu barked happily.
Your expression darkened more and more the longer Din explained.
“You WHAT?”
“The Hutt wasn’t the target—”
“You took on three Imperial cruisers for a HUTT?”
“There were not three cruisers.”
“How many?”
Din paused.
“…Two.”
Your jaw dropped.
Grogu slowly hid his face against your shoulder.
“You are unbelievable.”
“It worked.”
“You got shot!”
“It barely hit me.”
“You crashed the ship!”
“We landed.”
“You are impossible to—”
Grogu suddenly grabbed your face with both tiny hands.
You stopped instantly.
The little green child pressed his forehead against yours and gave the saddest little whine imaginable.
Your anger melted so fast Din almost laughed.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, rubbing his ears gently. “You thought I was mad at you?”
Grogu nodded pitifully.
“I could never be mad at you.”
The child chirped triumphantly and immediately cuddled closer.
Din shook his head.
Manipulator.
You pointed at Din over Grogu’s shoulder. “We are continuing this argument later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me.”
Din almost smiled beneath the helmet.
Home.
This was home.
Later that night, the ship was quiet.
For once.
Grogu had finally fallen asleep in his little bunk after demanding approximately forty-seven minutes of cuddles from both of you.
Din had taken the first real shower he’d had in days, steam still curling through the tiny fresher as he stood shirtless beside the sink.
Water rolled down scarred skin.
Old knife wounds. Burn marks. Bruises spreading dark along his ribs.
New ones.
He stared at them silently in the mirror.
The door slid open behind him.
Din looked up immediately.
You leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely across your chest.
Your eyes traveled slowly over him.
Not teasing.
Not joking.
Just… looking.
Din suddenly became very aware of every scar on his body.
“You got hurt,” you said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that too.”
He watched your reflection approach him.
Closer.
Your fingers brushed carefully over the fresh bruising on his side, and Din inhaled sharply despite himself.
Your gaze lifted instantly to his.
There it was.
That shift.
The air changed all at once.
Din’s hand closed around your wrist before he could stop himself.
You didn’t pull away.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you kissed him.
Hard.
Like you’d been waiting for it.
Din backed you against the wall so fast the metal clanged beneath you both, his hands instantly at your waist while your fingers tangled into his damp curls.
The sound he made against your mouth was low and rough.
Hungry.
Stars, he’d missed you.
The kiss turned messy almost immediately, all breath and restrained frustration and months of near-misses between missions.
“You drive me insane,” you mumbled against his lips.
Din laughed once under his breath before kissing you again, harder this time.
“You like me insane.”
“I like you alive.”
His forehead pressed briefly against yours before his mouth found your jaw, then your neck.
You gasped softly as his hands tightened on your hips.
Without the armor, without the helmet, without all the layers between you, Din always felt overwhelming.
Large hands. Warm skin. Quiet little sounds he only made around you.
“You worried about me?” he murmured against your throat.
“You almost got yourself killed over a Hutt.”
“Mhm.”
“I should hit you.”
“Mhm.. Try me..”
Instead, your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently.
Din groaned softly against your neck, kissing lower, pressing his hips on yours while you laughed breathlessly at the sound.
“Careful,” you whispered.
“You started this.”
“You pinned me to a wall!”
“You kissed me first.”
You opened your mouth to argue—
Tiny footsteps.
Rapid little pitter-patters approaching the fresher.
Both of you froze.
Din lifted his head slowly.
The door slid open.
Grogu stood there holding his blanket.
Silence.
The child looked at Din.
Then at you pinned between him and the wall.
Then at Din’s mouth on your neck.
Grogu’s face scrunched instantly.
A tiny offended growl left him.
Like: yuck.
You burst into laughter immediately, covering your face.
Din closed his eyes in defeat.
“Kid…”
Grogu made another judgmental noise and waddled over, demanding uppies with both hands.
Just like that, the moment shattered.
Din stared down at him for a long second before reluctantly picking him up.
Grogu immediately wedged himself between the two of you possessively.
You laughed harder. “I think he’s jealous.”
“I noticed.”
Grogu glared at Din.
Din stared back.
“…I fought pirates for you.”
Grogu blinked once.
Then deliberately snuggled into your chest instead.
Little traitor.
Guys, would you like some Mando smutt??
Tell me by the comments 🙏
!!edit: i've done a mando nsfw alphabet, you can acess by this link here
Relationships: Di Djarin x GN!reader (no physical description other than shorter, but there is a joke in there)
Warnings: some canon violence (attempted strangulation), but otherwise nothing but fluff and flirting.
Summary: Din has something that he wants to tell you, but when Din is involved, nothing is simple and straightforward. Prepare yourself for a road trip!
Word Count: about 3.7k
Written for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge.
I chose Din and got a road trip! So please enjoy a trip around the Star Wars universe with our favorite bounty hunter.
I'm mixing my lore up a little- Grogu exists, but is staying with Auntie Peli and The Razor Crest is back! Please forgive my canon inaccuracies.
You watched as Din made the calculations to make the jump to hyperspace, never one to trust the computer to do the calculations for him. He was very old school in that way, steadfastly resolute, and it was one of those qualities that you had always adored about him.
Looking at your relationship from the outside, you must have looked like a strange pair as you traveled the galaxy in his old tin can gunship. Peli, Din's most trusted mechanic, feisty friend-of-sorts, and current baby-sitter to Grogu, had made numerous jokes and even offered you a plasma torch and a power driver to open the beskar to find out more about the person behind the armor as you had set off together.
She had confided that she wasn't entirely convinced as to what species he was. You simply hid behind your coy smile because you knew that Din was human, you'd shared enough intimate moments alone with him in the cot on board the Razor Crest to know that on previous trips. Many stolen moments where you had removed his beskar piece by piece, kissed the constellations of scars that littered his battle-worn body, and explored places that few others had. You had never seen his face, but that didn't bother you; your ability to read his gestures and body movements told you everything you needed to know about how he felt about you.
“So, where are we off to?” You were spinning around in the co-pilot's chair - your chair - right by his side, looking at him as you spoke.
“Thought we might take a trip to Rishi,” he said as he continued to crunch numbers into the console. Adept at reading his body language, you noticed a slight shift as he spoke. Your eyes narrowed, slightly.
“What are you up to Din Djarin, hmmm?”
The question made him look up, “Nothing, cyar'ika.”
You reached out for the holopad on the console, wanting to check your destination. It wasn't the name of a planet you recognized. Scanning through the notes that appeared in front of you, you read it out loud, “A tropical planet in the Outer Rim. What are we going there for?”
“I have some business that I need to take care of.”
This news surprised you, because Din usually shared all of his plans with you - you were a team. Very rarely did he make a decision without you.
“Oh, okay,” you said, frowning. “How long will it take us to get there?”
“Once we hit the hyperlane, about forty standard hours.”
“Oh no,” you deadpanned, with a twinkle in your eye, as you reached across to take his gloved hand in your own bare one. You began to slowly peel the glove from his hand, keeping your eyes trained solely on his visor. “How are we going to fill the time?”
“Cyar'ika,” he growled, “we haven't taken off yet.”
“Too right,” you replied smugly.
Rishi
You walked down the ramp of the Razor Crest, side by side with the Mandalorian. The ship was resting on a lush, green landing strip just outside of Corataani Town, the main trading center of the planet.
The vibrantly green rainforest that sat adjacent to the space port, was teeming with exotic wildlife. You could hear the chatter of the Orobirds that sat high in the trees above the hum of nearby engines.
It was both hot and humid and you were hit by a wall of tropical heat as you descended from the cool belly of durasteel that had been your home for the duration of the trip.
Rishi was not a hostile planet, but Din was always armed and ready. It used to be a hive of pirate activity and there were still reminders of their activities here and there.
“Where are we headed, D-Mando?” You always struggled to remember his public moniker, especially after spending several days holed up in the Crest together where you had spent so much time whispering his real name reverently over and over again.
He cleared his throat and took his time before replying, “Rishi lies on the Manda Merchant Trade Route and has a busy market. I thought you might like a visit. I need you to pick up some more supplies because we have a few more stops after this.”
“We do?” For the second time in the last few standard days, Din had caught you by surprise.
“We do,” he confirmed. “Let's divide and conquer. But keep your comlink handy. And keep your eyes peeled for thieves and pirates.”
“Always,” you said, brightly as he handed you a bag of credits. “How long will you be?”
“Meet you back here in an hour,” he said, pointing at the town gates.
“In an hour,” you said over your shoulder as you skipped off to find the marketplace.
Just as you'd hoped, the market was vibrant and exciting. Delicious smells, colorful fruits, luxurious fabrics - the list went on. It was an assault on all of the senses. You strode through with purpose, haggling for supplies for your onward journey, feeling jubilant every time you bartered with a vendor and lowered the price.
Satisfied with your purchases, you made your way out of the market and back towards your meeting point. Because he was easy to pick out in a crowd, Din's absence at the gate was immediately obvious. You panicked a little, it was unlike Din to be late. He was never late.
You were juggling too many parcels to reach your comlink, which was safely stowed in your pocket, and so you decided to wait - and hope.
After standing for ten or so minutes, you were seriously starting to think of returning to the space port, because the Trandoshan standing on the opposite side of the gate was starting to take too much interest in you, you caught a glint of silver on the corner of your eye and relaxed.
“Ready?” He surveyed the parcels you were struggling to hold on to and lifted a few out of your hands.
“Ready,” you affirmed. “Not sure I like the look that guy is giving me.” You raised your eyebrows and nodded in the direction of your observer. Din's head turned to look and the Trandoshan shrank back into the shadows, leaving only his scaly tail visible.
On the walk back to the ship, something felt off. It took you a few minutes to figure out what it was. It lingered in the air, something familiar - it smelled like ozone and carbon. It was definitely blaster fire.
“Everything okay? Have you been in a fight?”
“All good,” said Din firmly as he lowered the ramp on the Crest, pressing a button on his vambrace, ignoring your second question.
“Where are we going next?”
“Ilum.”
Ilum
As the Razor Crest dropped out of hyperspace, you looked out of the viewport towards the gray planet looming towards you.
You pulled your tunic down as you spoke, “What's that white swirling pattern in the atmosphere?”
You turned towards Din, who was still half-dressed and didn't look in a great hurry to put his armor back on.
“It’s an ice planet,” he said, turning his head to look for himself. “Inhospitable for most species. Would you like to land there?”
You shivered at the thought and doubted that you had enough warm clothes to survive for more than five minutes outside of the spacecraft. “I'd rather stay where it's nice and warm.”
Din just shrugged as he let his flight suit drop back to the floor, “It's close enough, I suppose. Maybe we should just move on.”
You arched an eyebrow at him, “Close enough to what?” You echoed his words back at him. “Move on to where?”
Din pulled your tunic back over your head, making you squeal as he roughly pulled you in, tugging at the buttons on your pants as he reeled you into his body.
“But we’ve only just…,” you panted as you brushed up against his cold breastplate.
“I'll set a course for Dalna,” he said, walking you backwards towards the pilot's chair, making you forget your other questions.
Dalna
Looking up from the holopad, Dalna came into view. It looked interesting shades of green and blue from this vantage point, and you stood up to get a better view. After traveling in hyperspace for around a standard week, seeing a physical planet felt like a small luxury. As much as you loved spending time with Din on the Razor Crest, you needed to stretch your legs and feel a solid planet beneath your feet.
Din dropped into the pilot's seat and casually flipped a few switches to guide the ship towards the planet's surface.
You looked back down at the notes that you were reading, “It says here that Dalna is agricultural. Do we need anything agricultural?”
“There are some magnificent waterfalls here and I thought…”
Unable to contain your excitement, you jumped out of your seat and caused the holopad to fly out of your lap, where it was deftly caught by Din.
“Yes!” You cheered loudly. “I've only ever seen one on the holonet. Yes!” Din gave a small snort of approval and a loud huff as you grabbed him tightly around the waist.
“How did you remember?”
“I always remember what you tell me, cyar'ika. It's about an hour's walk from here.”
“I could do with stretching my legs and getting some decent exercise.”
He pulled you in tightly and his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, “Are you saying you aren't getting enough exercise? Do you want more? I can give you more, cyare.”
You fluttered your eyelashes at him, “I’ll take as much as you can give. But first, let’s see this cascade of water.”
Din released you from his hold. “Mr'sheb,” he whispered as you gathered some belongings together. You wiggled your rear at him as you bent down to tie your boot laces.
The walk through was pleasant, the terrain was gentle and the canopy of trees provided cool shade from the two suns. As you walked, you listened to the symphony of birds in the high-up branches and the rustle of animals running through the undergrowth, reminding you that this forest was a living, breathing thing.
Finally, the woodland began to thin, the air became fresher and cleaner, and the light became brighter. You could hear the roar of the water rushing as you approached the edge of the trees.
And then you stopped in your tracks, staring in wonder at the sight ahead. It was a tumbling, cascading, tumult of water which rumbled down into the plunge pool below. The sun picked out the droplets of spray that bounced back into the air, creating a vibrant rainbow of iridescence which danced around. It took your breath away and you stopped in your tracks as you stared.
“Din,” you said, reaching out to take his hand in yours, “It's beautiful. Thank you”
Din said nothing, but simply reciprocated by giving your hand a squeeze whilst he looked at you, as you looked at the magnificent sight ahead.
You both stood in silence and awe, watching and admiring. Finally, Din spoke up, “I think you would stand here forever, but we need to get moving.”
“We do?” You reluctantly dragged your eyes up to look at his visor.
“We do,” he confirmed. “We're going to Utapau.”
Utapau
You had been sitting in your chair watching through the viewport as Utapau loomed up on you. This one was unlike the others you had visited so far, consisting of vast stretches of grasslands interspersed with what looked like deep sinkholes, making for an interesting terrain.
“Where are the inhabitants?” You couldn't see any settlements, just grasslands.
“All underground,” replied Din, guiding the craft, towards the largest sinkhole, before dropping down inside it. The Razor Crest made a smooth landing on one of the upper level docks just on the fringes.
The walk into the city was a short one, but fascinating. The buildings were carved into the bedrock, with supporting bone structures, making them beautiful and slightly creepy. You also tried not to look down too often, because the eleven levels seemed to go downwards forever and the drop was endless.
“I have to go and meet someone on the trade level. There are plenty of places for you to look at whilst I'm gone.” he didn't look at you as he spoke.
“Again?” You turned to look at him, searching for any indicators in his body language.
“I won't be any longer than necessary. Try to stay out of trouble.” His gloved hand brushed against yours, giving it an almost imperceptible squeeze.
“I think you'll find that I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble finds me.” You hooked your little finger around his, your way of saying goodbye.
“You have your comlink. Use it if you sense danger.” With those parting words, he moved off on a different trajectory and you watched him move away into the jostling crowds.
Slipping your hand into your tunic pocket, there was no sign of your comlink.
"Dank farrik,” you sighed, as you realized it was still sitting on the console in the Crest.
Looking around, the shops were bustling with activity and you thought that it would be best to mingle with the crowds rather than stand and wait, you needed new socks anyway.
Browsing around, you found an ancient-looking antique store that looked like it contained a treasure trove of artifacts. And then you found them, lurking in a dark and dusty corner - a set of children's books. You had only encountered books a couple of times in your life - they were rarities because most of the Galaxy preferred flimsiplast, data-tapes or holovids.
Picking them carefully off of the shelf, you turned them over in your hands, wondering if they might fall apart if you turned the pages. You held your breath as you opened the cover of the first book and miraculously, it was complete and intact.
You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the books, turning them over in your hands, debating with yourself as to whether you could afford to buy them. You only stopped thinking about them when you felt a familiar presence come to rest behind you.
“They're yours,” said Din, coming to stand close. “Put them in your shoulder bag.”
“Sorry? Are you telling me to steal them?”
“No, I’ve been watching you through the window. You have that dreamy look on your face; it's the same one you have when you watch Grogu sleeping, so I bought them for you.”
“For me? You bought them? I don't know how to say thank you.” You hugged the books tightly to your chest as though they were as precious as the foundling.
“I can think of a few ways,” he said, leaning in closely as he furtively ran a finger down the curve of your spine. The coarse leather of the glove dragged the fabric with a friction that made your skin tingle.
“Back to the Crest, then?” You surreptitiously pressed your back into his body. “And did you sort out whatever it was you needed to do?”
“Yes and no,” he replied cryptically, leading you out of the store.
“So we aren't going home yet?” Your mind wandered to Grogu how much you missed him.
“Not yet, two more stops. Umbara next.”
Umbara
“Why Umbara, Mando? You walked down the ramp together and into the cityscape.
“We need to refuel and do some running repairs,” he said as he scanned around looking for a port maintenance hand.
You tutted - The Crest was always in need of repairs and you watched as Din found who he needed and headed off to sort it out.
You caught up with him just as he finished handing over a bag of credits.
“Might take a few hours,” he said. “We could take a look around.” You reluctantly agreed with him. Ueda was a giant metropolis, nowhere near as beautiful as Utapau nor Dalna. The ships buzzed past in their lanes, sweeping in and out, around the skyscrapers and the bustle reminded you of Coruscant. You followed Din’s lead and headed into the noise and bustle.
You stopped dead in your tracks when you rounded the next corner- there in front of you was a large statue of an Imperial Admiral which glared down on all he surveyed. It was a stark reminder of those that you'd lost in the name of freedom and it made the bile rise in your throat.
“Was this an Imperial stronghold?”
“Looks like it,” said Din, as he too stared up at the monument. He'd never talked about what he was doing during the years of The Empire, but you knew his allegiances lay elsewhere now.
“You know how I don't go looking for trouble,” you said, unable to tear your eyes away, “but how do you like the idea of bringing down that monstrosity?”
Din turned his visor towards you. “You're serious?”
“Deadly,” you replied as you reached into your bag to find your thermal detonators. “It's not busy right now. How about we go and plant them and then clear the area?” Without waiting for a response, you both moved towards the statue.
As you approached, you read the plaque at its base “Admiral Thrawn.” You were going to enjoy this - really enjoy this, and you bent down to lay the charges. Din moved to the position side.
“Oi!” You ignored the voice as you set to work.
“You!” The voice rang out again and you looked up to see a large Houk approach your location. He was approaching with his blaster drawn.
You stood up slowly, placing your back towards the statue, wondering where Din was.
“I want your weapons. I don't give a mudskuffer's tail about the statue,” he growled, pointing his weapon directly at your chest. Slowly, trying to buy time, you reached for your bag, but before you could do anything, blaster fire rang out. The Houk grabbed you by the throat and pulled you into his body, using you as a shield, pointing his blaster in the direction of the noise. He was so close that the smell of his breath made your stomach roil.
“Release her or I'll gut you like a burr fish,” growled the deep tones of the vocoder behind you, and you relaxed, knowing that Din was safe and soon you would be too. The Houk just laughed and gripped tighter to your neck, making you gasp for air as you struggled in his hands.
Without any further warning, the large hand that was squeezing yours slackened its grip and you collapsed to the ground clutching your throat as your large captor toppled behind you with a heavy thud.
A pair of strong arms lifted you up, hoisting you up into safety. Din ignored the looks from passersby as he walked through the metropolis back towards the port. He flicked the vambrace on his wrist and several of the grenades detonated, causing the statue to topple and crumble. You watched Din's parting gift to Umbara as it hit the floor with a loud crash, plumes of dust, and screaming
“Not going to lose you, cyar'ika,” he grunted as he headed for the Crest on the landing pad. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head and whispered, “No. I'm fine.” You watched the lights retreat over his shoulder as he moved swiftly and resolutely towards the docking bay and the safety of his ship.
“Good, then let me take care of you.”
“But I'm not… oh,” you said, catching onto his meaning.
As he climbed the ramp, holding you still in his arms, you buried your head in his shoulder and whispered, “Let's get out of here. Where next?”
“Ryloth,” came the reply.
Ryloth
Sitting on a rocky outcrop with the sun on your back, you surveyed the landscape before you. You had been on an incredible journey over that last standard month and had seen more in that time than you had over most of your lifetime and experienced dangers across the galaxy. The tropical rainforest stretched out ahead of you, as far as the eye could see.
You didn't think you had encountered a place with as much beauty as this. As much as you loved your little home on the lava flats of Nevarro, it couldn't compare with this.
Behind you, you heard the gentle swish of a cape. His footsteps might be silent, but the breeze could not disguise his advance. You stood up as Din approached, turning to face him.
“Meshla.”
“Yes, it is very beautiful here,” you sighed, looking from Din back to the valley behind you.
“No, I meant you. It's pretty here, but nothing compared to you,” he moved to stand beside you, close enough to feel his presence, his vambrace lightly brushing your arm, and instead of looking at the vista, his visor was trained on you.
“Haven't you worked it out yet?” He sounded amused. Din rarely did amused, or games. He had no patience for riddles or puzzles.
“I-I don't understand what you mean, Din,” you said.
“Think about all of the places that we have visited. Where have we been?” He was amused by your confusion.
You looked at the beskar helmet. “We've been to Rishi, Ilum, Dalna, Utapau, Umbara, and now we are standing on the surface of Ryloth.” You recited each planet on your fingers as you recounted your journey.
Suddenly, the tempo of your heart increased as you worked through the answer.
“Oh. Oh,” you said, clapping your hand over your mouth in realization. “If-if I take the first letter of each planet, it spells R-I-D-U-U-R.”
It was an important word and its significance was not lost on you. You knew what it meant, of course. Din had told you that one day he would ask you to take the vow with him.
“Riduur. Partner,” you whispered, closing your eyes for a moment as you let the truth sink in. A tear pricked at the corner of your eye and your heart was hammering so hard in your chest that you thought that it might burst through your ribcage.
Din, who had been watching you closely during your revelation, finally spoke. His vocoder sounded hoarse, “Riduur. If you will say the vows with me?”
“Din!” You gasped. “Kriff! That is one hell of a proposal. How could I ever turn you down after that? But here? Now?”
“Can't think of anywhere better,” he said, clasping your hand in his and turning to face you. “Mandalorian's can make their riduurok wherever, whenever. If you want to?” His last words were softly spoken and gentle. He opened his gloved palm to show you a silvery, delicate looking chain, adorned with a mudhorn pendant - the sign of his clan. Now, your clan.
“A beskar pedant,” he said, “as a symbol of my commitment to you. To us. I acquired the beskar in Rishi and had the pendant made on Utapau. The Armorer is more skilled, but there wasn't time to return to Mandalore.”
He had done this for you - all of it for you. You raised yourself up, placing your free hand upon the side of his helmet, roughly where you imagined his cheek to be and stroked the cold armor with your thumb, looking into the t-shaped visor.
Pressing your forehead against the top of his helmet, you whispered, “I am ready, riduur.”
Cyar'ika - darling
Mr'sheb - smart ass
Riduur - spouse
Meshla - beautiful
Author's Note: well done if you figured it our before the end.
Summary: When a mission goes a bit sideways, you suddenly find yourself stuck with Din in a hideout that allows little to no movement, leaving you in a precarious situation - between his legs.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, took the locked room trope to its farthest edge, oral (m receiving), praising, the helmet stays on, forced orgasm if you squint?
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Din Djarin & locked room came in second. If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 4.8k
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
This was… a predicament, to put it mildly.
You crouched inside a storage cavity that clearly had not been designed with a human occupant in mind - certainly not two of them. The narrow compartment smelled faintly of machine oil and old dust, the metal walls pressing close on every side as if the space itself resented your presence.
One person would have been uncomfortable.
Two was a logistical nightmare.
Especially when one of those people insisted on wearing an entire arsenal of beskar plates that stole what little room existed.
Every minor adjustment from Din Djarin produced the faint scrape of metal against durasteel.
You clenched your jaw.
“Would you hold still?” you hissed under your breath, trying to shift your position for the tenth time and failing just as miserably as before.
The helmet tilted slightly toward you.
“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.
Very much down.
Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.
He followed a heartbeat later.
The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.
Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.
The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.
Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.
At least he was standing.
You, on the other hand…
You lifted your gaze slowly.
From the floor.
From where you were kneeling.
Directly between his legs.
“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”
Technically speaking, you were right.
Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.
An easy contract, he had said.
Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.
Simple.
Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.
The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.
What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.
Air vents.
Abandoned wastewater tunnels.
Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.
The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.
Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.
Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.
Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.
You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.
Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.
Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.
Not just a few.
Dozens.
The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.
That was when the plan changed.
Getting out immediately had become impossible.
But hiding?
Hiding might buy time.
Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.
At least, that had been the theory.
Which was how you ended up here.
Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.
Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.
Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.
You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.
“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.
You snorted quietly.
“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”
You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.
Your muscles protested.
“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”
Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.
You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.
“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”
The response came immediately.
“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.
Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.
You had seen that smirk before though.
More than once.
Because you have seen his face many times now.
The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.
The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.
The third…
Well.
That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.
Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.
Lately, things had become a little more complicated.
“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”
A faint pause followed.
Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”
Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.
You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.
Something affectionate, you suspected.
Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.
Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”
Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.
“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.
“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”
Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.
Still, both of you kept your voices low.
Better safe than discovered.
“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”
You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.
“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”
Your gaze lifted.
The visor angled down toward you.
“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.
Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”
“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”
His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.
“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”
You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.
As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly -
- and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.
The reaction was immediate.
Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.
You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.
“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.
And there it was.
A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.
Your mouth curved slightly.
Well. That answered that.
“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.
Except the tone betrayed him.
Half caution. Half something else entirely.
“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”
His breath caught.
“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”
A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.
“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.
Your hand didn’t slow.
If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.
Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.
Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.
“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.
But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.
It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.
Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.
You slipped beneath it.
The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.
A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.
“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”
Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.
The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.
You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.
But this?
This was different.
With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.
Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.
Every small shift of muscle.
Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.
The signals were clearer than he probably realized.
And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.
His length twitched faintly in your grasp.
Yes.
Definitely the right track.
“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”
Your hand moved again.
With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.
Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.
Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.
Now the discomfort barely registered.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.
Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.
Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.
“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.
You smiled faintly.
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.
The thing was, you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.
The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.
Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.
You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.
Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.
For a moment the two of you went completely still.
The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.
Din’s breath hitched again.
“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.
“You look… perfect like this.”
The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.
Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.
You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.
Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.
It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.
But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.
For now though, the focus was entirely on him.
Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.
“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.
Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.
You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.
Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.
“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”
You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment -
- but suddenly he froze.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.
Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.
The situation became instantly absurd.
You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.
Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.
You felt it.
You understood it.
You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.
The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.
Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.
You didn’t.
Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.
That was all it took.
Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.
The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.
Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.
True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.
His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.
The footsteps faded down the corridor.
Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.
The breath came out slow and shaky.
After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.
“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”
You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.
“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.
With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.
“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.
The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.
“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”
“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”
He glanced down toward you.
“Can you get it open again?”
Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.
You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.
“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.
Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.
“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”
Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.
“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.
The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.
He leaned closer.
“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”
You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.
Pins and needles shot through your calves.
“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”
Din didn’t slow.
“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”
Waiting had been the right call.
The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.
Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.
Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.
Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.
Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.
You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.
Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.
You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.
But the grin on your face refused to fade.
From your pocket you produced the prize.
The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.
“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”
You flipped the shard once more.
Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.
The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.
You glanced sideways at him.
“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.
Still nothing.
A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?
You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.
You tossed the shard again -
- but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.
The motion was so quick it left you blinking.
Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.
Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.
“Bunk,” he said.
Just one word.
No humor left in it.
The tone wasn’t angry.
But it was unmistakably an order.
And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.
You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.
Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.
You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin -
The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.
Your grin widened.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.
You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.
well I guess having one’s throat filled with din’s skinsaber (ew ew ew) is an effective way to remain quiet when you’re hiding from people searching you 🤔🥵🫠
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: BTS fucks a lot!, except one (he’s kinda depressed), implied smut, angst, heavy make-out, mention of death :c, mention of mental health struggles, second-hand embarrassment, MC handles rejection not super well, drinking, Mean Yoongi, canon moments I manipulated for my own sick pleasure, the ending, that fucking Hannam scene, holding hands (it deserves a warning in this fic), angst i guess, and again Mean Yoongi, redemption arc when?, he’s an idiot but he has heart I promise, probably wrong ways to play LOL chess/teamfight tactics, foyer quote was inspired by something i randomly saw in my feed, watch out for the time skips (one flashback and a tiny flash forward)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10.3k whuuuut
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie; credits to Aqua for inspiring one of MC’s quotes (marked **)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie (my very first fic with an OST i'm sobbing, ty sweets)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: A whole ass year in the making and it took a trip to South Korea and experiencing Arirang in all its glory for me to finally bring this fic to life the way I envisioned it. After dropping two teasers I guess y’all really fw this plot, so I do hope you guys like it. Don’t forget to comment or reblog. I’d really appreciate it. I might take time to tag everyone that requested, so bear with me. Other than that, enjoy~ 💜
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
You tried to pay him back. He just looked at you, shrugged, and said, “If you really want to, just stay with us. Stay in the team.”
So you do.
The boys noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that. From MOTS to PTD Live On Stage to Arirang.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine as fuck. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous. Except for two of them, who you suspected had something non-platonic going on, but you don’t want to speculate further.
You’ve seen some of them try dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s…
You ended up becoming Yoongi’s.
…and it all begins with a very mature game of Spin the Bottle.
You and the rest of the crew had stayed back in the rehearsal studio to celebrate the birthday of Rei, assistant performance director, resident tyrant, and class president of your little dysfunctional sorority.
There’s food, balloons, and too many empty soju bottles. One of which is currently spinning… and lands on you.
“Shit,” you mutter, already reaching for your beer. “Truth.”
A chorus of groans.
“Boring!”
“Ask her something good!”
The birthday girl leans forward, eyes glassy, tipsy as hell. “Aight, gun to your head—which member you gonna fuck?”
You choke on your drink. “No way I’m answering that. Next question.”
“Nah,” Tiff tosses a handful of popcorn at you. “You know the rules.”
You groan, tilting your head back dramatically before swatting the kernels off your lap. “You guys…”
“Wuss!” Bina teases.
“C’mon, you’ve thought about it. Don’t even play,” Rei smirks.
All eyes are on you. The pressure is mounting so high that you almost want to hurl. You take another swig. Rei is right though, as she almost annoyingly always is. You’ve definitely checked the boys out. It’s not even a question of who (singular), because if you’re gonna be honest, you have biblical levels of greed and there’s two in particular you’d let rearrange your guts.
But ugh. You’ll play along.
Just one name to satiate these hoes.
“Fine,” you huff, wiping your lip with the back of your palm, readying to reveal your answer:
“Kim Seokjin.”
The room erupts.
“OHHHH—”
“I knew it!”
And even if you know you could stop at that, the alcohol kicks your courage into overdrive.
“I’d let him fuck me raw until the inside of my coochie moulds to the shape of his dick...”**
The rest spills out of you in a half-slurred, disgustingly specific ramble that has the girls screaming and Angel spilling her shot.
You’re laughing, face hot, still high off everyone’s reactions when you feel the heat of someone’s stare.
You glance up and holy shit. It’s the name you withheld.
Feline eyes piercing and lips curling at the corners, oh Yoongi looks hella amused. He’s right there and he heard it all.
Fucking hell. Your life is literally over.
It’s later, much later, when you run into him again.
The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass from the dance studio muffled into a distant thrum. Your head is a little light, steps a little uneven, but you’re mostly sober now. Okay, not really.
You push the door open and there he is, almost like he’s been waiting.
Yoongi’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, head tilted just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. He looks… loose. Drunk, then. Obviously. Just like everyone else in the party.
His gaze slides over you and that same almost-smile returns. “Seokjinnie-hyung, huh?”
You groan immediately, covering your face. “Oh my god, don’t.”
He huffs out a scratchy laugh and your fist collides against his arm.
He rubs the spot with his palm. “Didn’t know you had that much to say about him.”
“I didn’t know you were listening,” you shoot back.
“Right place at the right time,” he shrugs.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying my demise way too much.”
“Am I?” he says, pushing off the wall.
He steps closer. “I mean…” his gaze flicks down, then back up. “You were pretty detailed.”
This close, he smells like warm musk and whisky. It hits you all at once, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. You swallow it down, deflecting. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” He smiles sweetly, pretty teeth and pink gums on show. Then he circles back smoothly to the topic because he is a piece of shit. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
You scoff, folding your arms like that’ll save you. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know ‘bout me.”
His gaze dips, trailing down the exposed skin where your cardigan has conveniently fallen off your shoulder, towards your breasts hugged by your camisole. His eyes linger just a second too long before dragging back up to your face.
And there it is. He did the thing for you. That thing he does where his tongue presses into his cheek. Fucker.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head because is Min fuckin’ Yoongi lowkey hitting on you right now?
“Well…” his head tilts, voice dropping just enough to feel it. “Was that just talk?”
He is! Fuck. Why? No, shut up. It doesn’t matter right now. Say something.
You swallow, then tilt your chin up, meeting him head-on as liquid courage pushes you to say the next words. “What?” You shrug, forcing a smirk. “You wanna stand-in for your hyung?”
His lips curve, slow and amused. “Maybe.”
“I… could be open,” you say almost lazily.
And then he moves.
Rough hands find your wrist, tugging you down the hall before you can think too hard about it. You let him and the next thing you know you’re pressed behind his studio door.
Just the two of you.
Too close that you feel the heat emanating from his body.
“Jin’s got a girl,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel his hot breath grazing your cheek.
That makes you pause, because you didn’t know Jin was steady with someone. Else you wouldn’t have said what you said.
“And y’all won’t fuck nasty like that.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, just enough that your lips brush his when you speak.
“No?” You lick between his parted mouth, pulling back with a smirk. “And… we would?”
“Like animals.”
And then he cups the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours.
Monday comes faster than you’d like.
You don’t know what you were expecting from Yoongi exactly. A text, maybe? Something more than the thumbs up he sent after you told him you got home safe. Friday night feels like it happened in a vacuum, sealed off like crime scene evidence the second he booked you that Uber.
You’ve spent the weekend turning it over in your head, wondering if things are supposed to be different now that you’ve had sex. Are you supposed to be different? Is it going to be awkward?
You’re about to find out.
You don’t usually hang around after hours unless there’s a reason.
Tonight, the reason is Jimin, who’d dragged you in with the promise of early access to the new tracks you’d be helping to choreograph. You felt a little strange when you entered the studio and found just two members of Bangtan and one of their producers, who nodded at you casually as you entered.
So here you are, curled up on the couch in the corner of the studio, laptop open but mostly forgotten, as the last bits of a track play through the speakers. You’re too deep in thought to notice the delivery guy come in, but you do notice when Yoongi picks up the coffee tray, wordlessly plucking a cup free and walking it over to you.
He holds it out, no expression, no explanation.
“Hyung,” Jimin calls lazily from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Where’s my coffee?”
Yoongi doesn’t even glance up. “Just grab a Coke from the fridge.”
You stifle a laugh as Jimin groans dramatically, dragging himself up to rummage through the mini fridge.
A few minutes later, Yoongi slips out of the room, muttering something about finding Namjoon because he should have joined you all 30 minutes ago.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Jimin flops back down beside you, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to spill. “That’s him flirting, by the way.”
You blink at him. “What?”
Jimin points at the cup still in your hand. “Hyung doesn’t even order me coffee.”
“Why would he? You’re an annoying lil bitch.”
Jimin playfully slaps the visor of your baseball cap down so that it covers your eyes.
Which works out just fine because as you glance down at the cup again, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth seeping into your palms. You shake your head, trying to play it off, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging up into a smile you can’t quite hide.
You take a sip of your warm drink and pretend it doesn’t taste sweeter somehow.
Namjoon finally walks in ten minutes later, forehead sweaty, hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Yoongi follows behind him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Namjoon says, already reaching for the aux like he owns the place. He knocks over a cup of pens as he does so.
Then, his eyes land on you. “You ate?”
You nod, lifting your coffee, lipstick-stained spout and all.
“That’s not food,” Namjoon shakes his head, dimples deepening, as he reaches for something in his pocket. “This one’s better.”
A tiny Quaker Oats bar, a bit warm from pocket heat, lands on your lap.
“Thank you.”
The crinkle of the granola bar mixes with Jimin’s whines. “Why doesn’t anyone give me food?”
In the weeks that follow, when tour prep shifts into high gear, nothing else really happens—not in the way you thought it might, at least. Yoongi doesn’t seek you out. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t bring up that night, ever. You’re not really suprised, considering…
But you do notice he lingers in small ways. A bottle of water left by your things before you even realize you’re thirsty. A quiet “eat” when the catering after a shoot finally finishes setting up. The occasional glance. Maybe even a tiny smile here and there. You fall into an easy rhythm with him, familiar but not quite the same, and you catch yourself thinking, maybe something did shift.
Maybe this is just how it starts.
Rehearsals just wrapped up and your heart is reckless with exhaustion.
You’ve never asked anyone out before. Let alone a fuckin’ idol. But you’re young and dumb. Heavy on the dumb, actually. Anyway, you’ve already slept together. And you’re convinced the chemistry is off the charts. So, why not? And it’s just hanging out anyway. It’s not that deep.
You approach Yoongi as he’s wiping off his neck with a white terry cloth, still breathing heavily. It’s probably serendipity, how everyone else has already slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of you.
He lifts his eyes towards you, mouth slightly agape as he gulps oxygen back in.
Ugh.
Your earlier bravado is slowly evaporating.
This is stupid. So stupid. But wasn’t it him who said if you know you’re going to crash, accelerate harder?
“So there’s this café in Yeonnam,” you say, stopping in front of him as he ties his shoelaces.
“Apparently, the building it’s in has been standing since the Joseon dynasty. Crazy. Used to be an apothecary or a medical clinic and they restored it so well it looks so legit...”
You’re blabbing. His face is unreadable, but you press on, fumbling toward hope.
“You’re into historical shit… Daechwita vibes, right? Anyway, the place looks pretty cool. If you’re free sometime, we could—”
There’s an audible inhale as Yoongi stands, dusting off his jeans, slow and careful, before he lifts his head towards you.
“Look,” he says, and you already know how this ends just from the weight of that word. You wish the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“I’m not really…” he tilts his head, like you should know. Like you shouldn’t even be having this conversation. “You get it, right?”
You force your face into something neutral, something that won’t betray you. Shrug like embarrassment is not a fire razing you from the inside.
“‘S all good.” You smile albeit tightly. You even pat his shoulder as you pass, casual, almost laughing. But inside you’re ash.
“Oh, get that shoulder pop on 2.0 sharper,” you toss on the way out. “I’ll tell Junho to run it with you again tomorrow.”
Behind you, his eyes slant with what you can only tell is pity.
You make it to the hallway before the first tear slips free, quick and traitorous and pathetic, falling soundless onto the worn carpet.
You’re already a few beats away when you hear it, “Hey Y/N!“ and then frantic steps.
You don’t stop walking. No. No fuckin’ way. You speed up.
He can’t see you like this.
You round the corner and run straight to the fire exit to extinguish the heat of shame before you’re burned to a crisp.
It’s sort of easy to get back into the normal swing of things, despite everything. You’re not friends. You probably never will be. And that’s okay.
You have your dignity.
You have the girls.
You have Rei.
…who proceeded to scream at you when you explained to her why your eyes were bloodshot the day after you made that reckless decision to ask a world-famous idol out.
She had to re-orient you how this goes. The boys are not off-limits per se, but they do have limits. Fuck, it’s not like you forgot, you just thought… it was different. You were different. Or you could be, given your history. You’ve been in the team for years now and you’d like to consider yourself not just a colleague, but maybe even a friend.
Because there was that one time in Hannam when he… fuck. It’s probably irrelevant. Unimportant. You’re just making it a thing.
And you know what, honestly, you’re fine with rejection. You’ve had practice.
Jongho, back in fifth grade, returned the paper heart you gave him because Bora sent him one first. Bigger, more glittery.
Baekhyun, in college, dumped you for that French exchange student with ginormous tits.
Even recently, word got to Seokjin about your little drunken speech, and he wasted no time reminding you exactly where you’ve always stood—firmly in the friend zone. He has a girl after all.
It was during the Swim choreo shoot. Jin flicked your forehead when he caught you staring too long during break. He was sweaty and his lips were really plump and pink, and…
“Focus,” he said. “I know I’m handsome, but you can’t do that. Next time, I’ll have to charge you.”
You flipped him off. And thank God he laughed like a windshield wiper, otherwise it would just be really unfair.
As always, you survive. You move on. You always do.
But the real problem? Life is dangling you the man of your dreams like a keychain and you can’t seem to catch it.
Yoongi’s haircut. Right before tour.
It’s almost cruel, because Yoongi’s long hair is most revered by society, widely beloved. Tiktoks and shrines were dedicated to that lionesque mane. ARMY yearned for it. Scissors were manifested to disappear within a 5-mile radius from him.
But you? You personally liked cleaner cuts on guys. When you joined the team circa-MOTS, he had that sharp, neat cut that you were very much into.
To add insult to injury, you’ve always liked Nerds. You consider yourself one, too.
And now Yoongi’s walking around with this new pair of specs—rimless frames, whenever he feels like wrecking your equilibrium. It sits low on his nose when he’s tired or playing League of Legends Chess during breaks or sipping on his coffee in between takes, and it’s…
Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
Comeback season officially starts and everything else falls away. Days blur into soundchecks and rehearsals, quick meals eaten standing, ears popping from cabin pressure.
There’s no time to think about anything else when you’re moving from the Netflix show in Gwanghwamun to New York for that Spotify event and then back home again. You’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, counting formations in your head even when you’re off-work. You don’t have time to breathe, but somehow it’s easier like this.
Once in a while during rehearsals, Yoongi still asks for your input on how to execute a move better. Of course you give it; it’s your job. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting when he, famously allergic to eye contact, suddenly makes an effort to meet your gaze.
Honestly, you don’t know why he bothers. He doesn’t owe you anything. No line was crossed without your consent. And whatever that was, it’s not happening again. You almost wish you could just hate him, because that would be easier than this neutral middle ground you’re stranded in.
But you can’t.
Because you see the quiet way he takes care of people, especially Jimin. He shows up, every time, steady and professional and so annoyingly good at what he does. There’s something about that you can’t ignore.
You respect it, because you respect him.
Maybe that’s the worst part. Because he didn’t string you along and didn’t blur the lines more than you let him. You gotta hand it to him, he shut it down clean.
So… you just gotta move on.
Right?
And you… You’ve built this life carefully, piece by piece. You didn’t fight this hard just to get distracted now. So you buckle up. You lock in.
It’s days before the World Tour kicks off and you’re knee-deep in rehearsals. Day in, day out, you’re in the dance studio, double-hatting as a dancer and an assistant choreographer. You’re exhausted–bone-deep, muscle-aching tired, but you’re focused on the grind, on making this show the best fucking tour in history. The boys deserve it. The whole team deserves it. So do you.
You used to rewind dance practice videos frame by frame, pausing just to study the angle of an arm, the timing of a step. Back then, it was just you, your reflection, and the stubborn belief that if you worked hard enough, you could belong in rooms like this. And now you do.
“Let’s start?” Seung Eun calls and everybody hops back into formation. You drop your strawberry lip balm back in your bag.
There’s this sequence in Hooligan.
You and the other dancers crowd Yoongi during his verse, closing in until there’s barely any space left between bodies. It’s choreographed, calculated chaos. You’re meant to get in his face, invade his space just enough to look dangerous, just enough to feel menacing for him. And he’s supposed to hold eye contact, like he’s unbothered.
For this run, you’re standing in for Kian, who pulled his calf muscle and needed to get iced real quick. Injuries are part of the game, but there’s always a medic on standby to ensure any impact is minimized.
The music starts and your bodies move to the choreography. You slide into position on the last count, stepping into Yoongi’s space. He recites his line.
“Hooligan, like hooligan, ttaeryeo buswo like hooligan…”
You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes on his—ready, steady, professional. But that’s when it shifts.
His gaze doesn’t land where it usually does with the others. It drops to your mouth.
Anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.
And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of the way you’re breathing, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your body feels a fraction too close to his.
“Sigan dwaesseuni jom bikyeo jom…”
His next line stumbles.
“Ah, fuck—”
The music cuts.
Yoongi lifts a hand, already half-turning away. “My bad.”
There’s a ripple of movement around you as everyone resets, but you’re still standing there as blood rushes up your neck, your cheeks warming before you can stop it.
You glance at him. He glances back.
And then, quieter—almost under his breath—he mumbles to you without meeting your eyes. “That‘s… distracting.”
You gulp.
When the next sequence starts, there’s a faint smudge of red staining the back of your sleeve. You don’t remember doing it. But you do remember how Yoongi doesn’t miss a single beat when Kian steps back in to take your place.
⊙⊝⊜ Goyang, SK, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
“Stay safe out there!” Namjoon calls just before the curtains are drawn and the opening beat of Hooligan detonates through the speakers.
The crowd goes wild as the bassline rattles your ribs, syncs with your pulse, turns your body into music before you even think. On cue, you surge forward with the rest of the dancers, breaking through the curtain like a wave, energy ripping out of you in sharp bursts, boots slamming against the stage in perfect unison.
You’re gripping a red smoke stick, heat blooming in your palm as it spits thick plumes into the air, bleeding color into the stage until everything is drenched in crimson. It curls around your bodies, around the lights slicing down from above like blades, burning the stage with fire without flames.
Man. Goyang hits different.
Maybe it’s because it’s home. Maybe it’s because this is the first real show where everything finally clicks into place—not just in your head, not just in rehearsals, but out here, in front of thousands of people screaming like the world is ending.
The 360 stage feels massive under your feet, lights slicing through the dark in perfect sync, pyro exploding at just the right beat. Every cue lands. Every formation locks. Every transition you’ve drilled into muscle memory finally breathes.
It’s insane and you feel even more insane because you’re in it. On stage, moving with everyone, keeping up, matching energy, feeding off it. The crowd roars and it vibrates through your bones, through your chest, through everything.
As rain pours down from the sky like blessings from above, you feel genuinely alive. Even though you’re damp and drenched and soaked to your very core, there really is no place else you’d rather be.
When you hit backstage after the encore, everyone’s wet, loud, breathless, half-laughing, half-shouting over each other, still riding the high of the first show. You don’t even think; you’re just moving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you high five whoever’s in reach, grinning like an idiot.
“Good job!” someone yells.
“You killed it!” another voice.
You barely register who’s who.
Hoseok finds you in the middle of it all and just pulls you into the biggest hug, squeezing tight like he’s just as proud of you as you are of yourself.
“You did so good,” he says, bright and warm and Hobi, and you laugh into his shoulder, still catching your breath. He praises you like you’re the global superstar, not him.
When you pull back, everything’s still squishing about, still loud and electric.
Namjoon messes up your hair. Jungkook gives you a high five. Yoongi’s across the room, exchanging quick fist bumps with some of the dancers, head dipped, saying something you can’t quite catch. Then he looks up and sees you.
There’s a split-second of indecision. But, you smile. He nods. A tiny one. He looks a little tired. He’s never been one to hide when he’s exhausted, but just like you he’s glowing. Tired, but certainly happy.
And then someone grabs him from the side, pulling him into a quick hug, and the moment’s gone just as easily as it came, replaced by high-pitched screams, and too-tight hugs from your girls.
⊙⊝⊜ Tokyo, JP, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
You find Hobi slumped against the wall of the green room, half-hidden behind a rack of wardrobe like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.
You’d heard. Everyone had, in that quiet, careful way news like that travels—soft voices, lowered eyes, staff moving around a little more gently than usual.
You hesitate for a second, unsure if it’s your place. When you think about it, Hoseok isn’t just one of them to you. He’s your mentor. The reason you’re even here. The first person who saw something in you and decided it was worth something. And more than that, he’s someone you really care about.
Before you can think yourself out of it, you move closer. He looks up and red-rimmed eyes meet yours. Then, something in his expression breaks the distance you were trying to keep. You’re kneeling in front of him the next second, and he’s leaning into you, folding into your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.
His sobs are quiet, restrained, but they shake through him all the same.
You wrap your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.
“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you murmur softly. “I know she meant everything to you.”
He lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder, voice breaking. “I hate this. I should be home. I should be there, but I…” his grip tightens slightly. “I fuckin’ can’t.”
Your chest caves at that.
“She knows,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “She understands. She’s looking down on you right now, smiling, so proud of you. I promise.”
Hobi looks up at you then and for a second, beneath the stage makeup and styled hair and everything that makes him him to the world, he just looks like a little boy.
Small. Hurt. Lost.
As your heart breaks a little, a soft cough breaks the moment.
You glance over your shoulder. Yoongi stands a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, like he walked in on something he wasn’t meant to interrupt.
“I—um…” he shifts slightly. “They told me to come get you.” He means Hoseok, but for some reason, his eyes are fixed on you.
“Shit,” Hobi exhales, scrubbing at his face as he pulls away. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”
Hobi stands, walking over to the makeup station, picking up a tissue and carefully blotting at his cheeks, trying to undo what he can.
It feels like your cue to leave. Rei’s probably already looking for you anyway because there’s a hole in the formation.
Hobi disappears into one of the changing rooms, pulling the curtain shut behind him as he gets ready.
You turn to go, but a hand catches your arm.
“Y/N,” Yoongi says quietly, before his fingers lose their grip.
There’s something in Yoongi’s expression that stops you for half a second. You don’t know what it is. But mostly you think, it’s gratitude sitting heavy in his gaze like he doesn’t know all the words for it.
You shrug lightly, because it doesn’t feel like something you should be thanked for. It’s the least you can do for someone who changed the trajectory of your life without ever asking for anything in return.
He just nods, still looking at you. You see his fingers reaching then drawing back.
It’s… a lot. More than you’re used to with him.
So you look away first, swallowing the tightness in your throat before the sting in your eyes turns into something else.
⊙⊝⊜ Tampa, FL, April 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
Being in America is always exciting. Something about stepping onto U.S. soil flips a switch in the boys, like there’s something in the water, or maybe it’s just the distance from home loosening something in their bones.
Tae, for one, fully commits to the bit—gray sweats, tank tops, lewd little ad libs to the choreo. No one questions it. Angel is definitely going through it. Lucky bitch.
Jungkook is on his phone 24/7, liking everything in sight to send any and all users in a frenzy to fuel them until their next life. He also films these borderline menacing TikToks alone in his hotel room at ungodly hours, looking fucked out because well, he probably has done just that.
Jimin wakes up one day and decides he wants to have an even longer ponytail. And suddenly the internet is in shambles, ARMY collectively just losing their shit.
And that’s just the maknaes.
It’s fascinating to watch all of them, seeing different versions surface depending on where they are, like they’re all just slightly more themselves here. Or maybe just slightly less guarded.
After the last show in Tampa, the members decide to treat the crew to KBBQ at some nearby strip mall. You squeeze into a long table with some of the dancers and a couple of the boys, smoke from the grill curling into your hair, soju flowing a little too easily.
For one reason or another, as people made room for others, and chairs were moved left then right, you somehow end up in front of Yoongi like you just played musical chairs.
“How’s it going?” you say.
“Not bad. You?”
You shrug, “I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
The awkwardness is like a knot that loosens as drinks flow. Then, the easy back-and-forth comes like you do this on a daily basis instead of pretending you don’t think about him at all.
“You’re in a good mood,” you say, watching as he pours you another shot.
“Am I?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “You talk more when you are.”
He huffs softly, like he doesn’t agree but won’t argue it either. He looks pretty like this, barefaced and sleepy. Then you remember something and you decide to be a menace. “Give me a reason to not tattle.”
His brows meet in the middle. Confused. “What do you mean?”
“Oh you know full well.” You mimic a head turn and flail your arms.
Yoongi’s cheeks turn pink. He fumbled the Run choreo. AGAIN.
“I recovered faster this time.”
“Not the point,” you reply pointedly.
“I ate in Day 1.”
“You did,” you nod. “Not the point though.”
He gives a wary glance over at Hoseok who has half a rib inside his mouth at the moment, when he looks back at you and challenges. “Name your price.”
“RP gift card. Could use some new arena skins.” You smile sweetly, knowing he’s been obsessed with LoL Teamfight Tactics, too. You’ve seen it on his phone.
“Fine.” Yoongi laughs, actually laughs, because he didn’t expect the response. “We should play sometime.”
And it was your turn to not expect that response.
“Oh, alright. Sure.” You nod, a little flustered even as you recall the nugget you’ve seen from one of his interviews. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Yoongi smiles, so gummy and wide, like he has a praise kink that you just discovered. “Thank you. Diamond is very hard to achieve.” So you let him brag a bit, before you decide to knock him down a peg.
“Trust me, I get it.” You bring the spout of your beer to your mouth and before you take a swig, you quip. “I’m a grandmaster.”
His jaw hits the floor and you almost spit your beer out. “You are not.”
You tilt your head as if to say, try me. He is still waiting. And the smirk disappears from his mouth when swipes of your screen later you show him your profile and your level is as you disclosed.
“Wow.”
“I know. Wow.” You say, smug. “Anyway, do you think you’re gonna get away with it, or is there a fan cam already circulating?”
“You tell me. I don’t watch those things.”
“My phone probably heard us and is about to add it to my algorithm. I’ll let you know.”
“Taehyung-ie threw me off, honestly.” He leans back and exhales deeply.
A giggle slips out of you because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah, no, everyone was just feeling it. Kookie did the dougie to Life Goes On. Namjoon was fucking the air to Butter of all songs. Insane behavior from all of you, actually.”
“I’m innocent.”
Oho. “You’re not off the hook.” You wag your finger.
“Wae?”
“Baepsae.” You lean your chin on your palm, referring to the Army time surprise song.
“What?”
“You got real close to a camera and let ‘er rip.”
“Did no such thing,” His lips stretch into that infuriating bracket-like grin. He’s obviously lying.
“Don’t even play. I saw the smile you tried to hide when you turned around, you dog.”
“So you were really watching me, huh?”
“I was monitoring the performances from backstage. As it is my job.”
“Mhm,” he hums, biting his lip to hide a smile as he shakes his head.
“Shut up.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he chuckles, voice a little higher than usual.
“Silence is admission.” You point your chopsticks at him and smirk. “It’s fine. You were just feeling yourself.”
You thought you were gonna have the last laugh. But as always, Yoongi knows how to render you speechless.
“And if I am,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes straight to yours. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it?”
You have a comeback. You definitely do. It’s just stuck in your brain traffic, unable to come out.
He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose bridge and the single action almost makes you fall to your knees.
God, you hope he doesn’t notice.
But he does.
That’s the only explanation for the text that you get while you’re settling in your hotel room that night.
Rei is on her bed already semi-snoring, her phone still lit up as a TikTok live seller continues to peddle a hyaluronic acid sheet mask bundle. 3+1 event—you’d check it out if you didn’t have a booty call staring back at you.
You check it again. Still not sure if you’re reading the text correctly.
Yoongi: 2004
Yoongi: come over if ur feelin it
So you find yourself on his floor thirty minutes later, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to your blouse as you walk down the hallway.
Room 2002 has a very loud and dramatic show playing inside. For sure it’s one of the members as they’re typically roomed in the same floor. You just don’t know who.
A few steps over is your destination. Room 2004.
Fuck. You’re doing this. (Again.)
Except… There’s a sound.
No. A moan.
Your knuckles are frozen, inches from the door.
Someone is definitely having a great time in there.
You check the text again, because maybe you got the room wrong.
The numbers match. And yet, the math is not mathing. If he invited you, then why—
Oh.
Oh shit.
You look at your messages again and realize, all at once, what happened.
Your reply sits there with a red exclamation point. Which only means one thing. It was Unsent.
You: yeah, i’ll come ❗
Well.
Now?
No, you won’t.
“Fucking shit,” your phone flies out of your hand when you trip on the carpet floor like a complete klutz. You can’t believe you’re risking injury and getting benched for the rest of the tour for this stupid cat man.
“Y/N?”
Noooooooooo
You straighten up immediately, thankful it wasn’t Yoongi’s door that flew open. “Namjoon, hi.”
“Is this yours?” he bends to pick up your phone, which is resting by his doorway.
“Yeah, umm. That’s mine.”
He studies you as you take the device from his hand. Your screen is still bright and open and your Kakao app is just there. Ain’t no way he didn’t see who’s on your thread.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m totally fine.” You pocket your device, forcing a light smile. But before you can say anything else, Namjoon is pulling his door wider.
You stay rooted in place, even as your eyes dart inside the plush suite. You realize he is wearing a black tank top and matching pajamas.
“I got food and a drama. Could use some company,” Namjoon says simply. No malice, no undertone. You’re sure Namjoon has no way of knowing you had a lacy thong underneath, so this is really just a simple invitation to hang out.
You consider it. At the same time, you think, huh, his dimples are really, really deep. Your reply came easy after that. “I–sure, yeah. I’m down.”
“Cool.” he tilts his head, gesturing you in.
The night settles into something softer in Room 2002, the noise in your brain fading into nothing thanks to room service, wine samplers from the mini bar, and Namjoon’s running commentary over a drama. He’s literally such a yapper. You lean back into the couch, listening to him more than watching the show, letting his voice fill the space instead of your thoughts.
It’s easy hanging with Namjoon. No guessing. No second-guessing. And you don’t realize until now how much you needed Namjoon’s friendship until now, but you’re glad he is offering it.
And maybe more than that, you’re glad he didn’t ask any questions you couldn't answer even if you tried.
The next day, rumors fly that Gwayoung from Digital was bragging about being on the receiving end of that tongue technology.
The same day, you also receive a 50,000 won gift card credited in your mobile game.
You know it’s from the same person. And you know which one you would’ve wanted more.
The tour goes on. It starts off like a high you can’t come down from. New cities, new crowds. You collect moments like souvenirs—late-night convenience store runs, inside jokes backstage, someone filming content here and there, drinking sessions inside someone’s hotel room. There’s always something happening, always someone around. You don’t have to think too much because everything moves too fast. It feels like living ten lives at once, and for a while, it’s enough.
But somewhere along the way, the novelty starts to thin out. The cities blur into one long stretch of airports, hotel hallways, empty highways, and backstage corridors that all feel vaguely the same. You wake up and sometimes it takes a second to remember where you are. Your suitcase never really gets unpacked—just opened, lived out of, closed again. Everyone’s tired in that bone-deep way that makes even laughter feel like effort. You’re surrounded by people all the time, and somehow, it still feels lonely.
You and the girls have a kind of unspoken understanding between all of you now, forged in cramped dressing rooms and shared mirrors, in the quiet rituals of getting ready before a show. Someone’s always borrowing someone else’s lip tint, someone’s fixing a crooked lash, someone’s complaining about a bruise they didn’t notice until they caught it under the harsh vanity lights.
“Why are we like this?” Angel groans one night, poking at a purple mark on her thigh.
“Occupational hazard,” Bina shrugs, already halfway through redoing her eyeliner for the third time.
“Is that the one that you banged on the clothing rack, or, ahem…”
Angel’s face heats. It was Tae. Rough Tae, as per usual.
Rei rolls her eyes. “Alright, we know you’re getting it good. No need to shove it in our faces.”
“You know who I wouldn’t mind shoving something in my face?” Lisa pipes in. She’s one of the newer dancers that joined the US leg.
“Who?” You ask, curious.
“Yoongi. Fuck. He looks so daddy these days. Literally need that.”
Rei shoves a protein bar into your hand, with a stern look to match. “Eat.”
You do, because if you don’t you might say something you’ll regret.
Since that late night hallway encounter several stops ago, you and Namjoon have somehow made hanging out into a thing. It just happens seamlessly. Over meals, passing conversations end up lasting longer than expected.
Off-handedly, he confides in you that he struggles to sleep. You piece together the rest on your own. Military life has altered his mental state in ways he is still struggling to undo and it’s been tough, but at least he’s a work in progress.
As far as you know, he’s the only member who doesn’t really… distract himself the way the others do on tour. Nobody waiting for a quick one backstage, no regular to help release all that adrenaline after long shows.
So instead, he watches dramas. It’s funny, really. But you guess, it works for him. He really likes those cheesy lovey dovey ones or those about heartache. Tells you it’s the closest he can feel something real and he lets them play until he passes out.
He invites you to join him sometimes.
At first, you’re suspicious. You wouldn’t have blamed him (or minded, to be honest) if there were other intentions. Everyone has needs, after all. And honestly, you would have been flattered to be considered by a catch like him. But after the third or fourth time of bingeing on drama and food, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want you like that. And you have to admit—he’s a fun time. So it’s cool.
When you hang out, he tells you about the books he’s reading, summarizing them in a way that makes you want to pick them up yourself. You tell him about choreography ideas, about how certain movements sit in your body, about how you think music should look when it’s danced.
“You think in shapes,” he says once, mimicking the way your hands move as you explain.
“You think in paragraphs,” you shoot back.
He laughs at that, dimples deep, eyes soft. “True.”
“Long-ass paragraphs, actually. Mr. Yapper.”
Sometimes, when the days feel too long and the nights stretch a little too quiet, you find yourself standing outside his door without really remembering how you got there.
No matter, Namjoon always lets you in.
⊙⊝⊜ Las Vegas, NV, May 2026 ⊙⊝⊜
One night, you get a message from Hobi inviting you for drinks. You haven’t hung out with him in a while, so it was a no-brainer when you said yes. You don’t go out every night at every tour stop, but you made an exception this time.
You put on something cute. Not to impress Hobi particularly, but because you know he always dresses well, and you will not be caught dead looking shabby beside him. Lips a little glossy and cheeks a little rosy, you make your way to the hotel bar, heels clicking against the marble.
But instead of Hobi, you find someone else instead.
“Hey.”
“You stalkin’ me?” Yoongi smirks at his lowball.
“Yup, this is exactly what this is. Call Mr. Lee,” You deadpan, sitting on the bar stool beside him. “Where’s Hob-ah?”
He shrugs. “Not his keeper.”
“Is there another hotel bar?” You ask the bartender who was polishing off a wine glass.
“Yes, miss. There's another on the 31st.”
Realizing you might’ve gotten the venue wrong, you grab your clutch and start to slide off the stool. “I guess I’ll—”
“Stay.”
He says it so quietly, almost like he was hoping you don’t hear it.
You pause.
When you look at him, he’s not even looking at you—just staring into his drink like there’s something at the bottom of it worth pondering. You know you should leave, but you don’t.
“You look… a little worse for wear,” you say as you settle back into your seat.
“You can say I look like shit.”
You glance at him, then nod once. “Okay. You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
A beat.
“Everything okay?”
He shrugs. Noncommittal. Dismissive. Yoongi core.
You signal the bartender for a drink, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between you for a while as you wait for your cocktail.
It’s him who breaks first.
He slides a bowl of roasted edamame toward you, like a peace offering he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
“I dunno,” he mutters, more to the glass than to you.
You wait.
He exhales, long and slow, the amber liquid in his glass rippling with the movement.
“I keep listening to the album and it all just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Trash.”
You blink, shock evident in your face. “What do you mean?”
“Like I should’ve done it differently.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Every track. Every arrangement. Feels like I missed out on changing something obvious.”
“That’s just—”
“I know,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “I know it’s not real. I know it’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fatigue. Whatever.”
But it doesn’t sound like he believes that.
“I can’t turn it off,” he adds, quieter now. “Even when I see how fans enjoy the songs, the doubt just eats at me.”
There’s something raw in that. Something he doesn’t usually let slip. You watch him for a second, really look at him. And it pulls something up from the back of your mind:
Hannam-dong.
A random weeknight. You’d gone out alone, too proud to call anyone after your ex ended things over something stupid that somehow still shattered you. You were busy ugly-crying over your gin until someone slid into the seat beside you.
Him. Yoongi.
“What are you doing here, Yoongi?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed someone.”
“You heard me crying from across the room?”
“It was a bit loud, yeah.”
Your face crumples again and you let out a broken sound, covering your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing…”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, even. “No one’s looking.”
You sniff again. “I look disgusting.”
“You look like you’re crying.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you.
You let out a weak huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob, before taking it.
He didn’t ask questions or make it a big thing. Just sat there with his black face mask, providing you with the comfort of company. He let you talk when you wanted. Let you cry when you couldn’t stop.
At some point, you’d leaned into him without thinking, and he’d just let you. Steady. Warm. He rubbed your back as you wrapped your arms around in his slight torso, sobbing slightly against his tee.
“Yoongi. Why are men pigs?” you sniff.
“I dunno. I’m a cat.” He shrugs. “...apparently.”
That makes you laugh, all wet and snotty. But it makes all the difference to lighten your mood.
“Look. I don’t know who the guy is. But I know he’s an idiot.”
“He is,” You nod immediately. “… but I am, too.”
A pause, before he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I just…” You trail off lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at the track lights hanging from the bar. “I just really love love, you know?”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I like the idea of it,” you continue, words coming slower now, more honest. “Falling for someone. Growing with them. Having… I dunno, fuck…” you laugh weakly, shaking your head. “Someone to hold your hand ‘til it’s all sweaty and gross, like… I love that shit.”
It sounds stupid out loud.
“So even if I knew he wasn’t it, I tried to hold on. Because I’m scared of being alone. And I’m scared I won’t find someone who’d want me again.”
Jeez, that was a lot to unpack. You expect him to say something dry. He’s good at that.
No words come.
Instead, his fingers brush against yours where your hand rests on the bartop.
You glance down.
He’s not looking at you. Just placing his palm on the back of yours, before turning it over. And slowly, his hand closes around yours, fingers interlacing between each digit.
You’re staring at your conjoined hands and then his stoic face. He doesn’t look back, but he squeezes your hand tighter as if to say: I’m here. Not forever. But at least you’re not alone for now.
And that was enough. That night, you had someone to hold your hand til it was all sweaty and gross. You swallow, something tight in your chest easing just a little.
He walks you out after, hands still clasped. Makes sure you get into a cab. Waits until the door shuts before stepping back. Your hand feels cold without the feel of his when the car drives off.
But after that… nothing. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. Life got complicated. You don’t know what happened during his enlistment. So now you both just act like it didn’t happen.
If you will be honest, you still think about Hannam-dong sometimes. More than you will ever admit.
You’re reminded of it every time you see that random quote hanging on your foyer.
“The most romantic thing in the world is being understood. It’s even deeper than love.”
Things with Yoongi never really took off. But you will always have Hannam-dong.
Yoongi looks at you now, the same way you looked at him then, a little lost, a little broken, trying to stay strong. So you don’t make it a big thing either. You just reach for an edamame, pop it into your mouth, pull the peel, and shrug lightly as you mash the beans with your teeth.
“Sounds like your brain needs to shut the fuck up for a bit.”
He huffs, something almost like a laugh slipping out. “Yeah,” he mutters. “If only.”
“For what it’s worth, Album of the year, in my opinion.”
Yoongi can’t stop his lips from curling.
Satisfied, you call for the server. “Let’s eat something first. Then we solve your existential crisis.”
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’m the best, right?”
He gives you a thumbs up. “Kkaepjjang.”
Ass.
You order food, which comes out quicker than expected, but what you really wanted to do to distract him comes in the form of a mobile game.
“You still play?” you ask, showing the app now loading in your phone.
Face instantly lighting up, he unlocks his phone and presses the same app sitting on the home screen. “One game.”
You grin. “Double Up?”
A small nod.
“Don’t drag me down,” he mutters as the queue pops.
“Tsss,” you shoot back. “I’ll carry.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it.
You fall into rhythm without needing to talk much—checking in here and there, nudging each other when it matters, covering where the other slips. Just quiet coordination, the kind that only happens when both people know what they’re doing.
At some point, you lose a round you shouldn’t have. You fumble a turn.
“I got you,” he says, and he does.
By the time the game ends—with a win you barely scrape—you’re both facing each other, knees touching, smiles plastered on your faces.
“Not bad,” you murmur, setting your phone down. “You did well.”
“But I always do well?” he replies.
You push him lightly. “Take a humble W for once.”
“No, cause I can’t remember ever doing poorly…”
“Oh my gooood, I’m tired of you.” You roll your eyes, attempting to swivel away from him, but his knees stop you.
He glances at you, something softer flickering through his expression. You look away first, because what’s with the face? You reach for your drink, swirling what’s left and sip.
“Thanks,” he says, and why are his fingers drumming on your knee? It’s kind of distracting, actually.
“Are you feeling a little better now?” You reply, forcing a neutral expression.
He pauses, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I just got tired of my own head.”
And maybe it’s the fact that you’re sipping the final dredges of your margarita that the next words carelessly tumble out. “Maybe you just need good head.”
The dining area is still loud around you, but somehow, between you and him, it has become z-z-z. His fingers cease tapping against your skin.
Panicking, you blab. “Just text Gwayoung. Or Haein… I’m sure they’re available. You don’t have to look too far, you know.”
His eyes bear a weight you didn’t anticipate.
“I’m not,” he says quietly.
And the way he’s looking at you makes it very clear he’s not looking far at all. He doesn’t need to.
You don’t remember deciding to leave or how he even paid. Just the deja vu of how his hand found your wrist and the way you let it. Of how a door opens and then your back is firmly against it.
The next thing you feel is Yoongi’s soft lips sliding against your own.
His hand drifts up the side of your neck, fingers settling at the base like he’s keeping you right where he wants you, and it does something weird to your breathing—shortens it, stutters it—without needing to press.
The strap of your dress sags against your shoulder, but you make no move to fix it.
Your fingers find his hair instead, threading through the longer strands at the nape. It’s softer than you remember, just enough length to catch between your fingers, and when you tug, he groans against your mouth, the sound going straight to your center.
Total brain fog.
Your heartbeat, faint but present, is somehow the one that warns you about the risks. Because you’ve been in this situation before with Yoongi. You’ve been vulnerable in Hannam, and in his studio, and in the rehearsal space, and in room 2004. There’s a host of reasons why you should run away.
But it’s only taking one slow, smooth swipe of his tongue against the roof of your mouth for you to run in.
Your mouths part at the same time, an accidental knock of teeth, before he catches your lower lip between his and sucks softly, almost sweetly.
God. Yoongi makes your head swim.
And all this kissing is making you feel like there’s something more, when there is none. You’d do well to remind yourself of that.
By some miracle you find the strength to pull away.
“Yoongi, if we’re doing this, just…” you place your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t confuse me.”
Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I know what this is,” you say, still a little breathless. “And I’m down, but I just… let’s not…”
The words stall out, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. You inhale sharply, trying to piece together something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sound as messy as it feels in your head.
Because if you’re being honest—really honest—you’re already in deeper than you should be.
You never quite bounced back from his rejections. It lingers, quieter now, but still there, still tender in places you don’t like to acknowledge. And that’s not something you can tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips are a soft, distracting pink. Not when he’s looking at you like this—like, for once, all of his attention is yours.
So you decide on something, albeit hastily. You shift your weight, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t kiss me.”
He studies you curiously, too amused for your liking. His eyes are transfixed on your mouth, observing how they’re still shiny from his own spit. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”
“No, you can’t do it again. Not anymore.”
If he is confused, he doesn’t let it show. He scratches his nape. “Just your mouth, right? Anywhere else is fair game?”
His eyes dip, trailing your body like he’s already mentally undressing you. You feel heat building beneath your skin.
“Yes.”
“Sweet.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, dragging lightly across your lower lip to wipe away the trail he left behind. Then he turns, moving further into his hotel room, dropping the keycard into an empty fruit bowl. “Anything else?”
You follow him in, dragging your feet on the plush carpet, still deep in thought.
You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your tone even. “Don’t make me sign an NDA.”
“No need, your current NDA’s already airtight.”
That—
You blink, thrown for half a second. The reminder lands colder than you expected, like a bucket of reality dumped over something that was just starting to feel… not real.
“Right.” You nod slowly, arms tightening across your chest. “Way to make a girl feel special, Yoongi.”
“Legal contracts don’t turn you on?” Yoongi drops to the couch.
“Not particularly. My dad’s a lawyer.”
He makes a face.
You snort. “What? Talking about my old hairy lawyer dad doesn’t turn you on?”
“Pass.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.
He watches you when you do, like he’s taking note of something. Almost like he’s fascinated with you.
Then his head tilts slightly, a small gesture, almost nothing. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, but step forward anyway, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, standing between his parted legs as he looks up at you.
His hand finds your wrist first, then your waist, guiding you down like it’s nothing. You end up on his lap, breath catching just a little as his hand slides under your dress, resting on your upper thigh.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, slower this time. “What does?”
The question sinks somewhere low, coiling tight, as he squeezes your soft flesh, so close to where you need him.
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already leaning in.
His lips brush your collarbone first, not really doing anything but press his mouth against your skin. It’s almost absent-minded, the way he does it, like he can ask a question and distract you at the same time.
You inhale sharply.
His mouth drifts lower, grazing the hollow between your chest, and your thoughts start slipping, unraveling faster than you can catch them.
“Yoongi…”
He hums against your skin, like he heard you, but doesn’t want to stop. Frankly you don’t want him to when you feel his lips latch on the top of your breast and your brain goes foggy, words dissolving before they can form.
And that’s exactly why you…
“Wait.” You feel the solidness of him under your palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, as you lean back.
He stills, mouth swollen.
“Mm?” he hums, lifting his head but not moving far, like he’s willing to wait—but only just.
“Don’t you have your own rules?”
There’s a brief flicker of something, before his expression smooths back out.
He blinks once and huffs. “Don’t leave me on read.”
You almost react. Almost say something about that night, about the message that never sent, about the door you stood in front of, and the sounds that destroyed you before his friend picked up the pieces of you that shattered in front of room 2004.
But you swallow it down. He doesn’t need to know.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
You study him for a second longer, like you’re trying to find something deeper and coming up short.
“Okay.”
A beat.
It’s decided.
“So,” he says, voice lower, like it’s already done. “Are we gonna do this, or—”
“Fuck me, Yoongi.”
His mouth curves, just slightly one corner. “Gladly.”
Part 2
A/N: .....hi? :)
Please let me know what you think. Leave me a note, or a reblog with your review. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
The loud bass pulses through the sidewalk before you even reach the entrance—a black metal door. The club sits in a neighborhood that looks like it’s been forgotten on maps, or one people are too afraid to step foot in.
The pavement, covered with cigarette butts, old oil stains, and torn flyers, makes it feel like a ghost town. A few people stand outside the building, chatting and smoking. Old vehicles—only a handful, easy to count—are parked in the distance, looking almost abandoned under the dim streetlights.
With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.
This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.
If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.
You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.
As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.
As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.
Good thing you don’t have one.
Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.
The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?
You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.
From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.
The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.
Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.
El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.
“What is this place?”
You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.
Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.
It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.
And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.
You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.
“It looks like a nightmare.”
El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.
“I’ve been to worse.”
For once, you don’t question her.
El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.
Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.
The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.
You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.
That doesn’t sit right.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.
Whatever is about to happen in that ring—
You’re not sure you want to see it.
But the crowd isn’t leaving.
And neither are you.
Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.
He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.
“Here.”
Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.
You glance toward the ring again.
Up close, it’s worse.
The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.
Your stomach tightens.
Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”
He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.
“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”
You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.
“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”
El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.
Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”
You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”
“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.
Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.
For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—
And then the music cuts.
Just like that.
A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.
“Alright, alright—eyes up!”
You look toward the ring.
The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.
He has that same look, too.
Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.
But here—here, he owns the room.
“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”
A laugh almost slips out of you.
It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.
Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The reaction is instant.
The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.
You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.
The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”
He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.
“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”
The name hits, and the crowd roars again.
A man steps into the ring.
He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.
It probably does.
“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.
Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.
“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.
But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.
“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”
A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.
“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”
For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.
And then—
The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.
The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.
And then he steps in.
JK.
The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.
On his opponent.
He moves like he already knows how this ends.
Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.
His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.
Like he already feels it.
Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.
You hate to admit it.
But—yeah. He’s hot.
And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.
You glance at El, and—
Right. Of course.
She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.
“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”
You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.
Still…
Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.
Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.
And somehow, Mario brought you here.
Of all places.
Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.
Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.
Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.
You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”
He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.
“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”
El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.
“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.
Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.
The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.
You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.
For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.
Taunting him.
The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.
The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.
Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.
Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.
And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—
it’s hooked.
The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.
Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.
The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.
JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.
Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.
“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”
You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.
Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.
Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.
A cold thought settles in as you watch.
You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.
Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.
You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.
The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.
You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.
The restroom is worse.
One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.
You look… composed.
More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.
You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.
You don’t want to be here.
But you also don’t want to be left out.
The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.
It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.
You’re halfway down when it happens.
You nearly stop in your tracks.
He’s there.
The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.
And behind him—
The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.
Your attention snaps forward again.
Because coming straight toward you—
JK.
He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.
For a second, you freeze.
Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.
It’s like you’re not even there.
Like if you hadn’t moved—
He would’ve walked straight through you.
Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.
“El—?”
She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.
“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”
You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”
El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”
You frown immediately.
Of course he did.
You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.
Great.
You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.
Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.
Or someone could’ve—
You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.
Because you can feel it now.
The looks.
They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.
You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.
“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”
El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”
Yeah. No arguing with that.
You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”
She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.
You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.
Still—
You really hope no one tries to talk to you.
You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.
Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.
“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.
The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.
The reaction is immediate.
Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.
You feel your stomach turn.
Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.
You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.
That thought alone makes your skin crawl.
Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.
And for a split second, you see inside.
It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.
Mario.
Standing there like he belongs.
Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.
But the shock doesn’t stop there.
Because sitting in one of the chairs—
JK.
Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.
The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.
Of course it is.
Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.
Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.
Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.
You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.
Mario. In there. With him.
“El?”
She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”
You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”
El freezes. “What?”
“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”
El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”
You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”
She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”
You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.
Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.
The reaction is immediate.
Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.
Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
Your gaze shifts past him.
JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—
Then he looks up.
Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.
“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.
El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.
You don’t react to her.
Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”
He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.
The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.
The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”
“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.
He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.
Maybe he has.
“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”
“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
Your patience is gone.
Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.
JK stands.
The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.
“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.
It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.
He doesn’t look at anyone again.
Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.
Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.
Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”
He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.
It’s not an offer.
It’s an order.
You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.
“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.
The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.
You turn on him immediately.
“What the actual fuck, Mario?”
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”
“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.
You do. Of course you do.
El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.
That’s enough.
You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.
“Speak,” you demand.
He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.
“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.
Alarms go off in your head.
You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.
The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.
By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.
It follows you all the way into his apartment.
The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.
Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.
Anything to stall.
You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.
Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.
You just look at him.
He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”
You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”
He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”
You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”
He doesn’t argue.
So you keep going.
“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”
The words hang heavy between you.
Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”
That lands badly.
Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.
You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.
“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.
Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”
You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.
Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”
Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”
Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”
You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”
He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”
You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”
“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”
You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”
Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”
Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”
“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”
You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”
Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”
You don’t respond to that. Not really.
Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”
“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”
You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”
El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.
“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.
She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”
You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”
El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”
“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.
“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.
The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.
It should feel normal.
Familiar.
But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.
Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.
The ring. The blood. The crowd.
And him.
Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.
Life moves on.
Or at least, it pretends to.
In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.
And for a while, neither does that night.
It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.
Still, sometimes it creeps in.
A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?
You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.
The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.
But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.
It becomes just a faint memory.
Something that happened.
Something you don’t talk about.
Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.
In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.
And for a while, neither does that night.
It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.
Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?
You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.
The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.
But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.
It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.
Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.
And apparently, he does.
Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.
Just not always honest.
Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.
It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.
El, though, seems off.
At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.
You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”
She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”
“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”
“I’m just waiting for a message.”
“From who?”
She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”
You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.
Something’s not right.
By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.
Then she checks it again.
You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”
She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”
You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”
“I know where Mario is.”
You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”
She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”
“El.”
“Okay—he went back there.”
You frown. “Back where?”
Her voice lowers. “The ring.”
You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.
“What do you mean, the ring?”
“He’s there. Right now.”
You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.
“Unbelievable.”
El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”
You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”
She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”
You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”
“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”
You cross your arms. “And?”
“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”
You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.
“What was he even doing there?” you ask.
El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”
Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.
“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”
That lands.
Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.
But that place?
That’s not most situations.
He’s still your friend.
And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.
El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”
You sigh, already knowing the answer.
“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”
Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”
“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”
You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.
El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.
You had hoped you’d never go back.
But just like that—that hope is gone.
You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.
“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.
You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”
Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.
“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”
You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.
The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.
“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.
She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.
“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”
The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.
“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.
You ignore it.
“First time in the ring—”
Still moving.
“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”
You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.
“—challenging JK himself—”
The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.
“And let’s hear it for—”
You don’t slow down.
“Maaaario.”
El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.
Then it hits.
Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.
Neither of you says anything.
Because you both heard it.
And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.
It feels like a problem.
The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.
You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.
El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.
And what you see makes your breath catch.
Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.
JK is circling him.
Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.
Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?
You don’t know.
“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.
“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”
There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.
He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.
Then he strikes.
It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.
The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.
One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.
You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.
“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”
El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?
Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.
People cheer.
The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.
JK notices.
It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.
For a second, everything feels still.
Then he moves.
He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.
JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.
And then he smirks.
Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—
Before slamming it back down against the ground.
The sound is sickening.
It cuts through everything.
Mario goes limp.
And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.
The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.
You don’t.
You can’t.
Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.
You force yourself to move.
Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.
You follow them.
They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.
“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”
“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”
“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”
They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.
“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.
You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.
The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.
They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.
You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.
The door opens again.
A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.
“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.
“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.
The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”
Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.
The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.
You can’t stand still.
You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.
The way Mario just… stopped.
Your jaw tightens.
Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”
The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”
“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”
That gets his attention.
He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”
You don’t care.
You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.
Your anger is already too far gone.
“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.
The room stills for a second.
“Who?” one of the men asks.
You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”
They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.
You don’t answer that.
You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”
She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”
But you’re already moving.
You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.
You’re too angry to think.
You reach the door and push it open hard.
Empty.
The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.
“Where the hell—”
The door opens behind you.
You turn immediately.
JK stands there.
He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.
Like nothing matters.
He doesn’t even acknowledge you.
That’s what sets you off.
Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”
He barely moves.
Not even a step back.
Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.
“You done?” he asks.
The words hit harder than they should.
You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.
“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.
This time, he catches your wrist.
Effortlessly.
His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.
“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”
“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.
For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.
Then he lets go.
Abruptly.
You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.
“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”
The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.
“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”
Something shifts.
It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.
“Out,” he says.
You don’t move.
You don’t even consider it.
“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.
That only makes it worse.
You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”
His hand moves before you can react.
Fast.
Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.
“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.
“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
The shift is instant.
You’re not in control anymore.
Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.
He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.
“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”
His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.
Your pulse spikes despite yourself.
“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”
There’s a beat.
Short.
Deliberate.
Then—
“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.
No hesitation. No explanation.
Just fact.
His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.
“And a fight you can’t win.”
He lets go of you.
The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.
“Leave,” he says.
Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.
You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.
You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—
The door swings open.
A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.
The air changes.
“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.
Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.
“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.
You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”
That gets a reaction.
Not from her.
From him.
It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.
Provocative.
The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”
You don’t move.
Not an inch.
“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”
Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.
The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.
Not the fight.
Him.
You almost snort at the realization.
She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”
Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.
He doesn’t even look at her.
“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.
The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.
If anything, she leans into it.
She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.
Oh.
There it is.
She sees you as a problem.
A threat.
The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.
Actually grin.
You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them.
Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.
JK finally looks at her.
Not interested. Not even tempted.
“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.
It’s enough.
Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.
The door closes behind her.
Silence settles for a beat.
Then his attention shifts.
Back to you.
And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.
Just irritation.
“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.
You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.
“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”
He doesn’t respond.
That only makes it worse.
“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”
Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.
“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”
His expression barely shifts.
If anything, it hardens.
He doesn’t react the way you expect.
No apology. No defense.
Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.
“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”
You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.
You’re about to throw it straight back at him—
But he speaks again.
“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”
There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.
Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”
Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.
Before you can react—
He moves.
It’s quick. Too quick.
His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.
You freeze.
Not because you want to.
Because you didn’t expect it.
He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.
“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”
His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”
And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.
The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.
You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.
Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.
Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.
Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.
a/n: okay so this happened in the last 24 hours, don't ask me how I still can't believe this story happened lmaooo but I have had so many story ideas in my head and I genuinely missed writing, just something for fun, something fresh. I also wanted to do boxer jk for the longest time!! hope you guys enjoyed the surprise and I can't see what you think of this ♡
This was written for @penvisions Give a Little Love writing challenge. I'm so late, I'm sorry! My prompt was Din Djarin and the Shared Past trope.
Summary: You wake up wounded in the Mandalorian's ship. He brings you back on Nevarro to heal. Trying to hide parts of your past, you battle with your growing feelings for the man and his child, who welcomed you into their home.
CW: mention of torture but nothing graphic, mention of wounds and broken bones but no description, mention of healing process, light angst, slow burn. Reader is abled body has no physical description, but if you notice anything please let me know.
A/N: This wasn't easy to write, I think writing in the Star Wars universe intimidated me a lot, I tried to be accurate but some stuff might have slipped my mind. All mistakes are my own. I would like to thank a few of you who helped me: @burntheedges & @secretelephanttattoo (you might not even remember it but I'm still hugging you for your encouragement) @iknowisoundcrazy you know exactly why & @djarins-cyare for the mando'a translation, for your encouragement and also for your Be-All And Endor that inspired me so much. And finally, thank you @eupheme for the beautiful moodbard you made me. To all of you, thanks 💖
More notes at the end
I wrote a short sequel: Stars are Fire
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Your head felt heavy and foggy. Emerging from the depths of unconsciousness, you didn't know where you were.
« Who are you? » A voice. You couldn't tell right away where, who, or what it came from. It sounded computer-like. You turned your head and saw a form, shiny, metallic. You couldn’t see more, eyes still blurry, brain banging inside your skull. But your annoyance with the question was very real.
« What? Who are you? »
The voice didn’t answer. But you could make more of the shape. A human form, an armor, the voice masculine, filtered by a modulator, a helmet. A Mandalorian. Shit. You were in trouble.
« How do you know my name? » His next question stopped your train of thought. You frowned. The pounding in your head grew louder, more painful.
« I didn’t… I don’t know your name, I don’t know who you are. » Silence again. Now that your eyes had adapted to the semi-darkness, you could make out his stature, the way he leaned on a wall. A head tilt, questioning. Not a chatty person. Taking in more of your environment, you realized you were lying down, head propped, on what looked like a makeshift bed, you couldn't make more of the place you were in.
« Where am I?» You tried not to show your fear, but you could feel it bleed out in the quiver of your voice.
« On my ship. You were hurt. »
"What? I need to go…" You tried to get up, to leave, you had to go, but it hurt everywhere. Head spinning, the blood drained from your upper body, and darkness surrounded you. Before you succumbed to it, you heard the voice "Don't get up, you're badly…"
And then nothing.
The next time you woke up, it was harsh. Light blinding, noise banging in your head. A cool hand on your arm, a sting and blackness, again.
The rest was a blur. In a state of barely consciousness, you felt like you were gliding through time. Awake, the surroundings changing. Asleep, dreaming, or drifting.
Another time, you woke to the sound of voices, muffled, modulated. Room in the darkness and hushed tones further away.
"She's been through a lot, those injuries..."
"How long..."
"I can take her to the medcenter..."
"No, that's not what I'm asking, she can stay here..." And you drifted back into oblivion.
And then you were awake. It was sudden, you felt doozy, but conscious. Eyes closed, you listened to your surroundings, trying to gather your thoughts. You opened your eyes, but it hurt, so you closed them again. You let your mind scan your body. It was whole, every limb was accounted for, and apart from the headache, nothing else hurt. Softness surrounded you, fluffy mattress and soft sheets around your body.
Then a sound, like little feet pounding on the ground, a thump like something small jumped on the bed you were sleeping in. An animal? But the small voice that cooed sounded more like a child. It was shuffling closer to you. You opened your eyes again, tentatively, and glimpsed a small form, green, with large ears and brown eyes, that bore into you, curious and worried. You couldn't help the smile on your face.
"Hey, little one, who are you?"
A sigh and a modulated voice came from further away.
"Grogu, let her rest."
You turned your head to the voice. The Mandalorian, the one from before, was standing at the doorway, and the little one, Grogu, apparently, babbled excitedly, something you didn't understand, arms extended toward the man. He walked in and picked up the small creature that instantly snuggled into the arms holding him. You had so many questions just from this small interaction, but first, you needed to know where you were. Before you could ask, the armored man spoke.
"You are in my house, on Nevarro. You refused to go to a medcenter; you were very adamant about that. Do you remember ?" You shook your head, the motion bringing a soreness in your head, and you knew your face showed it because he sighed and added, "You need to rest. Don't worry about anything, you're safe". You wanted to talk more, ask all those questions that were bustling in your brain, but exhaustion overcame you, and you felt your eyes shut, the warmth of the bed and the weariness of your body letting sleep overtake you.
The room was quiet, the house dark. You felt the need to use the 'fresher all of a sudden. A quick mental check of your body told you all your bones were healed, and nothing, not even your head hurt. You slowly sat up, one tentative foot after the other on the ground. Everything seemed to work. You were kept in that cell so long, bones barely mended that it was like a new sensation, not to hurt, no pain, just weariness of the body. Standing up and one small step after the other, you managed to get out of the room. You felt slightly weak but not too much. You were probably fed and changed during your stay. You imagined you had slept for at least a few days.
"You shouldn't be up." The voice startled you, and you almost fell, but two hands gripped you tightly, without hurting you, keeping you upright.
"I need to use the 'fresher." Without a word, the Mandalorian guided you to it.
When you were done, he helped you back to bed and brought you some water. No words, just small acts that made you feel safe. You should be wary, you knew Mandolarians, you'd been around them enough to know how deadly they could be. Especially his type, if your suspicions were correct.
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days. The doctor came twice a day to take care of you. He says you had old injuries that didn't mend right. He took care of it. But you might need more time." This felt like the most you'd heard him speak. The modulation was soothing, something from your past that always brought comfort.
After a beat of silence, he added. "You said my name before you lost consciousness. Do you remember?"
"You mentioned that before. Are you sure? I don't know you, have never seen …" Behind your unfinished sentence lingered a question you didn't voice: "Do you know me?" A shake of his head brought relief. He didn't know you, but you were safe.
Instead of dwelling on the matter, he embarked on another subject.
"When I found you, you were hurt but outside your cell..." His hesitancy made you interrupt him.
"I was running away, your intervention was what I needed to try to escape."
There was a beat of silence as he was trying to find the right question to ask.
"How long were you held captive?"
"When are we?" At his answer, you did a quick calculation." About 8 months."
"Why were you captive?" His questions were measured and straight to the point.
"Why? You want to bring me in? You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?"
"I don't have a quarry on you." That seemed to be enough for him to settle the matter. It wasn't for you, but you knew he would feel less wary of you if he had all the information. At least part of it. You settled into telling him the reason you were captive.
"The person you were here for, he didn't appreciate my thieving skills."
"You stole from him?"
"Let's say I took what he had stolen in the first place and gave it back to the people it belonged to. He was enriching himself and stealing the resources of the inhabitants of that planet. I just wanted to help. But got caught after a while."
At your confession, there was a slight pause. The Mandalorian didn't give much, you couldn't see his face, and his posture was calculated to give little tell. But you'd been enough of his kind to know he was hesitating and about to ask another question, a difficult one.
"Did he... did he hurt you in other ways than what the doctor saw?" You understood what he meant.
"No. No, just light torture here and there. It happened less recently, he forgot about me. I was entertainment when he had receptions."
You could tell he wanted to ask what type of entertainment, but you were happy he didn't press further. You didn't feel ready to talk about it now.
He stayed quiet, his helmet tilted toward you, his gaze searching even through the beskar. You didn't speak, studying his countenance.
You had so many questions. What were you going to do? When should you leave? Where would you go? It started to feel overwhelming, yet his steady presence grounded you. You only voiced one question, one you didn't even have to finish.
"Did you bring him...?"
"I brought him cold." The finality of his statement took away the weight you still had on your chest.
"Good."
As if satisfied by this, his search over, he started to leave you, but just before he added, "You can stay as long as you need."
"I don't want to impose." Your protest was barely out.
"You are not. Besides, Grogu likes you. We can talk more in the morning."
And with this, he left, and you surrendered to slumber.
The next few days passed in a daze. You felt yourself heal slowly. Heal from your past injuries, but also from the running around of the past years. You rarely settled anywhere for more than a couple of years. And while young, it was exciting, growing older, it got tiring. You knew you couldn't stay here, that eventually you would have to leave and start the cycle of moving again. But this forced rest helped you recharge. Mando, as he asked you to call him, never pressured you to leave. He inquired after your health in a way that showed it wasn't urgent but caring, going about his daily business around you as if it always were like this.
Your routine evolved, from getting out of bed only a few minutes at a time, long stretches of sleep in between, to staying up for hours, walking outside, and playing with Grogu.
Those quiet moments brought you too much joy and comfort. A sense of ease and belonging you shouldn't feel.
And so you settled comfortably. Way too comfortably in the presence of a Mandalorian, you knew his kind, the faceless and nameless Mandalorians, and of their creed. You should have been guarded. But instead, you felt safe. And you slipped, giving access to parts of yourself you didn't want to. Apart from jobs you did, your approximate age, and the name you gave yourself when your new life began almost two decades ago, you started giving more. Things from your past that you didn't want anyone to know, places you'd seen, people you met, and a small knowledge of his culture.
You felt his caution slip, day after day. As welcoming as he was, he always seemed guarded in the first few days. Never bringing back the fact that you apparently called him by his real name on your first encounter, something you didn't remember and barely believed. Studying you as you moved around, trying to understand you, deciphering your every move and word.
But eventually trusting you with, you soon realized was like his son, a quick explanation giving little details of you, they became a clan, one you didn't need, being very well aware of the necessity of foundlings in the Mandalorian culture, one of your first blunders. One he noticed but let pass, probably storing it somewhere in his brain for later.
And then it was trusting you with himself. Shedding some pieces of his armor, being more at ease in his own house, walking around in his flight suit and helmet. You even notice his gloves off more and more. Which sometimes meant you could graze his skin when you passed objects, Grogu's toys, a glass of water, a mug of caf. Light touch that brought tingle and warmth.
And as you got better and better, as you were able to stay up longer, you both evolved to spending evenings together, quiet moments of reflection and discussion, ones that seem like old friends when you forgot that none of you actually talked about your past, of certain parts of your situation. But you managed to talk about parts of the galaxy, as you are both very well-traveled, about Grogu, about your days.
And you learned to respect him, and, if you were honest, even admire him. His devotion to his son, to his tribe, creed, even if he didn't talk about it much. It was something you always respected and admired. But his steadiness, his skills and unaffected intelligence, his quiet presence, all of it turned your admiration to something more. Something that made you feel warm in his presence. Something you hoped would stop once you leave.
So you started talking about finding a job, here or elsewhere, Mando telling you he could talk around if you wanted to stay, and you accepted, startled to realize you wanted to put roots here.
One day, as you were playing with Grogu, about a month after your arrived, letting a ball roll between the two of you, him catching it, squealing with delight and tossing it back at you, with a precision you fond uncanny for a child his age (even if he was over 50, you still couldn't wrap your head around that fact). The game was starting to tire out Grogu, who showed signs of boredom and started looking for something else to play with. As you were getting up, you absentmindedly talked to him, never sure he understood, but his eyes, always expressive, showed signs he might, so you continued.
" Grogu, when do you think you're Buir is coming back?"
"What did you say?" Mando was standing by the door to the living quarters, his stature looming over you, still like a statue. You could feel how dangerous he was. Not that you didn't know it, but you sometimes forgot.
"Kriff, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in." You were stalling, you knew it, and he knew it.
"That word, how did you know it?" His tone was not menacing, but not kind either.
"I've traveled, you are not the first Mandalorian I've met." You tried to look innocent and added, "although I haven't seen a Children of the Watch in a long time." That was a mistake you realized as soon as it left your mouth, still tired or too comfortable with him. He came closer, wide and menacing. Your brain screamed danger.
"How do...?"
"I told you. I traveled." You brushed it off and quickly turned to Grogu, who had been watching the exchange with some worry, busying yourself with putting toys away and talking about dinner.
You could feel Mando watching you, searching, trying to see the truth and lies. But eventually his countenance changed to slightly more relaxed.
"Greef Karga, the magistrate, mentioned there might be some work for you. If you still want to stay. You don't have to leave right away, but..." Again, you interrupted him.
"That's fine, I'm feeling much better, might as well get a job and find a place to live." You knew you needed to go. Too many mistakes were made, and you are feeling attached too much. To Grogu, yes, but also to Mando, if you stopped lying to yourself.
He looked at you like he wanted to say something. But instead, you heard a sigh, frustration, or regret, it was hard to tell.
The next day, walking to the city for the first time, you listened to Mando as he showed you around, taking in the streets, the market, and the people surrounding you. You felt good here, at peace, in this growing community, rebuilding itself from past wounds, a little like yourself.
That's what you got from your exchange with Greef Karga, explaining with grandiloquence the past this planet lived through and the ideas he had for the future. You could envision it, he made compelling arguments. You knew the type, you knew that he was the king to embellish things, just so you would agree with him. But he seemed sincere, and you wanted to believe him. And if Mando brought you to him, you would trust him. Your decision was made on the spot. You would take the job, and you would move into the unit he was offering. You would stay for the community, for what it had to offer, for a glimpse of ease and a sense of belonging you felt. Not for a silent Mandalorian and his child.
That was a lie, but you didn't want to acknowledge it yet.
Life in Nevarro was exactly as you expected it. Quiet, yet bustling, easy, yet interesting. You settled in your small but cozy unit, decorating it, sensing your desire to settle for a bit. Your job was challenging and kept you busy. People were welcoming, and after a month, you realized you actually liked your life here. That, without really deciding it, your thoughts of leaving the planet were slowly being pushed to the background, and you were making plans for the next day, next week, next month. You were staying.
You thought you wouldn't see Mando and Grogu much, no real need for it. While you had stayed at their place, they hadn't been much into the city, their life was further out.
But eventually your path did merge. In town, in the market, at Karga's, more and more. Small talks, longing looks. Walking around the city is comfortable and easy. You hated it because every time your eyes would see a reflection akin to the sun on beskar, your heart skipped a bit. And when it was actually him, you would feel the butterflies in your stomach. And every time, Mando would come to you, walking a small distance together, Grogu stretching his arms so that you would pick him up for a cuddle for the duration of your walk. Walks that got longer and longer.
And then, before you knew it, they were both fully back in your life.
It started with helping out with Grogu, picking him up from school when Mando was late from whatever job he was doing, apparently helping the Marshall. You loved doing it, helping, and spending time with the child. You felt so thankful for the trust Mando gave you. Trusting with his son, but also, you felt it, trusting in you, even with your secrets, like he had decided that whatever your past and knowledge of Mandalorians were, he accepted it and wouldn't push.
And each time, the moments you spent at his place stretched longer. From just waiting until he got home, to staying a bit, to actually having dinner together, that is you and Grogu with Mando at your table, but eating later. Until one night you stayed over because it was late, and he insisted you didn't walk back home. And then you were staying the night more often because you watched on Grogu while Mando was off-world.
It was so easy, you were surprised. It shouldn't be, it always was easy. It was as if you had always been here, part of their little family. And every time you came back to your unit, you felt lonely. This was bad because you were getting attached. You could feel it. And you were afraid Mando was too. It was not something that should have happened.
One night, it slipped into the conversation, this something growing between you. Both of you on the couch talking, Mando in his flight suit and helmet, gloves off, Grogu put to bed, you needing to leave but staying. Talking about work, yours and his, and like a confession, it pours out of his mouth, the word "mesh'la" (beautiful).
The silence that ensued, his from the realization of what he said, yours from the understanding, heat creeping up your neck, it puts weight on the word. And he notices your reaction, of course, he does. The question that comes out of him flusters you even more.
"Have you been. ..?" He stopped, the end of the sentence settling on his tongue but never spilled.
"What?"
"With a Mandalorian… you know so many words."
You pondered your answer. "No. Never."
It was time to go back home.
You woke up suddenly, groggy from sleep as a dream slipped away through your consciousness. Warm hands touching you, cold metal under your own, voice deep and metal-like murmuring in your ear, "Would you look at that," as his lips unraveled you, a feat only possible in the daze of unconsciousness, face masked and unmasked at the same time. You felt the need inside your body, slick and deep. The vision was slowly going away, and you tried to catch it, willing yourself to fall back to sleep, to fall back in those beskar arms that you've wished to feel for so long. You knew it was not possible, even if you felt that sometimes the unnamed feeling was reciprocated, even if you felt his gaze and persistent touches. But how could it be with the secrets that surrounded both of you? Dreams were the only moments where you let yourself feel it, where you let the heat of your desire overtake you. Those dreams that grew more intense whenever you stayed in his house, reminiscing on those first days, weeks, when you observed him in quiet and learned to admire and respect him, before you learned to love him. The scent and feeling were overpowering in this house, your dreams always more intense, like this one you tried desperately to fall back into, cursing whatever woke you up, until you heard it again. A sound, something falling, or banging, it was hard to tell. You jolted awake, a million thoughts running in your head. The more logical, Grogu was awake and full of mischief, the more anxious one, someone had broken into the house. You pushed the fear aside and got up, tiptoeing to the sound, trying to understand what it was.
Walking quietly, you heard heavy breathing as you rounded to the 'fresher and were faced with a sight you didn't expect. Skin. Bronze skin displayed, a naked back, muscle and softness, tan and bruises bent over the sink. You let out a gasp before closing your eyes, before the head turned to you, hiding behind a wall.
"I'm sorry, I didn't see anything! I didn't see your face! I swear, Mando. I'm so sorry," you were pleading, hoping he believed you, because you didn't see anything, just glorious skin that made your own tingle, food for thought, but not his face. Part relief and disappointment, something you pushed aside.
"It's OK, I believe you." The voice was modulated, the helmet back on.
You opened your eyes and peeked inside the 'fresher. He was standing by the sink, armor off, the top of the flight suit pushed back, leaving his upper body naked. You couldn't help but rake your eyes over his body until you noticed more bruises and a wound on his side, gushing and deep.
"Mando! You're hurt!" You rushed to his side, hands ready to help, when you stopped, not wanting to cross another boundary.
"Do you need help?"
The helmet was on you, and you sensed his gaze, searching you, overwhelming as tension settled around you. Then a sigh. "Yes"
Rummaging through the medpac, you got what you needed, pushing Mando to sit on the side of the bath so you could help him better, allowing better access to his body. A wet towel in your hand, you lightly washed the wound. As delicately as you tried, you heard the pain he felt, a whimper, almost like a moan, coming out modulating. A sound that had you flustered, rubbing your legs together, need encompassing you. It was only now that you realized how you were dressed, only a long shirt covering your body to your thighs, both in a state of undress you had never been in each other's presence. The breath you drew as a reaction brought Mando's gaze to you.
In the midst of this realization, it was as if all pretense had fallen. After applying the bacta patch on his wound, you picked up the towel and continued to clean his body, even if there was no real need, except to bring comfort with a cool cloth. Soothing the bruises sustained even through the armor. It must have been a mighty opponent. And hearing his breath heavier and heavier, your own, echoing. Caressing his strong arms, his shoulders, settling on his torso. His hands gripped your hips, and his voice sounded like a warning.
« Cyar'ika. »
You breath hitched at the word, and Mando pulled slightly away, head tilted to study your eyes.
You felt his gaze piercing you as his hands on your hip started to stroke you. Hands without gloves. A rare occurrence, the brush of his fingers on you. When you were hurt, once or twice, as you were healing in the comfort of his home, fingers brushing when he handed you something. And now soft fingers gently circling over your shirt.
« You understood that word, didn’t you? »
You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, imagining brown eyes. On instinct.
“Tion’cuy gar?” (Who are you?)
You didn’t answer, just shook your head, not because you didn't understand, but because you couldn't answer, not now. The silence was charged with more than questions, and your hands, now on his shoulder, continue their caress, light strokes on his body. Towel forgotten, so you could feel his skin under your own. You were so close, closer than you ever had been. His fingers boldly went under your shirt, making your breath catch. A slight whimper that made him pull it up slightly, discovering parts of yourself. Skin for skin. A dip of your head and your lips connected with his shoulder, a slight touch, barely a kiss. You wanted to lick his skin, taste the salt on him. Your eyes were drawn to his back, catching something you hadn’t seen earlier, when you caught a glimpse of him. A mark on his shoulder blade, an exploding star, faded and distorted by time and age, but one you knew so well.
And as you realized this, you felt Din's hands freeze on your body, a shock sound coming from his mouth as he surely recognized your own mark, one that looked like a shooting star, on your hipbone. The one you used to joke was a mirror of his, yours before the crash, his after. In a time when helmets and armor weren’t yet put on, they weren’t deserved or won. Before the creed. Before you left.
And both your names echoed in the other's mouth as you push out of each other's arms.
The daze of the moment is gone, but there is horror that lies ahead as you run away, run to your room, pulling up clothes, hearing his steps, usually so calm, so silent, now heavy and loud.
Your name, your real name, the old one forgotten when you left, rings out, a whisper, hurt in his voice.
"You were dead."
You stopped, back turned, you didn't want to see his face, even with the helmet, you knew you would feel it, the hurt, the anger.
"I faked it, I ran away."
"Why?" You turned. His voice was cold, mean, you couldn't bear it.
"I couldn't… I couldn't swear to the creed, so I left." There were no words, there was nothing but a helmet, voiceless, a mask in front of you. You have lost him, you knew it, lost the connection, lost the sense of belonging to this small family. You felt the tears and closed your eyes, willing them to go away. When you opened them, he was gone.
The steps that brought you home, the way back, were blurred in your mind from the overwhelming thoughts and blurred in your vision from the tears, the one falling freely.
It was over.
As you went through the motion of your life the next couple of days, waking, working, eating, poorly sleeping, rinse and repeat. Yet you couldn't help but feel a lingering hope. It oscillated with despair as your life moved in front of your eyes, one you barely participated in, lost in that night. If only it were repeated in a loop. If you had talked sooner, maybe he wouldn't be angry? If you had not helped him, touched him, you might still have his presence, you could live with only that. And as you lost yourself, you thought about what was next, but were unwilling to decide until you saw him again, and hoped that after thinking, he might forgive you and at least talk to you, if only that.
But that thought was crushed. Walking through the market, you saw him, his figure first, giving you butterflies, seeing him with the child buying food. When the purchase was over, his head turned your way, where you stood frozen, people pushing past you. A second that felt like a century, one of suspended hope and dread, one where you forget to breathe, hear, and see. Until he turned and was gone. The cold you felt was real, shivers and weight, surrounding you as you went back to the sanctuary of your home, where you decided to pack and leave.
Nothing held you back in Nevarro, not anymore.
Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. You could just pick up and leave, but you liked it here, liked the people with whom you worked, and you wanted a chance to say thank you and goodbye. So with a lie ready you announced your departure, giving yourself a couple of days to gather your things and find your next place to go to, studying your datapad, with different planets on your radar, ready to buy a one way ticket to a promising place, green and lush and cold, needing the opposite of Nevarro, the opposite of heat and dry, the opposite of metal and warmth.
The bangs on your unit door startled you. Three knocks, decisive, not giving you any second thoughts. You weren't expecting anyone, but you were definitely not expecting Din, as you opened the door in surprise, and when he pushed past you. Standing inside your small space.
You hadn't seen him this agitated, this restless, since you left the Tribe. Before you stood a reminiscence of a teenage Din, the hot head, full of revolt, subdued by time but never tamed. The one you shared your dreams with, your sorrows, your first kiss. He was angry, he was demanding, but he wasn't speaking.
With your back against the closed door behind you, you waited. And you tried not to let the small hope bloom in your chest as soon as you saw him.
"You are leaving. Again. Running away, without owning to your actions." The accusation, the underlying insult of cowardice, crushed the hope but flared the anger. You might have left long ago, you might have forgotten a lot of your Mandalorian upbringing, but you couldn't stand being called a coward. Even if you had fled, even if you were doing it again. Suddenly, resentment made you push away from the door, stride toward him, stand tall and large, looking at him straight into his eyes behind the helmet.
"Yes, I'm leaving. Why would you care?" Daring him to say anything else, after he had turned away from you.
"We welcomed you, we were your family, the Tribe was there when you needed. You betrayed us."His voice was rising with every word, standing in front of you, menacing and dangerous. Everything that wasn't said but didn't need to, echoed in the silence: leaving without saying goodbye, betraying his trust.
"But you weren't! My family died, and I never felt accepted. YOU never felt accepted either. I remember our talks, I remember what we used to say! I couldn't swear to the creed. I respected it. And I respected your own wish to swear, but I couldn't, because I never felt part of it. So I just left."
"You could have said it! They would have understood!"
"They wouldn't! And maybe leaving like I did was wrong, but I was an angry teenager, and my only ally left me when he swore to the creed. I felt abandoned because you were going away, I felt utterly alone, so I just left."
"You left us! You left me." Finally, the words were out. You could feel his anger abating, so did yours.
"I'm sorry. I truly am. I regretted it as soon as I left, but couldn't look back."
"I missed you. I grieved you." He was so close to you, so close you could hear his breath, the tremor in his voice, the sadness. It made your heart break over again.
"I know. I'm sorry." The tears were back, you didn't want to cry because you were the one who inflicted the hurt, but you couldn't help it. "I missed you, too. So much." Closer even now that you could almost touch. An untouched boundary that needed to be stepped over. One Din crossed when his hands pulled you into him.
"Close your eyes." He breathed it like a plea, desperate.
"Din…" You hesitated, knowing what was about to happen, overwhelmed by the idea, the faith placed in you.
"Do it, Cyar'ika. I trust you."
And so you did. You closed your eyes, the last tears falling from your lashes, down your cheeks, hearing the unmistakable sound of his helmet being taken off and put on the ground. You felt his breath before his touch, then his fingers, lightly brushing the tears away, before you felt his mouth on yours. Lips light, tentative. A second kiss that felt like the first, after so many years. But one that soon felt like home, meant to be, and like no time had flown by, not years, not decades, but merely seconds, as both of you reacquainted yourself with each other. Lips full, tender than demanding, touching, pulling, your teeth grazing his lower lip, a moan coming from so deep inside his throat.
And hands, hands that touched each other, that took off gloves, pieces of armor, and clothes.
In the darkness of your place, shutters closed and drapes blocking light, only shapes that could be seen, you rediscovered his face, under the beskar, his skin under the armor, bodies alight with need and pleasure, shared past and shared breath, to the point of not knowing where you began and ended. Soft cries and gasps and sweet praises murmured in the dark.
Tomorrow, you'd have to reclaim your job, tomorrow, you'd have to think about your future here.
A/N: The sound Din makes when he is hurt is directly inspired by this post and what he murmurs in reader's dream by this one
Read more about Din and his cyare: Stars are Fire
tagglist: I also added people who seemed interested (please let me know if you want to be added/removed) : @grogusmum @here-briefly @iknowisoundcrazyreads @javierpenaismyhusband @mani-pedro @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @cuteanimalmama @sawymredfox @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy
♢ Genre: romance, chilhood-best-friends-to-lovers, denial, slight angst, real adulthood shit
⌲ Description: Falling in love with your best friend was never a good idea. Falling in love with your best friend, who happened to be a world-famous idol, was an even worse one. Too bad your heart had never listened to reason, especially when it came to him.
m a s t e r l i s t
“A moment, Y/N?”
You were not often irritated. It was actually quite hard to get you to a point where it showed on the surface. You know, customer service and all that.
But there was something about finishing your seven hour shift – that in actuality turned to nine hours – only to have your name called with your jacket halfway over your shoulders.
Your mouth probably quivered in the effort, but you managed to force on a half-smile anyways. “Yeah?”
“Listen, I hate to ask you this, but can you take a shift tomorrow?”
If your manager hated it as much as she claimed, she would have asked anyone but you. Especially knowing how many extra shifts you had picked up lately due to sickness from other employees. More often than not, you cursed your strong immune system.
Where was a cold when you truly needed it?
“I’m sorry, I’m actually busy tomorrow.” The lie was effortless on your part.
Your manager’s brows furrowed. “No way you can postpone?”
“No sorry. It’s a family birthday, can’t really postpone that, you know.”
You were honestly bone-tired after working the entire week, with all your six hour shifts becoming overtime by several hours and you just needed one damn day of rest. To just bed rot to your heart’s content without worrying.
Your pride was usually too stubborn, and a few extra bucks in your account each month definitely never hurt, but you were certainly feeling your age right now.
“Oh okay.”
That was it, you supposed, mentally rolling your eyes as your manager turned back around without a goodbye as you watched her walk away with the tight smile still present.
God, you were not paid enough to deal with her attitude.
“Bitch.” you couldn’t help but mutter to yourself.
The cold was unforgiving in the beginning of this year, and you had never been much of an ice, snow or even cold weather person to begin with, which added to your already foul mood.
You had to switch metro lines once, and then take a bus to get to your destination. And the idiot should appreciate your effort after a long shift. Not to mention all the security measures needed for you to get past just to get to his building.
The front door had never looked more inviting as you entered the doorcode and let it close shut behind you with a rhythmic beep. You could hear the sound of talking coming from the living room or kitchen, as well as the sound of the TV somewhere in the background.
“If anybody’s looking for me, it’s your birthday tomorrow!” You called out just before rounding the corner to the kitchen.
Yoongi blinked at you, while Jimin and Taehyung were mid-giggle about something.
“Oh, hey boys,” you added quickly, trying to hide the fatigue in your voice.
A black little fluff ball weaved out from beneath the dinner table and trotted over to you eagerly as you cooed and bent down to greet him. “Look who it is, hi Tangie.”
The black cat was vocal, meowing at you in greeting and rubbing against your legs until you gently pushed him away to go sit down.
“Hiyaa noona,” Tae grinned at you, picking up a piece of meat from the grill on the table.
“Noona, come eat with us!” Jimin stood up to grab an extra set of chopsticks and a bowl of rice as you plopped down on the chair next to Yoongi.
“What are you talking about?” He drawled to your sudden shoutout while wrapping up his ssam.
“If my manager is asking, I'm busy with a family birthday tomorrow.”
“And how would your manager know me?”
“It’s a what-if situation, Yoongs. Just go with it.”
He huffed and wordlessly plated your bowl with rice and several pieces of perfectly grilled meat, as Jimin poured you a glass of soju. Always the gentlemen.
You caught yourself smiling, small and soft, and felt the weariness in your chest ease just a little from their presence.
“Was work tough today, noona?”
“Less tough and more annoying, to be honest.”
“Let’s drink to that!” Tae held out his glass as you two clinked and downed it one shot.
“What’s with the impromptu dinner?” You asked after a few bites.
“We were bored,” Jimin shrugged.
“They didn’t exactly ask to come,” Yoongi clarified in return. “Barged in like an hour ago demanding me to cook.”
“We asked you,” Taehyung corrected. “And came bearing gifts.”
“You mean soju which I already had in my fridge?”
“And now you got double, you’re welcome.”
You only chuckled to yourself at the usual bickering between the boys as they continued to talk about the past, and down alcohol like it was water.
Maybe it was the weather, or even the significance of a new year beginning. But your mind somehow felt reminiscent. Sitting here in Yoongi’s large home, silently watching as he acted annoyed by his two younger members with that smile on his face.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, the memories started to drift.
Your parents had been close – were close to this day. Though Yoongi’s family had moved to a newer house in the years that followed whilst your family still remained in the same neighborhood.
They had dragged you to dinner at the petulant age of ten, promising there was going to be another kid there your age, and someone for you to play with. They just never mentioned it was a boy. And at that age, boys were very much gross to you. And yet, you grew inseparable.
Yearly summer vacations spent together, sitting on the curb eating ice creams, biking through the streets and waiting for each other after school to walk home together. During your middle school years the two of you would often hang out on the school’s rooftop during breaks, being split into different classes. He was always scribbling away, and you beside him lounging tilting your head curiously now and then.
“I’m gonna move to Seoul one day,” he often declared.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“You love music, of course you’ll move.”
He frowned. “Do you think I’ll make it?”
“Yes,” you answered immediately. “Because you’re stubborn.”
By the time the two of you turned seventeen he was already active in the underground hip hop scene in Daegu. And you were often used as a scapegoat to distract his parents from his absence rather than being by his side.
“I’m supposed to be cool, Y/N. I can’t have you by my side like a clingy sister every performance,” he had whined while you gave him an unimpressed look.
“Cool, my butt.”
You had been the one to help him pack the day before his move to Seoul, choosing which clothes were best fit for the fancy big city neither of you had experience living in.
“Take the black one,” you had ordered.
“But I like the yellow one.”
“It makes you look like a middle schooler, don’t you want to be taken seriously?”
He switched it out without another word.
His first year in Seoul went by with constant phone calls and texts. You even got scolded by your mother for spending your entire monthly phone credit in just two weeks for constantly calling him.
And then one day it just stopped.
At first you hadn’t thought much of it. Yoongi was busy, and he often left you on read due to time restraints. But then it got suspicious. To the point even his own mother had received the same treatment.
‘Are you dead?’
‘Yoongs?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Did I do something?’
‘Hello?’
There were days between each one. And then weeks later, you got a reply;
‘I’m fine.’
You called right away, but it went unanswered.
You couldn’t even remember your feelings back then, it felt too long ago. An emotional turmoil of a teenager that made no sense. And you had no choice but to grow up and continue your own life despite the heartbreak of a friendship lost.
That’s why it felt strange at first when you stumbled across it; Bangtan Sonyeondan’s debut.
It was a strange name, with an even stranger concept. But you had recognized him.
Of course you had.
And ever since that moment, he had never left your orbit even from a distance. Even when you didn’t want to, you saw it all. From their failed attempts to remain popular, to songs that didn’t make it big yet were still added to your playlist for genuinely being good music.
It came to a point where you no longer viewed him as your Yoongi. But rather BTS’ Suga, and a part of you was convinced it helped you move on quicker.
Then COVID hit, and you were forced to move back home to your parents.
You chalked it up to coincidence at first; running into his mother at the grocery store after how many years? She had grown excited, even teary-eyed and hugged the life out of you as she cooed over how grown you were. A beautiful young woman.
“You know, I think he’d love to hear from you.”
Your breath had hitched, until you forced out a small, polite laugh. “It’s been years. I doubt he even remembers.”
She had given you a knowing glance, rummaged in her bag and ripped out a small piece of paper and written a number on it. “He’s having a bit of a rough time right now, with everything being cancelled. I think a text from you would cheer him up.”
You felt your chest tighten, memories flooding back. The late-night calls, the unanswered messages, even the reluctant acceptance of distance.
“I’ll think about it, thank you.”
And you thought about it. For days. Staring at that single slip of paper like it was your largest obstacle.
‘Hey. It’s Y/N. From Daegu.’
It had only been an hour when the reply came.
‘I know.’
“Another shot?” Jimin’s voice snapped you from your thoughts, chopsticks hovering dramatically over the grill.
“Yeah,” you said with a small laugh, reaching for your glass. Tae clinked his against yours, smirking.
Yoongi glanced at you, brow slightly raised, as if he could tell your mind was elsewhere. ‘You okay?’ His silent question was obvious and you just assured him with a smile.
Yoongi always kept the grill going and filled your bowl to the point you were ready to roll home. So when it hit 10PM, you stood up with a stretch. “Right, time for me to head off.”
Yoongi’s brows furrowed as he glanced at the time. “It’s late already, just stay over.”
“Nuh uh. I stay at your place almost more than my own, and I still pay my bills.”
“Just stay and let me drive you home tomorrow morning.”
“The bus straight to my house is literally down the road,” You gave him a pointed look. “Besides, It’s my first day off in a week, so I will be rotting in my own bed and eating unhealthy food the entire day.”
With that declaration you grabbed your bag and gave them all a wave over your shoulder. “Don’t text me tomorrow unless someone’s dying.”
“At least let me call you a taxi!” He called at your retreating back.
“Buh bye!” Was all you said, and the sound of the door being unlocked and closing again. You left behind a waft of your favorite perfume; a deep warm combination of something spicy and floral.
Silence swiftly took over in your departure besides the TV. Well, for five seconds at least, until Jimin broke it.
“So when’s the wedding, hyung?”
“What are you on about?”
“Oh come on!” He giggled. “You’re telling me she isn’t the perfect woman for you?”
“She’s Y/N,” Yoongi rolled his eyes.
Taehyung smirked knowingly “Yeah, Y/N who’s been by your side since you were both ten.”
“Yah, not you too, Taehyung.”
“I’m just saying, hyung. Jimin has a point.”
“What point? She’s my best friend.”
“The point, that she's the only female who’s been by your side longer than your mom. And you’re saying you don’t have feelings for her?”
“Stop being a nuisance and finish the food.”
“Hyungnim!” Jimin suddenly spat out firmly, his face exaggeratingly strict which did not go in hand with his flushed cheeks and messy hair, as Taehyung snorted.
Yoongi only raised a brow silently, waiting.
“As your family, we think you need to pull your denial out of your ass and start looking.”
He ran a hand through his longer hair now, sighing heavily, knowing the two younger men wouldn’t let this go until he heard them out.
“Meaning?”
“Be honest, hyung,” Taehyung had dropped his chopsticks, leaning forward conspicuously over the table like they were discussing some kind of secret. “Are you telling us you haven’t once looked at Y/N noona and thought she was attractive?”
Whether he was actually thinking about it or just teasing them by taking an extra long time to pour his shot and then sip it, they didn’t know. But Yoongi finally answered with a light shrug. “I have.”
“Because I can definitely tell you that Jeonggukie–wait what?” Taehyung actually looked genuinely surprised whilst Jimin let out a triumphant laugh while clapping.
“You have?”
Another shrug. “I’m well aware that Y/N is a pretty woman.”
“Then why haven’t you told her?”
“I tell her all the time.”
Jimin cut in with his continuous giggles. “Hyung, telling her she looks good, is not the same as telling your potential girlfriend you look beautiful.”
“Stop getting ahead of yourself. Who said anything about a girlfriend?”
“Oh my God.”
Leaning back in his chair, Yoongi zeroed back on Tae. “What were you saying about Jeongguk?”
It was Taehyung’s turn to shrug. “We’re pretty sure he has a crush on Y/N.”
“What makes you say that?”
Jimin exhaled, holding up his hand ready to count. “She’s pretty, smart, independent, physically fit, has tattoos and bonus points for being older. That’s pretty much his type.”
Yoongi didn’t react immediately. Because when Min Yoongi didn’t react, he was thinking. Deeply at that.
Their hyung usually had a quick brain, and never failed to make them speechless with how smart he actually was.
So this…this was a good sign. Right?
"He told you that?”
Jimin blinked. “Huh?”
“Didn’t think he had a type,,” Yoongi repeated flatly, eyes still on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Did he tell you that, or are you just assuming?”
Taehyung and Jimin shared a look.
“We have eyes, hyung,” Taehyung said carefully. “He’s not exactly subtle.”
Jimin nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, he gets all–” he gestured vaguely, shoulders hunching as he put on a poor imitation, “–Noona~ did you eat?’ ‘Noona~ you look tired’–”
“It’s actually quite pitiful to witness,” Taehyung added.
Yoongi clicked his tongue, looking away. “You’re both reading too much into it.”
“Are we?” Taehyung asked, brows raising slightly.
“Most likely, like always..”
“Then why do you look like that?”
Yoongi frowned. “Like what?”
“Like you want to punch something.”
Jimin snorted. “Or someone.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t,” he repeated, firmer this time.
Then Jimin leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand, eyes narrowing just a little. “Hyung.”
“What.”
“You know we’re not saying this to mess with you, right?”
He rolled his eyes, mouth tugging. “I know.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
Yoongi exhaled sharply, standing up before either of them could say anything else to grab a bottle of soju and shutting the fridge door a little harder than needed. “Because the two of you are trying to fish for something that isn’t there..”
“You’re certain about that?” Taehyung asked unflinchingly. He had grown more outspoken with his thoughts around his oldest members after the military, and Yoongi was getting the whole spectacle right now. “You’ve been weird about her for a while now.”
Yoongi turned slightly, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing. “Okay, weird how?”
Jimin exchanged another look with Taehyung before answering. “You watch her.”
Yoongi’s jaw clenched, expression still trying to feign disinterest.
“Like, all the time,” Jimin added. “You think no one notices, but–”
“That’s–”
“You do,” Taehyung smirked. “And you get annoyed when someone else is paying attention to her.”
“I don’t–”
“And you always make sure she eats,” Jimin continued, back to counting on his fingers now. “And you let her do whatever she wants here, but if anyone else does the same thing, you complain.”
Yoongi opened his mouth to protest, but his members were doing their darn best to not let him get a single word in.
“You remember things she says that she doesn’t even remember saying.”
He looked away, down at the floor, really. At the slippers covering his feet “…so what?” he muttered. “She’s my friend.”
Jimin tilted his head. “Is that all she is?”
“Yes.” The answer came out automatically.
But it must have worked, because the persistence of Jimin and Taehyung seemed to calm down as they shrugged and finally left the topic alone, as if agreeing to let him off the hook for tonight.
So to distract himself from their annoying gazes and muttered laughter, he did the dishes. Slowly and meticulously, because his brain was whirring too much to actually focus.
And without his knowledge, Jimin smiled lightly behind his tense back exchanging a silent fist bump with Tae, as if the both of them didn’t just drop something in their second-oldest hyung’s lap and just disappear.
“…Tch.”
+
The tip of your pointed heels were pinching your toes for each step as you got off the bus in a slight hurry, trying to smooth down your freshly curled hair and flyaways all in one movement as the venue got closer. There were already dozens of guests mingling inside, holding champagne flutes and exchanging polite conversation as you brushed past them.
You spotted the main couple near one of the double entrances greeting guests, and as you got closer your friend’s face brightened in recognition.
“Y/N, you came!” She squealed happily, hugging you as her white poofy dress swallowed your legs as you stepped into the hug.
You grinned at her excitement, impressed that she still had that much energy and returned the hug gently to not ruin anything. “Of course I came, you invited me.”
“Thank you for coming, Y/N,” Her husband smiled beside her, shaking your hand.
“Of course, of course,” you waved off their gratitude before pulling out the white envelope from your purse. “Where’s the box?”
“Oooh, I’ll show you!” Soojin, your childhood friend, looped her arm through yours. “Honey, will you take over a bit? I need some girl talk.”
Her husband only smiled. “You two go ahead, I can handle the crowd.”
Before you had a chance to protest, Soojin was already pulling you into the venue hall where dozens of round tables were set up filled with people, but she pulled you further to the back where a large box for money envelopes stood and grabbed a flute of champagne for you on the way.
“So,” you finally managed to pull her to a stop as the two of you stood in the corner, private but not hidden from sight. “How does it feel to be married?”
“Ugh, tiring,” Soojin let her head drop back, long veil brushing the floor. “But at least it’s almost over and done with.”
You glanced out of the room. “Who are even all these people?”
She waved her hand. “No idea. Most of them are his colleagues or friends of his parents’. My family and I just invited close friends and relatives.”
Sipping from the glass, you chuckled but stopped when noticing her looking. “What?”
“How’s everything on your end? Any handsome gentleman that is making those wedding bells ring?”
“God no!” You scoffed. “I’m a single, thirty-three year old woman who works at two different cafés. Not exactly dating material.”
“Girl,” Soojin pushed your shoulder in disagreement. “Who gives a shit what your job is, at least you have one!”
Fair point.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you took another sip of champagne. “Yeah, well, try telling that to literally any man over thirty.”
“They’re idiots,” she dismissed immediately. “And probably intimidated.”
“By what? My ability to steam milk and survive on three hours of sleep?”
“By this,” she gestured vaguely at you, up and down, as if that explained everything. “You’ve always had this thing, you know. Like you don’t need anyone. Independent woman and all that shit.”
A part of you was strangely touched by that.
“I don’t,” you replied lightly, though it came out quieter than intended.
Soojin’s expression softened just a fraction, like she caught the shift but chose not to dig. “Still,” she nudged you again, grin returning. “if anyone tries anything tonight, I expect a full report.”
You rolled your eyes. “At your own wedding?”
“Especially at my own wedding. It’s prime matchmaking territory.”
“I’m not getting set up with someone’s cousin.”
“Too late,” she sang, already reaching for your hand again. “Come on, I need to introduce you to–”
“Soojin!” Her name was called from across the room, sharp enough to cut through the chatter.
She groaned dramatically. “Saved by the bell.”
“Go,” you laughed, gently pushing her away. “Bride duties.”
She squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “Don’t disappear, okay?”
“No promises.”
And just like that, she was gone, swallowed back into the crowd, her white dress a moving beacon among dark suits and muted colors of people dressed in mostly sleek business attires rather than fancy dresses.
You ended up seated somewhere in the middle of the hall, wedged between a couple who introduced themselves as Soojin’s university friends and another woman who barely looked up from her phone.They were nice enough, with polite smiles, brief introductions and small talk that never quite went anywhere if you were being honest.
You nodded when appropriate, laughed when expected, sipped your drink awkwardly when silence stretched just a second too long.
“…and then we all went to Busan for spring break, it was insane–”
The plates came and went, courses replaced one after another as speeches started, applause echoing across the room in bursts. You clapped along, half-genuine half out of your depth watching Soojin from afar; her bright smile, the way she leaned into her husband without thinking, the ease of it.
Something in your chest pinched at the sight. Jealousy perhaps, or even longing. You wondered just briefly, how it would feel. To have something like this, a day of celebration with a person constant at your side.
You prided yourself in being an independent woman in a big city like Seoul. Surviving by yourself, not needing anyone to help with most things, but then he happened. Yoongi swooped back into your life like some damn hurricane, flipping your days upside down.
No longer did you wake up to a silent phone, but a text message telling you to come over to dinner. Sometimes you found his car parked outside after a late shift and he would drive you home, or if you stayed over he would drive you to work with a full stomach.
It was nauseating how caring he was without realizing it, and it didn’t help that your heart and stomach fluttered at everything he did.
By the time dessert rolled around, you were halfway through mentally planning what greasy takeout you’d order tomorrow when her familiar voice came again.
“Y/N!” You looked up to see Soojin slipping into the empty chair beside you, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed from moving around all evening.
“Finally found you,” she said, grabbing your arm like she was afraid you’d disappear.
You smiled, setting your fork down. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, but everyone keeps pulling me everywhere,” she huffed, before her eyes scanned your table briefly. “Are you okay? You look a bit bored.”
“I’m not bored,” you lied easily. “Just tired, double shifts.”
“Mm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. Then, like a switch flipped, her expression brightened. “Okay, but listen. I know someone.”
You blinked. “Please no.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“He’s single, works in finance, makes good money–”
“I don’t care if he owns the bank, Soojin.”
“He’s tall!”
You gave her a flat look. “That’s your selling point?”
“It’s an important one.”
You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not interested. But appreciate the effort.”
“Why not?” she pressed. “You can’t just be single forever.”
“Do you want to bet on that?”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I,” you said with a giggle, lifting your glass.
“Girl, stop,” she nudged you hard enough to make you lean slightly. “You’re hot, you’re funny, and you’ve always had your life together way more than the rest of us.”
“That’s debatable.”
“It’s not,” she insisted. “And you should be dating. You deserve that.”
You softened a little at that, but still shook your head. “It’s just not… something I’m thinking about right now.”
“That’s exactly why I need to interfere.”
“Oh my god.”
“I’m just saying–” she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what about someone you already know?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “I don’t like where this is going.”
She grinned. “What about Min Yoongi?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden name drop as your heart hammered. “Why him?”
Soojin tilted her head, studying you. “Didn’t you guys date?”
“What?” you let out a short laugh, shaking your head immediately. “No. Since when?”
“That’s what everyone thought,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You were literally attached at the hip.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, glancing down at your plate, “we also didn’t speak for like ten years after.”
There was a small pause, enough for you to look up only to regret. Because her eyes were fucking sparkling like the diamonds from her engagement ring she had sent a picture of.
“No,” you warned immediately.
“You like him.”
“Soojin–”
“You do!”
You dragged a hand over your face, groaning under your breath. “Can you not start something at your own wedding?”
“This isn’t something, this is a revelation.”
“It’s not.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“I just did.”
“No, you deflected.”
“Okay, fine!” You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice despite the noise around you. “But you do realize we’re talking about one of the world’s most famous idols right now?”
“And?” she shot back instantly.
“And that should end the conversation and the possibility of anything.”
Soojin didn’t answer immediately, which was worse. She always had something to say. “No,” she shook her head lightly. “That’s your excuse.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Excuse? For what?”
“For not even trying.”
Your jaw tightened just slightly. “That’s not–” you started, then stopped, fingers tightening around your glass. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple for me,” she said, softer now, but just as persistent. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re shutting something down before it even exists.”
You glanced away, eyes drifting back toward the head table where she had been sitting earlier, where everything looked natural.
Because the fear of your feelings ruining this friendship again was something you didn’t want to see happen. Just the thought of it was more painful than actually being rejected. You had gone a decade without him, and now that you finally had him back in your life, you didn’t want to lose him again.
“He’s my best friend,” you said instead, the words coming out more firmly than you felt. “I’m not risking that.”
“And?” she asked after a moment.
“And,” you continued, voice lower now, “he has his life. I have mine.”
“That doesn’t mean–”
“It kind of does,” you cut in gently. “Be realistic for a second.”
Her brows furrowed. “I am being realistic.”
“No,” you shook your head, finally looking back at her. “You’re being romantic.”
“And you’re being pessimistic.”
“How?.”
“By being scared.”
You went quiet, because there wasn’t an immediate comeback for that. Soojin’s gaze softened just a little when you didn’t respond. “You still talk to him, don’t you?” she asked.
“...yeah.”
“How is it? When you do?”
You let out a small breath, looking down at your hands. “It’s normal,” you said after a second. “Like nothing changed.”
“And you don’t think that means anything?”
You gave a faint, almost tired smile. “It means we were friends for a long time.”
“Maybe that’s not all?” Soojin let out a breath, turning to fully face you sitting sideways on the chair. “You’re saying it’s not realistic because he’s an idol, and that might be true for fans, but you’re not a fan, Y/N. You’re already neck deep in his world.”
“If I cross that line,” you said slowly, choosing your words carefully, “there’s no going back.”
Soojin stayed quiet.
“So I’d rather just…” you trailed off, shrugging lightly. “Keep it like this.”
Her lips pressed together, like she didn’t quite agree but understood anyway. “And you’re okay with that?”
Your eyes flickered, almost unconsciously, back toward the front of the room. Toward her, her husband, the soft glow of something settled and certain before looking away again with a shrug.
“I have to be.”
+
You woke up late.
Deliciously late.
It was definitely later than intended, but not enough to make you feel guilty about it. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in dull winter light that made everything feel slower than usual.
You stared at the ceiling for a moment, duvet pulled to your chin and trapping the comfortable warmth underneath, mind blank.
Until it wasn’t.
Your brain, traitor that it was, immediately started replaying yesterday.
Yoongi’s hand brushing against yours when he passed you the glass.
The way he had said, just stay over.
The way he always–
You groaned, dragging the blanket over your face. “Stop it,” you muttered.
It didn’t mean anything, because it never did. Especially when it came from him. It’s just who he was and you’ve known that since you were ten. But still, it was your own fault not listening to the oldest rule in the friendship book, aka. falling for your own best friend.
You dropped the blanket and stared at the ceiling again. “…annoying,” you sighed.
You stretched lazily, letting your arm fall back onto the bed as you debated getting up when your phone buzzed from the bedside table.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you turned your head, reaching for your phone.
Jeonggukkie:
are you alive?
You huffed a small laugh, already typing back.
You:
barely
Three dots appeared immediately.
Jeonggukkie:
dramatic
did you eat
You stared at the message just as your stomach rumbled and the time finally made you realize it was actually 1PM already.
You:
Not yet
A small pause went by.
Jeonggukkie:
ok, i’m coming over
Your eyes widened slightly, fingers tapping furiously
You:
why
Jeonggukkie:
don’t argue
20 mins
actually give me 30
You blinked at the screen. “…This kid,” you muttered, but there was no real annoyance behind it.
You pushed yourself up with a sigh, stretching as your feet hit the floor. “Guess I have to be a functioning adult now,” you mumbled, dragging yourself toward the bathroom.
Twenty five minutes later there was a knock at your door. Jeongguk stood there, hood up, cap and mask on with two bags of food in his hands as well as takeaway coffee. You stepped aside quickly, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him like you were hiding a fugitive. “Did anyone see you?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you check?”
He blinked. “Check what?”
“The street? The cameras? The neighbors?”
He just stared at you as you locked the door. “You’re stressed.”
“I am stressed,” you snapped, turning to face him. “I’m stressed for you. Why are you not stressed?”
“I’m stressed in appropriate situations” he said easily, slipping off his shoes. “Just not about this.”
“That’s worse.”
He laughed under his breath, holding up the bags. “I brought food. Rosé tteokbokki, mild flavored, and pork belly.”
You still refused to give in, even though you were practically drooling at the smell wafting towards you now, until he held up the last bag of two coffees.
“I also bought your favorite; vietnamese iced coffee.”
“Fine,” you gave in, pulling out a chair and dropping down opposite of him as he was already unpacking everything and grabbed two pairs of chopsticks from your drawer.
Jeongguk shrugged off his jacket and mask, as he grinned knowingly at your weakness.
“You always bring food when you’re committing crimes.”
“I’m not committing a crime.”
“You’re an internationally known idol sneaking into a civilian’s apartment unannounced,” you said, grabbing the first piece of meat and then tteok, humming content. “That feels illegal.”
He never stopped that grin, following you in grabbing some food and handing you the coffee after stirring it, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“You worry too much, noona.”
“I worry the exact right amount,” you shot back. “One blurry photo and your entire company will be breathing down your neck.”
“As if they dare.”
You turned to glare at him. “Confidence much?.”
“And you are way too paranoid.”
You opened your mouth – then paused. “Okay, maybe a little.”
He snorted. “A little?”
“Shut up, kid.”
Both of you ate mostly in silence, although you noticed him only taking a small bite here and then, letting you enjoy yourself while sipping on his own coffee. You were the one who had introduced the boys to the deliciousness that was Vietnamese iced coffee with condensed milk, and you would catch most of them drinking it now and then after practice, or whenever you met up with them for quick coffee catch-ups.
Jeongguk leaned back slightly, watching you with quiet satisfaction. “You look less dead from the last time I saw you.”
“Wow. Thank you. What a way to make a woman feel better.”
“You’re welcome.”
You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had already dropped. As you leaned back in your rickety little plastic chair you got on a sale on Coupang, you watched Jeongguk carefully.
He did look wholly out of place in your little studio loft apartment that probably fit in his living room alone. But he still found it comfortable here in your space. Like an annoying little brother who had nowhere else to go, as if his six older members didn’t have large fancy homes of their own.
He was just persistent when it came to you, and worried as if his schedule wasn’t a hundred times harder than your own minimum wage, mundane café jobs.
Jeongguk noticed you stopped eating and stood up wordlessly to pack the remaining leftovers in a box for later, and started cleaning up everything as well as recycling, leaving you to relax and enjoy your coffee.
“I heard you went to hyung’s yesterday.”
What a smooth talker. “Hm, did Jimin snitch?”
He chuckled. “It was Taehyung hyung, actually.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing much. Just that you came by while they were eating.”
“Right…you’re being nosy.”
Jeongguk shrugged, drying his hands on the towel before sitting back down. “I have eyes. And nosy hyungs who update me on everything even when I’m not interested.”
“You and everyone else, I suppose.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, before turning serious again. “Why haven’t you told him yet?”
You flickered up a brow, pausing your sipping on the straw. “I told you that in confidence,” you said flatly. “Not to use as ammunition.”
Jeongguk ignored your dig. “You should tell him.”
You snorted immediately. “Yeah, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enjoy my stressfree life?”
“That’s a lie.”
You leaned back. “Oh?”
“You’re miserable when you overthink, noona” he stated simply. “And you’ve been doing that a lot, so not as ‘stressfree’ as you think.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very observant for someone who used to have a crush on me.”
“Used to,” he emphasized, as if the memory itself brought forward shudders. “And very briefly at that.”
It was fucking ironic, actually. You, sitting here discussing your current long-time crush on your best friend with one of his best friends that used to have his own crush on you.
Jeongguk, despite his younger age, had been upfront about his feelings for you right before his military enlistment. Thankfully he hadn’t been too deep in to actually get heartbroken when you both gave it two dates before realizing friends fit you better.
Not that anyone was aware of this. God, the chaos it would bring if they knew.
“Mm.” The silence settled for a bit, as you forced yourself to relax before admitting. “It’s complicated.”
Jeongguk pursed his lips in thought. “Does it have to be?”
“It does with him.”
Jeongguk didn’t respond right away. “What if he likes you too?”
You let out a small laugh. “Not possible. He’s Min Yoongi. His love is his work.”
“Maybe a couple of years ago, but we’ve all matured since then.”
You shook your head. “I don’t want to worry about it right now, Guk. Let’s not, okay.”
He wanted to protest, you saw it. But he respected you enough to not push so he nodded.
“Okay, noona. Let’s just relax, how about a movie?”
You smiled thankfully. “Sounds good. You choose.”
And just as you were settled in the couch and the intro started playing, your phone buzzed with a text.
Yoongs:
What are you doing?
You typed a reply without much thought.
You:
watching a movie with guk
You waited for a reply, but it never arrived. Not even after the movie had ended and Jeongguk had left.
+
A couple of days go by before you find yourself looking for him again. But this time it’s at HYBE.
You always feel like a nervous wreck stepping inside the intimidating glass building, your stomach fluttering with worries that probably won’t happen.
Like the security dragging you out on suspicions for being a stalker fan, for example.
God, your brain went haywire sometimes.
You follow the protocols carefully; stepping up to the reception desk as they register your already known name, printing the guest tag and band for you to wear around your neck with a polite smile.
There were so many people walking in and out of this building on a daily, that most employees didn’t blink when you arrived. For them you could be anyone. From a visiting stylist to a dancer, or even business partner. As long as your name was in the system, it meant you had already passed all security checks and approved for visits whenever.
This time you felt slightly more confident, tapping yourself through the gate and waiting for the lift surrounded by strangers and not fidgeting too much. Your destination was one of the higher floors; dedicated to the Big Hit creative team, and where Yoongi’s studio was located.
You were the only one still in the lift by the time it was your turn to get off, and when you arrived at the closed door of his studio you stared at the keypad for a second longer than necessary. The code still worked a moment later, of course it did, before you pushed the door open and the familiar quiet of Yoongi’s place greeted you immediately.
It was darker than usual, but he was there. On the large, comfortable office chair in front of his desk with four screens, a microphone and more speakers than you could identify.
Despite being half-inside the room already, you knocked lightly anyway.
“Yoongs?”
The studio smelled faintly like decaf and something warmer, perhaps tea. He had reached a stage of only decaf these last few years, which honestly hurt your coffee-loving soul more than anything. The glow of his monitors lit up his face in soft blues and purples, shadows resting under his eyes but nothing you hadn’t seen before.
His black hair was also long again, with bangs framing his now slimmer face from when he first got out of the military.
Yoongi didn’t turn right away, just lifted a hand briefly in acknowledgment.
You hovered for a second before lifting the bag slightly. “I brought food.”
That got his attention. He turned his chair halfway, eyes flickering down to the bag before settling on you. “What is it?”
You held it up like an offering. “Don’t act like you’re not going to eat it.”
A faint huff left him, something just short of a laugh. “Did I say that?”
“You were about to.” You walked over to the low table by the L-shaped couch against the wall, taking out the containers and drinks, already moving like you’ve done it a hundred times. Because, honestly, you had. “Or something along the lines of not being hungry.”
Standing back up with your hands on your hips, you turned to face him again with a pointed look. “You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
“Not yet,” Yoongi confirmed, never seeing the point of lying to you when you already knew him so well.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Shocking.”
You handed him a pair of chopsticks before taking the seat on the small couch tucked against the wall. He swiveled his chair slightly, accepting them without a word.
You had cooked an average pesto pasta with marinated chicken strips. Nothing fancy, and definitely easier to buy as delivery. But a part of you still remembered when Yoongi complimented your cooking during one of the rare times you had made it for him, and he said it tasted better than the ones at restaurants.
You were annoyed how vivid that simple comment still stayed with you.
You watched him, but not obviously. And never long enough to get caught.
Just…small enough glances to feel satisfied.
The way his hair fell slightly into his eyes when he leaned forward. The way his fingers moved without thinking, precise and practiced, even when he was just picking at food with the chopsticks. How fine and elegant his hands looked.
He looked a little tired, you noted. Not surprising, with how much they were all still fine-tuning the new album.
Something in your chest tugged at the sight.
“Did you sleep at all?” You asked after a couple of bites.
He hummed. “A little.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
He just shrugged and instead took a bite, knowing you weren’t one to stop him from eating.
You leaned back into the couch, exhaling softly. “You’re going to burn out again.”
It slipped out before you could stop it. His hand paused mid-air for a fraction of a second, then continued.
“I won’t,” He assured you, sounding calm and confident and you did believe him. But a part of you was always worried.
“You always say that.”
“And I’m still here.”
You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I guess.”
Suddenly there was a knock against the door, and you remained seated watching as he stood up and opened the door to grab whatever the person on the other side handed to him before it closed again.
Yoongi handed it to you, as you pulled out a large sized cup of Vietnamese iced coffee from your favorite coffee shop chain, and felt your heart swell.
“I ordered when you said you were on the way up.”
You smiled faintly into your drink, savoring the taste. “Thanks.”
Your gaze drifted back to him. To the way he had already turned back toward his screen, attention slipped back into his work like nothing else existed.
You knew that look. You've seen it since you were kids.
Back when it was notebooks and scribbles instead of full studios and polished tracks. When you sat next to him on a rooftop, pretending you weren’t watching him as closely as you were.
And somehow nearly fifteen years later, you found yourself still watching.
“Play it.” The words left your mouth before you could overthink them.
He didn’t turn. “Play what.”
“Whatever you’re working on.”
“It’s not finished.”
“When have I ever cared?”
You could almost hear the hesitation as he scrolled through a couple of files, almost thinking which one to choose before a sound filled the studio.
♫Twenty-four hours in the tubTwenty-four hours of your thoughtZ-z-z, don't wake me up꿈이면 깨기 싫어, 내.”
FantasyIt's a fantasy (Ayy, you next to me)It's a fantasy (Oh)You're my fantasy (Take that) ♫
The damn irony of those lyrics, you wanted to scoff to yourself.
“It’s good.” Your voice came out softer than intended, perhaps softer than needed for the poppiness of the song that had filled the studio.
His eyes flickered toward you, just enough that you noticed. And for a second it felt like he was waiting for something else. Instead he huffed lightly. “That’s it?”
You smiled a little. “Do you want me to lie and say it’s bad?”
“No.”
“Then it’s good.” You pulled your legs up on the couch, tucking them underneath you.
He didn’t respond, but you saw it. The smallest shift in his shoulders and the way his posture relaxed just slightly, as if you had confirmed something for him. You couldn’t fathom why he cared that much for your opinion. Your musical understanding was minimal at best.
“You always say that,” he muttered.
“Because it’s always true.”
You looked away first, distracting yourself on your phone. Because if you didn’t, you might keep staring.
And if you kept staring…You honestly didn’t want to think about that.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup instead, wanting to say more. You always did, but the words stayed where they were. Always caught somewhere frustratingly uncomfortable between your chest and your throat.
+
Fuck. He genuinely forgot how tiring concert and comeback prep used to be.
Spending months in LA creating songs was a different mental tiredness he could handle better. But the physicality of things? At damn age when it feels like his knees would crack by the slightest bend? Someone give him a break, please.
Luckily he wasn’t the only one who thought so. All of them were struggling more than normal, besides Seokjin and Hoseok, who had been doing their own things for a while now and gotten used to the rush again.
Him and the others though? What a mess.
Jimin and Taehyung would giggle every five minutes at their attempts of coordinating, while Jeongguk would be the one to try and pick a fight just for the fun of it. Namjoon tried his best, laughing along and whining whenever a member teased his dancing, which had actually improved rather than gotten worse.
The guys had even been impressed with the muscle mass he had put on in the last couple of months since returning to Korea. With nothing to do with his time besides finishing up the album, he had decided that starting to hit the gym more seriously was a good idea.
Still, he had managed to switch out one mental stress for another. From album concerns to his own personal life now beating the fuck out of him whenever he thought of a person.
Yoongi was already exhausted by the time he stepped out of the practice studio for a quick pick-me-up. All he wanted was ten minutes of silence and maybe another decaf coffee he absolutely did not need, but could pretend would help him with his exhaustion.
The placebo effect was real, he was convinced.
But instead, he heard your very familiar laugh echoing down the hallway. A voice that shouldn’t be in this building at the moment, to his knowledge.
His steps slowed automatically when he rounded the corner. Jeongguk was leaning against the wall beside you, phone in hand while showing you something on the screen. You stood close enough that your shoulder kept bumping his arm every time you laughed.
“No, wait—play that again,” you said through laughter.
“I’m telling you, hyung looked ridiculous.”
“Jeongguk!!”
“What?” He grinned unapologetically before replaying the video anyway.
Yoongi recognized it immediately, to his chagrin. A behind-the-scenes clip from years ago where he had nearly fallen asleep during an interview, of his eyes dropping in real-time and becoming a meme in the fandom and their groupchat.
Traitor.
You dissolved into laughter again, instinctively grabbing Jungkook’s sleeve for balance. And something inside Yoongi twisted unpleasantly. Which was somehow worse when Jeongguk was the first one to notice him there, of course the damn kid did.
His grin shifted instantly into something more suspicious, which Yoongi did not like.
“Yoongi-hyung.” He straightened casually. “You done already?”
Your head turned immediately, your face lighting up the second you saw him. “There you are.”
Again, that dangerous little sense of relief settled in his chest at your expression. Yoongi shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you two doing?”
“Bullying you, apparently,” you answered easily.
Jungkook snorted. “She started it.”
“You literally showed me the video!”
“And you enjoyed it.”
“I did.”
Yoongi couldn’t help watching the way Jungkook looked at you when you spoke. The stupid word of Jimin and Taehyung replaying around in his mind of his apparent crush on you.
It was clearly comfortable and playful, perhaps even too comfortable if he could add.
Then Jungkook casually threw an arm over your shoulders, clearly a thoughtless action that he had done several times before. But Yoongi’s jaw tightened instantly.
You, completely oblivious, kept talking like nothing happened. “…and then he got mad at me for laughing,” you continued.
“I did not get mad.”
“You glared at me for like three hours.”
“Because you wouldn’t stop laughing.”
Jungkook looked between the two of you briefly before a slow grin appeared on his face. “Wow.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.” His grin widened. “You guys are seriously weird.”
If Yoongi hadn’t paid as much attention as he did, he wouldn’t have noticed the slightly sharp nudge you gave into Jeongguk's side as he flinched slightly away.
Yoongi narrowed his eyes slightly. Jungkook only looked more entertained. “I thought you were at work?”
“In an hour, it’s just around the corner so I’d thought to stop by and cheer you all on,” you shrugged.
“You should come eat with us first,” the brat offered.
Before you could answer, Yoongi spoke. “She’s busy.”
Both of you looked at him. Including Yoongi himself, internally, while Jeongguk’s eyebrows lifted slowly.
You frowned. “Am I?”
“You promised to help me with something before, remember?” The lie came easily.
“Oh yeah! I remember now.”
For a second nobody spoke. Then Jeongguk looked like he was physically restraining himself from laughing. “Right,” he said carefully. “Of course she did.”
Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but knowingly while Yoongi avoided looking directly at either of you. You had known each other long enough for you to pick up on his excuse and play along.
And suddenly Jungkook looked way too entertained for Yoongi’s liking.
+
The last employee finally waved goodbye before disappearing down the street, leaving you alone with the familiar task of locking up. You exhaled tiredly, turning the key as you rolled your tight shoulders before tugging lightly on the café door to make sure it was secure.
Your shoulders ached from the long shift, feet even worse, and all you could think about was getting home and collapsing face-first into bed, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of your stomach.
The low rumble of an engine made you glance up, and a familiar black, gleaming car sat by the curb. You slowed down immediately with a sigh, but the affectionate smile was hard to hide.
And then the driver’s window rolled down. Yoongi looked at you from behind the wheel, one arm resting lazily near the window. “You done?”
“What are you doing?”
“Picking you up, obviously.”
You gave him a pointed look. “And I told you to stop doing that.”
“You said your shift ended late.” That explained absolutely nothing. Still, warmth spread embarrassingly fast through your chest as you crossed the little space toward him.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Which somehow made this entire situation worse for your stupid heart.
You slid into the passenger seat, immediately greeted by warmth and the faint scent of clean laundry mixed with his cologne. Familiar enough now that your body relaxed before your brain caught up.
“You look tired,” he said once you buckled in.
“Yeah, feel like shit.” You had never been dishonest to him about your work.
The car pulled smoothly back onto the mostly empty road at this time, only a handful of cars whizzing past. For a while, silence filled the space between you comfortably. The radio played quietly in the background while Seoul’s lights blurred outside the windows.
Then Yoongi glanced at you briefly. “Did you eat?”
You looked out the window immediately. “Maybe.”
“That means no.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, and you yell at me for it.”
“Well obviously.” You frowned slightly. “Somebody has to.”
Yoongi hummed quietly, like he found that amusing. A few minutes later, however, you realized the roads looked wrong.
You frowned. “Yoongs.”
“Hm?”
“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”
“I know.”
You turned toward him slowly. “Min Yoongi.”
“You’re eating first.”
“I can eat at home.”
“You won’t.” Annoyingly enough, he sounded completely certain.
“You’re very bossy today.”
“And you’re very stubborn.”
“You say that like it’s new.”
A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.
God. That stupid smile really needed to stop affecting you. And he needed to stop being so easy to love.
“You can sit down,” he called. “I’ll make you something to eat, it won’t take long.”
“I know where your couch is, Yoongi.”
“Just making sure you don’t collapse halfway there.”
“You’re hilarious.”
He smirked. “Go take a shower, you know where the clothes are.”
You sank into the couch with a quiet groan, letting your head fall back briefly before muttering. “I need to wait for a bit. Can’t be bothered to move right now.”
You heard cupboards opening before Yoongi reappeared carrying two bowls, setting one in front of you on the coffee table. Ramyeon with extra green onions and two eggs, exactly how you liked it.
Your chest squeezed slightly, and he must have noticed your expression.
Yoongi looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You complain when people make it wrong.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Fine.”
A quiet huff of amusement left him as he sat beside you, knees touching yours as you both ate. For a while, the only sounds were the television playing softly in the background and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls before you sighed dramatically.
“What.”
“You know, I never told you Soojin’s wedding exhausted me emotionally.”
Yoongi glanced over. “How so?”
You slumped further into the couch. “Do you know how terrifying married people are?”
“That sounds judgmental.”
“They become obsessed with everyone else dating.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “Ah.”
“She tried setting me up with like three different men.”
Yoongi’s chopsticks paused briefly before continuing. “And?”
“And what?”
“Did you want her to?”
You blinked at him. “Not particularly.”
“Why not, I thought you said having someone would be nice.”
You shrugged lightly, staring down into your empty bowl. “I don’t know. I’m busy with life. I’m still paying down on my student debt, my monthly rent is going up in a bit and job applications are going nowhere.”
“You could if you wanted to.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m just asking.” Something about his tone felt strange to you, almost like an interrogation rather than his usual amused interest.
“Yeah apparently so. She kept insisting I’m ‘too pretty to be single,’” you muttered with a grimace.
Yoongi looked at you then, and your stomach tightened slightly under the weight of it. “Well, she’s right.”
You were fucking certain you were blushing like a damn tomato, but the dim lighting in the room hid most of it. You hoped so at least.
Were your hands clammy? They certainly felt like it.
You stared at him for half a second too long before forcing out an awkward laugh. “Wow. Look at you being nice.”
“I’m serious, though.”
His voice stayed frustratingly steady, and suddenly the air between you felt different again. He was still looking at you, dark eyes looking more intense than you had seen him besides when working on music or on the stage in front of fans.
Your heartbeat started climbing for absolutely no reason. So naturally, your brain panicked. “You know, one of them owned like…three cats.”
Tangie meowed just then from the top of one his cat towers in the room, as if knowing. Yoongi blinked once, clearly caught off guard by the abrupt subject change. “What?”
“At least that’s what Soojin said. Honestly that should’ve been her opening line.”
A quiet laugh escaped him then. And God, you loved that sound more than you should.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured almost knowingly.
Your eyes lifted toward his automatically, and this time neither of you looked away. The moment should’ve lasted a second like it always did. The two of you making eyecontact was nothing strange. But it didn’t.
he television kept talking softly in the background. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe clicked faintly with the heat, Tangie’s claw were gently scraping against his post.
And Yoongi’s gaze dropped, just slightly. But enough to send your heart stuttering.
It was small. Barely there. So quick you almost convinced yourself you imagined it
Your throat went dry. “What?” you asked, quieter than before.
Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand through his hair like he was physically resetting himself. “Nothing.”
What a fucking lie, you both knew it.
Still, you nodded slowly, because that was easier than acknowledging what your body was suddenly doing. How aware you were of his knee still touching yours, of how close he actually was, of the fact that you could smell him even over the food.
Besides the entirely strange moment that just happened between you, you knew something was bothering him otherwise. And if you didn’t ask him, you doubted any of the others would.
Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap. “Yoongs, what’s been bothering you?” you said carefully, like saying his name wrong might break something.
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh—but there was no humor in it. “Please don’t.”
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
He shook his head once, like he was annoyed at himself more than you. “Forget it.”
He started to stand, hands ready to take the bowls towards the kitchen. And that should’ve been the end of it, but your hand moved before your brain caught up as you caught his sleeve.
Yoongi froze. His gaze flicked down briefly to where your hand still held his sleeve and you let go immediately. However, that didn’t stop you from following him stiff form into the kitchen.
“Why won’t you answer?” Your voice followed him before your feet fully caught up.
Yoongi stopped near the sink and didn't turn around immediately. The bowls were still in his hands, but he didn’t set them down either.
For a second, all you could hear was the faint running of the refrigerator and the distant hum of the city outside the window. “Because you’re not going to like it.”
That made you pause as you scoffed, leaning back against the counter behind you and crossing your arms. “Try me, Min Yoongi.”
Yoongi finally set the bowls down with more care than necessary and when he turned, it was slower than before. His eyes found yours instantly and stayed there as you swallowed.
“You always do this,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Push.”
Your brows knitted slightly, annoyance crawling underneath your skin. “I’m asking a question, Yoongi.”
“I know.” His voice softened, but carefully. Like he was holding something at the edge of slipping.
“Then answer it.”
Silence stretched again; long enough that your chest started tightening in a way you didn’t like. What was he keeping from you? Had something happened? About the album or upcoming tour? Something more internal, perhaps.
A…girlfriend?
Fuck, just the thought of it made something in you want to break but you kept it all together.
Then Yoongi exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had changed. Resignation, you realized. He was done holding back whatever had been bothering him.
“You don’t notice it,” he said, and you held back from replying. His gaze flickered briefly down, then back up. “Never mind.”
Your frustration sharpened. “Don’t do that. Start saying things and then stop halfway.”
That made something in his expression shift. “You really want me to finish it?” he asked.
Your heart stuttered, but you nodded anyway. “Of course I fucking do, Yoongi. When have I never listened to you?”
A long silence, then Yoongi finally stepped closer. Just enough that now there was no pretending this was casual anymore.
“I don’t like watching you with other people.”
Your breath caught—but you didn’t interrupt. Because something in you already knew that wasn’t the full sentence.
His voice dropped lower. “And I don’t like how easily you laugh with them, and how I notice it.”
The room went still as your stomach twisted. Your voice came out smaller than you meant. “…Yoongi.”
He didn’t look away and barely moved. Just stayed there, like he’d already crossed a line he couldn’t step back from.
“I don’t know how to stop noticing you, Y/N.”
It was like your brain went dry, and very, very quiet. Your heartbeat hammering in your ears, the only thing you saw was him. Your hands were trembling too, gripping your clothes as you simply tried to take it all in.
Every time he picked you up when you didn’t ask. Every time he asked if you ate like it mattered more than it should. Every time his eyes lingered just a second too long when you laughed at someone else. Every time he went quiet after Jungkook put an arm around you like it physically cost him something not to say anything.
It all snapped into place at once, the dumb realization of it. And how your own worries had been nothing at this point. You had worried for nothing.
And you felt so incredibly dumb.
Your chest tightened, like something inside you had been holding its breath for too long and finally let go.
In the turmoil of it all, Yoongi was still watching you carefully. As if he was waiting for rejection. “…say something,” he said quietly.
That almost made you smile as you stepped closer. His eyes flickered down to you the moment the space between you changed, but he didn’t move and chose to let you control the pacing.
Your hand came up first, gripping the front of his shirt as Yoongi’s breath caught slightly at the contact. That was a new reaction you only just noticed.
You’d never seen him react like that before; like he was the one who might lose control. You loved it.
Your voice came out softer, but surprisingly steady for everything happening inside. “Unbelieveable.”
That was the moment everything inside you shifted from shock into certainty.Because Min Yoongi, calm, composed, unreadable Yoongi, was standing in front of you right now like you were the only thing he couldn’t control.
And you had never wanted anything more.
His brows pulled faintly together. “What is?”
You didn’t even bother to answer, just pulled him down to your height.
Yoongi froze for half a heartbeat before he gave in.
The kiss wasn’t near anything soft and careful. His hand found your waist immediately, steadying you like instinct finally caught up with intention. The tension he’d been holding all night snapped, something long overdue.
Your fingers slid up into his shirt as if you needed something real to hold onto while your brain caught up with the fact that this was happening—this was him—this was the thing you’d been orbiting without naming for years.
His mouth was relentless on yours, moving gently but urgently at the same time as you hummed into the kiss, his tongue caressing yours as you stumbled back into the counter behind you.
Yoongi groaned softly against your mouth, hands coming up to cup your face, fingers curling into your hair deliciously as you sighed.
When you finally broke it, it was only because you had to breathe. Yoongi stayed close, refusing to move as his forehead rested against yours, breathing heavier than before, like he didn’t trust air to behave normally anymore.
The second kiss lingered longer than the first. Your heart was still catching up, beating unevenly in a way you were very aware of.
“So,” you said eventually, voice softer than you meant it to be, “this is happening.”
A faint breath left him, almost a laugh again, but warmer now. “Yeah,” he said simply.
You tilted your head slightly, just enough to look at him properly, unguarded and sparkling. “And what now?” you asked.
His thumb moved once against your back—slow, grounding, like he was thinking with his body more than his words. “I certainly hope this meant you’re willing to become my girlfriend.”
You bit down on your lip, containing the grin wanting to stretch and he noticed it with a shy smile, ducking down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Stop it.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Min Yoongi.”
“You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“Yes,” you giggled before tightening your hold around his waist, chin resting against his collarbones as your face tilted up. “But you love it.”
His gaze softened visibly, tucking a loose strand behind your ear as his thumb brushed against your cheek. “I do.”
🎹 Pairing: BTS Suga (Min Yoongi) x Reader (Arts Center Founder!Reader)
Min Yoongi calls you after eight months of silence and asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for two weeks. You say yes, because you're apparently that person. The plan: convince his parents, collect the grant funding, don't catch feelings. The problem: you already have them. The bigger problem: so does he. The biggest problem: he wrote a whole song about it and neither of you has said a single word out loud.
Two weeks. A Fake relationship. Real everything else.
🎹 Genres: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a dahs of Hope, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Celebrity x Non-Celebrity, Emotional Drama, He has written eight songs about her and she doesn't know it yet, It's a bit of a rom-com, Min Yoongi and his hair, (Yes, that is a genre)
🎹 Short summary: "The deal was twelve days of fake. It ended up being the only thing that wasn't."
🎹 Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)
Part of The B-Side series Universe:
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
You have never been good at lying to yourself.
This is not a virtue. It has not always felt like one.
There are people who can look at something true and uncomfortable and file it somewhere dark and quiet and get on with their lives. You have tried this. You have tried it with intention, with commitment, with the full force of someone who understands the appeal.
It does not work.
You feel things the way you hear music — completely, from the inside out, no distance between you and the thing itself. You have tried the distance.
It just doesn't take.
Your mother used to say you wore your heart on your sleeve, and you would say I know, I'm working on it, and she would say I didn't say it was a problem, and you never quite believed her until you were old enough to understand what it cost people who couldn't.
You feel things fully and you say them when they need to be said and you build things out of them when you can. The feeling is not the problem. The feeling is the material. So you use it. Without apology. With both hands.
This is, more or less, the philosophy behind everything you have ever built.
Including the thing that should not exist.
Nobody believed the Maeum Arts Center would work. That is, historically, the wrong thing to tell you.
This is just the truth of it — that when you walked into a bank eight years ago and said I would like funding to open a music and arts therapy center for neurodivergent children in Seoul, the bank lady looked at you with the polite, careful expression of an institution that is about to say no in several different ways, and you walked out of that bank and into the next one, and the one after that, and eventually when literally any other person would have just stopped.
You started asking everyone else, grant by grant, favor by favor, one stubborn inch at a time, until one day you turned around and there it was.
Yellow walls.
That was the first decision — yellow, specifically the yellow of late afternoon in a room with good windows, warm and a little unreasonable.
The kind of color that says you are allowed to be loud here.
The walls are covered now: finger-painted handprints in every size, a mural that started as a class project and has been expanding for two years, a hand-lettered sign by the entrance that reads THE REAL STARS PRACTICE HERE because Kim Seojun, age nine, made it during a session where he was supposed to be working on fine motor skills, and you framed it, and now it lives there permanently, and you refuse to feel embarrassed about this.
The floors are scuffed wood, permanently chalky near the supply closet. There are plants in the windows that are thriving despite everything.
The front desk has a bowl of individually wrapped chocolates that Dani refills every Monday, because They understand that small comforts are also infrastructure.
Every room has a name — not a number, a name — and the kids named them, so Practice Room One is officially called The Dragon Room because Choi Jisoo drew a dragon on the door in marker three years ago and you told her it was permanent and you meant it.
Jisoo is twelve years old now, and hears music the way most people never will — not as sound but as sense, something that lives in her before she reaches for it.
Someone recognized this immediately.
He got her the better practice room and a cello that was not the center's cheapest option and has since denied both decisions flatly and without elaboration. Jisoo calls him teacher in a tone that implies she has a more accurate word and is choosing not to use it.
He pretends not to notice.
He absolutely notices.
You are thinking about him again.
You weren't going to do that.
You look at the schedule on your desk and keep going.
It smells like paint. And Rosin because it is Monday and the string kids have been in.
Sometimes, when Dani has eaten at the desk, whatever Dani had for lunch, which is usually something that makes you realize you have not eaten since approximately seven AM.
It is, genuinely, the best place you have ever been.
You built it. You would go to war for it. You would, and this is relevant, do almost anything to keep it running.
Almost.
You are in the Sunshine Room explaining to Kim Seojun why Für Elise does not need to be played at the speed of a man fleeing a crime scene to be considered a passionate performance.
"Speed," you tell him, sitting on the piano bench beside him, "is not the same as feeling."
Seojun considers this. He is nine years old and built like a question mark, all elbows and certainty. "My feeling," he says, "is that it should be faster."
"Your feeling is wrong."
"You said feelings are never wrong."
"I said your feelings about yourself are never wrong. Your feelings about tempo are subject to revision."
He thinks about this for a moment. Then, with the air of someone who has decided to be magnanimous: "I will play it fast and then slow and then you can decide."
"I have already decided, Seojun."
"You can decide again."
This is the negotiation you are in the middle of — Seojun playing the opening of Für Elise at a pace that suggests Beethoven was, in fact, running, and you telling him to slow down, and Seojun having opinions about this — when your phone goes off.
Not the center line. Not Dani's extension. Your personal phone — the one whose number is held by your landlord, your mother, and Dani, who is standing twelve feet away looking at their clipboard. Your mother is on a cruise in Antarctica and has been radio silent since last Tuesday, which she warned you about. Your landlord has no reason to call. Dani is right there.
That leaves one option.
One option that has not called in eight months.
You pull it out.
You look at the screen.
incoming call: Min Yoongi.
Directly.
You look at it for what is probably two seconds and feels like considerably longer.
Seojun looks at your face. Then at your phone. Then back at your face. "Is that bad?" he asks.
"Play the piece," you say. "Slowly."
"How slowly?"
"Like you mean it, not like you're winning a race."
You stand up. You step into the doorway. Dani is at the front desk twelve feet away and you know — you can feel it — that they have already clocked the name on your screen, because Dani notices everything and says approximately thirty percent of what they notice, and the sixty percent they don't say tends to live in the air around them like ambient information.
They look up from their clipboard.
They look back down.
You answer the phone.
"I need a favor."
Eight months. Eight months of center-related correspondence routed through Dani like diplomatic cables, and he calls your personal number, and his opening line is I need a favor.
This is, actually, very Min Yoongi.
The thing about him — and you have had eight months to not think about this, which means you have thought about it with some frequency — is that he does not do anything sideways. Other people would have opened with small talk. How are you, how's the center, hey so funny thing.
They would have built a little runway before asking for the thing. Yoongi does not build runways. Yoongi lands the plane directly in your living room and looks at you like well, here's the plane.
It is, depending on the day, either his most charming quality or his most catastrophic one.
Today you have not decided yet.
"Min Yoongi," you say.
But even as you say it, you are already doing the thing you have never been able to stop yourself from doing — feeling it first, thinking about it second, in that order, always in that order. Eight months of careful distance and his name on your screen and your heart just — opens the file. All of it. Right there. Like it never closed.
And it forces your mind to go back in time to understand it.
Approximately three and a half years ago, the company that manages BTS decided — or more accurately, decided for him — that Min Yoongi needed somewhere to be that was not his studio at two in the morning.
What you understood later was that the call was less goodwill and more intervention.
You knew who he was before he walked through the door. You would have been hard pressed not to — you live in Seoul, you run a center full of children who have opinions about music before they have opinions about anything else, and BTS is not a thing you can be adjacent to Korean culture and miss.
You knew the name Suga.
You had heard what he made, the mixtapes and the solo work, the kind of music that gets made when someone decides that honesty is the only tool worth using. The kind that makes you sit with it after, not because it's comfortable but because it's true.
You were wary when the company called. You said yes anyway, because the funding was real and the need was real and you have never been precious about where good things come from as long as they are actually good.
What you didn't know — what you pieced together later, in pieces, from things he said and things he didn't — was what the visit was really for.
He was in the middle of it then. His last album, though he didn't know yet it would be the last one.
Agust D was not finished, not closed, the trilogy still assembling itself, and he was somewhere in the dark interior of that process — converting the last of something that had taken fifteen years to excavate, bleeding it onto a record that the world would later call a masterpiece and he would later call done. He was drinking quietly. He was in his studio at hours that were not reasonable hours. And management, who had one eye on the asset and one eye on what the asset was costing, made the call.
A music center.
They sent him to your center because they needed him to be somewhere that had nothing to do with the music industry and everything to do with why music existed in the first place.
Children who knew exactly who he was and could not have cared less, because he was Teacher Min and Teacher Min was late on Wednesdays and had opinions about their finger positioning and that was what he was to them and fame is considerably less interesting than whether you are going to help them with the bridge section or not.
You understood later what the company was hoping for. That something ordinary might reach him where extraordinary had stopped working.
What you didn't expect — what none of them expected, probably — was that it would work. That he would sit in the corner of the Dragon Room on his third visit and hear Choi Jisoo play and just. Stop.
Jisoo was nine then. She had lost her parents eight months before — a car accident, her older sister barely an adult, both of them trying to stay above water by sheer force of will. She came to the center through a school referral and you knew within the first session that she was something rare. Talented doesn't cover it. She heard music the way he did — from somewhere it couldn't be taught, before anyone told her to be careful with it. It came out whole every time.
He recognized her immediately. You watched it happen from the doorway — the moment he heard her and went still, not the managed stillness he carried everywhere, but a different kind. The kind that happens when something outside you names something inside you that you didn't have words for yet.
She was nine years old and she had just lost everything and she was still playing.
You think that did something to him that the center itself couldn't have done. You think she reminded him why he started. You think some part of that last album — somewhere in the release of it, in the place where the anger finally loosens into something that can breathe — has this room in it. You cannot point to the measure. You just know.
You know Suga. You have always known Suga — the fire, the precision, the particular devastation of a lyric that doesn't blink.
You know AgustD. The thing underneath the fire. The part that took everything dark and made it into something that could exist outside his body so he didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Min Yoongi walked into your center three and a half years ago in a black beanie.
He is the one you were not prepared for.
And stood in your doorway and looked at everything you built.
A building that smelled like paint. A person who looked up from a grant proposal and said you must be the piano guy without a single trace of anything except mild administrative recognition.
He didn't announce himself.
He didn't bring anyone.
He came back the next week.
And the week after that.
He was — and you want to be precise about this, for your own accounting — not what you expected. Quiet in the way of someone who has decided that words are a resource to be used carefully rather than freely. Funny in the way that sneaks up on you, deadpan and perfectly timed, gone before you're sure it happened. He sat on the floor of the Dragon Room and listened to Jisoo play with an expression you recognized — the expression of someone hearing music the way you hear music, from the inside out, like it's a language and not a performance.
He was, against all available evidence and better judgment, a person you genuinely liked.
And then — and this is where the story gets less tidy — there was a period. A difficult period. The kind that happens when someone is at the peak of everything and the bottom of themselves at the same time, and you were there for part of it, and then you weren't, and then there was a morning that neither of you has addressed, and then there were eight months of Dani's professional neutrality standing between you like a very elegant wall.
That's the context.
That's why hi does what it does.
"You don't get to hi me," you say again, because you already said it once and it still applies. "You get to explain yourself."
"I was getting to that."
"You were getting to the favor. That's different."
"The favor is the explanation."
"Then start with the favor."
He starts with the favor.
What follows is approximately three minutes of Min Yoongi — who is, among other things, a Grammy-nominated producer, a member of the most successful musical group in history, a critically acclaimed solo artist, a man who once wrote a lyric so precise it made a journalist cry in a press conference — explaining how he arrived at his current situation.
The situation is this.
He tells you about his father first.
This is not what you expected. You were braced for the logistics of it, the ask — and instead he leads with this, quietly, in the voice he uses when he has been carrying something alone long enough that it has changed shape. The cancer is back. He found out three weeks ago. His parents don't know he knows how bad it is. He is not going to tell them he knows how bad it is. What he is going to do is make sure that when they visit, his father sees his youngest son okay. Settled. Not alone in his apartment at three AM eating ramyeon, which is what he actually is.
You don't say anything. You let him keep going.
His mother called, he says. Asked the question she has apparently been saving for the right moment — Yoongi-ya, is there anyone — and he said yes. He said yes because his father laughed in the background when his mother made a happy sound and he is, whatever else he is, not someone who takes that laugh from his father right now. Not with everything else.
And then his mother said who.
And your name came out.
He says this last part with the energy of a man reporting a minor natural disaster — something that happened, meteorological in nature, outside his control. Your name came out. His mother said oh, the one from the center, which means he has mentioned you enough that you exist in her mind as a real and specific person, which is something you are going to put in a box and close the lid on for now. They asked questions. He answered enough of them that a retreat is no longer possible. His parents arrive Tomorrow.
He is asking.
You are quiet for a moment.
Then he says the actual thing.
He needs you to come to dinner. Tomorrow. To meet them. To be, for twelve days, the person whose name came out of his mouth on a Sunday night when his father laughed in the background and everything felt urgent.
His girlfriend.
Fake, he clarifies. Obviously fake.
He will compensate you for your time. He says this last part quickly, like he is aware of how it sounds and has decided that speed is the only solution.
You stand very still in the doorway of the Dragon Room.
There is a silence on the phone that contains several things simultaneously — his embarrassment, which he will not name, and yours, which you are also not going to name, and the question of which of you should feel more humiliated by this phone call, which you are going to call a tie and move on from.
From the front desk, twelve feet away, you feel Dani look up.
You do not look at them.
You look at the yellow wall directly in front of you instead, which is a mistake, because the yellow wall has a mirror on it, and in the mirror you can see your own face, which has performed, in the last thirty seconds, a remarkable journey — draining of color and then filling back up with the specific red of the Dragon Room door, bright and total and absolutely visible.
Dani makes a face.
You turn away from the mirror.
"You want me," you say, very carefully, "to pretend to be your girlfriend."
"Yes," he says.
"For twelve days."
"Yes."
"And you'll compensate me for my time."
A pause. "...yes."
"Min Yoongi," you say.
"I know," he says.
You think about the grant proposal open on your laptop. Fourth draft. The methodology section you have been revising since February, it's March. The number at the bottom of the budget page that you have been looking at for three weeks like watching a clock you cannot stop.
And then you think about the thing that he also said and now you can't ignore, he said your name.
Your name.
"Why," you say, "my name."
"It came out."
"Things don't just come out, Yoongi."
"This one did."
"My name specifically."
"...yes."
"You panicked and the name that came out of your mouth was mine."
Silence. Then: "Are you going to keep repeating it back to me."
"I'm going to keep repeating it back to you until I understand how this is the situation I'm in."
"You're not in a situation yet. I'm asking if you want to be in a situation."
"That," you say, "is the worst pitch I've ever heard and I once sat through a grant presentation where a man used the phrase youth sonic ecosystem fourteen times."
"Fourteen."
"I counted."
A pause. And then — quiet, and you almost miss it — the sound of him trying not to laugh. Just barely. The exhale of it.
Something in your chest does something you are not going to acknowledge.
"My parents arrive at four," he says, back to level. "They're here for two weeks. My mother has—" A pause. "She's very thorough."
"I know what your mother is."
"You've never met her."
"You've told me about her. She's thorough."
"She's very thorough."
"Yoongi." You lean against the wall outside the Dragon Room. Inside, Seojun has abandoned Für Elise and is playing something that contains what sounds like a battle sequence. You ignore this. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"Come to dinner. Tomorrow, I'll pick you up. Be—" Another pause, shorter. "Be her."
"Be her," you repeat. "Be the girlfriend."
"Yes."
"That you invented."
"Yes."
"Using my name."
"I've acknowledged that part."
"I want to make sure we're both clear on the full picture," you say, "which is that you have created a fictional relationship, cast me in it without my knowledge, and are now calling me after eight months to inform me that I have rehearsal tomorrow."
The silence this time is different. It has the quality of a man who knows he has no defensible position and has decided that honesty is the only remaining strategy. "...yes," he says. "That's the picture."
You look at the ceiling of the Maeum Arts Center. Yellow. Unreasonable. The very best color.
The grant proposal is open on your laptop. Fourth draft.
"What's in it for me," you say.
He does not hesitate.
Then he mentions the funding.
Not as a plea. Not as desperation. He says it the way he says most things — clean, no preamble, like he has thought about it already and arrived at a number and is now simply communicating the result. Three years. Full program. No strings beyond an annual summary that Dani could do in their sleep.
He knows about the budget.
Of course he knows — you have talked freely about grant committees and funding gaps and the specific indignity of begging institutions for money to do work that should have been funded already. He has been sending money to the center quietly for two years, through a foundation, no announcement, the kind of generosity that arrives without a name attached because the name was never the point.
He has offered more. Several times, through Dani. You have declined every time because you have your own pride and he lost the right to give you things directly when he stopped talking to you eight months ago.
But this is the thing about building something real — and the center is real, the kids are very real, Seojun's future as a person who can negotiate tempo is real, Jisoo's better practice room and better cello and the future already forming in her hands is real — you get very practical about what it takes to keep it standing. You think about the Wednesday group and the Dragon Room and the eight kids on the waitlist you have not been able to say yes to yet because the budget page says what it says. You stop being precious about it. You learn to look at an absurd situation and ask but does it help before you ask anything else.
Does it help.
Three years, no strings.
Yes. It helps.
"My price," you say, "is the spring showcase. You play one piece. On stage. With the kids. In front of everyone."
A pause. "Which kids."
"The Wednesday ensemble group."
Another pause. Longer.
You happen to know that he has heard the Wednesday ensemble group practice, because he comes on Wednesdays, because this is one of the facts you have continued to know despite the eight months, and the Wednesday ensemble group at their current stage of development sounds like — and you love them deeply, this is not in question — organized enthusiasm.
"How long is the piece," he says.
"Three minutes. Maybe three-fifteen if Seojun takes the repeat."
"He'll take the repeat."
"He always takes the repeat."
"I know," Yoongi says, and just for a second it doesn't sound like it's about the music.
You clear your throat. "Deal or no deal."
Silence.
"Deal," he says.
Just like that. No negotiation. Like he was going to say yes before you finished the sentence.
You have a thought about this that you immediately put in a box and close the lid on.
"Fine," you say. "What time."
"Seven. I'll pick you up"
"Okay."
A beat. He doesn't say anything about this. You appreciate that.
"Dress like—"
"I know how to dress, Yoongi."
"I didn't mean—"
"I'm aware of what you meant and I'm telling you I know how to dress myself."
"Okay."
"I don't show up anywhere looking unprofessional."
"I know you don't."
"I'm just making that clear."
"It's very clear," he says, and there is definitely, definitely something in his voice that you are not going to give any oxygen to whatsoever.
"Tomorrow," you say.
"Seven," he says.
You hang up.
You stand in the hallway for a moment.
From the Dragon Room: Seojun, who has worked his way through the battle sequence and arrived at what sounds like a victory theme.
From the courtyard: three of the older kids, who were supposed to be doing a chalk activity that has clearly escalated past its original mandate. Someone has drawn something enormous. It might be a whale.
From the front desk: nothing. No sound at all.
You turn around.
Dani is looking at you. They have the clipboard in front of them and they are very technically still doing their job, which you appreciate, because Dani is professional, but their eyes over the top of the clipboard are saying something extensive.
"Don't," you say.
Dani says nothing.
"The funding is—"
"Three years," Dani says. This is the first thing they have said. It comes out with the flatness of a person who has had a thought, filed it, and is now simply confirming the record.
"Full program. No strings."
"He called directly," Dani says.
"Yes."
"Your personal number."
"Dani."
"After eight months." They look down at the clipboard. Then back up. Something shifts in their expression — something very small, almost invisible, gone before you can name it. "Obviously," they say.
Not obviously this makes sense. Not obviously you should do it. Just: obviously. The Dani obviously, which contains an entire thesis that you have neither the time nor the emotional real estate to engage with right now.
"It's twelve days," you say. "It's practical."
"Absolutely," Dani says.
"Completely practical."
"Of course."
"You don't have to say it like that."
"I said of course."
"You said it like that."
Dani looks at you with the serenity of someone who has made peace with the universe and all its workings. "Should I book you a blowout for tomorrow or do you want to do that yourself."
You open your mouth.
You close it.
"...book it," you say.
Dani nods and picks up their pen.
From the Dragon Room, Seojun has looped back around and is playing Für Elise again, still fast, but this time there is something in it — a little more feeling, a little less racing. Like he has decided, on his own terms and in his own time, that maybe slow and fast aren't opposites. Maybe they're just different ways of meaning it.
You grab your jacket off the hook by the door.
Twelve days.
Fake girlfriend. Real funding. Min Yoongi, who called your personal number after eight months and said your name to his mother and apparently has been sitting on that fact like it's a completely normal thing to have done.
Fine, you think. This is going to be completely fine.
You are a person who built something real out of nothing. You can do twelve days.
Easy.
You step outside.
The kid in the courtyard has finished the whale. It is enormous. Someone has given it a name — you can see the letters from here, chalked in big wobbly print.
Gerald.
You look at Gerald for a moment.
Gerald looks back.
"Yeah, Me too," you tell him, and go to get your car.
He picks you up at six forty-five.
This is, you will reflect later, very Min Yoongi. Not six-thirty, which would be anxious. Not seven, which would be cutting it. Six forty-five — enough time, no excess of it, accounted for without being performed. He texts when he's outside. One message Here No punctuation because punctuation on a single word is, apparently, where he draws the line on formality.
You grab your bag and go downstairs.
He is leaning against the car when you come out, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at his phone with the focused patience of someone who is not actually reading anything on it. He looks up when the door opens.
He stops looking at his phone.
This is the thing — and you have had three and a half years to observe this and several months to try to stop noticing it — about Min Yoongi. His face does not do much. This is not coldness. You figured that out early, faster than most people do, because most people look at the still surface and assume the water is shallow, and you have always known that the still ones run deep. He is not a man who performs calm. He is calm, genuinely, the way a room is calm after someone has learned how to arrange it. Unhurried. Considered. The bluntness of him — the way he says the true thing without decorating it first, without building a runway — it is not cruelty. It is the opposite of cruelty. It is the respect of a person who thinks you can handle the truth and gives it to you whole.
You know this about him.
You know the face he makes when he's decided something. You know the particular quality of his silences — there are at least four different ones and they all mean different things. You know that when he goes very level and very still it is not because nothing is happening but because quite a lot is happening and he has made a decision about what to do with it.
You know all of this.
Which is why you see it — the thing that crosses his face when you walk out the door in the blue dress. It is fast. It is almost nothing.
Almost.
Your dress is blue.
This requires some context.
Your wardrobe is, generally, a reflection of your actual life — which is to say it is colorful in the way that happens when you work with paint and children and the occasional catastrophic craft supply situation, and practical in the way that happens when you have learned, through experience, that dry-clean only is a promise you cannot keep. You own cardigans in every weight. You own trousers with good pockets. You own an apron that has developed a permanent glitter situation that three years of laundering have failed to resolve, and you have made peace with this because the glitter is a feature, not a flaw, and also because Seojun put the first piece of it there during a project about stars and you are not emotionally capable of fully removing it.
You also own earrings. You would like the record to reflect that you own earrings. They are simply not always the conventional kind — you have a pair of tiny cellos that Dani gave you ironically and you wear unironically, a pair of small gold music notes that have become essentially structural, and a pair of strawberries that came from a market stall and bring you genuine joy every time.
The earrings you are wearing tonight are different.
Small. Simple. A pale blue stone that catches light without announcing itself. Yoongi gave them to you fourteen months ago, offhandedly, after a trip to somewhere — Japan, you think, or maybe Tokyo specifically — and said these reminded me of something without saying what, and you said thank you and put them in the small dish on your dresser and have not worn them until tonight.
You are wearing them tonight because they match the dress.
That is the only reason.
The dress itself you bought for a hospital gala your ex-boyfriend invited you to three years ago, wore twice since, and kept at the back of your closet for occasions that required you to look like someone who had not recently been in contact with tempera paint. It is, objectively, a good dress. The kind of blue that makes someone look at you and then look again.
It hits right.
You have done something with your hair — Dani's blowout, smooth and deliberate — and you look, from the outside, like the other version of yourself. The one that exists in grant meetings and funding presentations, the one that walks into a room and makes people understand immediately that the Maeum Center is not a passion project, it is a business, and it is her business, and she built it from nothing and she will build it further still.
You don't lead with this version of yourself. You don't need to, most days.
But you know how to be her.
Yoongi looks at you coming through the door in the blue dress and the simple earrings and his face does the thing that almost isn't a thing, and he does not say anything for a moment that is slightly too long to be neutral.
"Hi," you say.
He blinks. "Hi."
"You're staring."
"I'm not staring."
"You stopped breathing."
"I didn't—" He stops. "I was thinking."
"About."
"Nothing." He pushes off the car. "You look—" He stops again. Min Yoongi, who once wrote a lyric so precise it made a journalist cry in a press conference, who has spent his entire adult life finding the exact right word for the exact right feeling, is standing in front of you failing to complete a sentence. "You clean up well."
You stare at him.
"That came out—"
"You're going to want to try that again."
"You look nice," he says, quieter. The correction filed with his eyes somewhere near your collarbone, near the earrings, and then quickly away.
"Thank you," you say pleasantly.
He opens the car door. You get in. He closes it, walks around, gets in the driver's side, and starts the car with the composure of a man who did not just short-circuit in a public street over a blue dress.
You look out the window so he doesn't see you smile.
"The earrings," he says, after a moment, eyes on the road.
"What about them."
A pause. "Nothing."
You look at him.
His ears are pink.
Min Yoongi, whose bars could make a stadium go quiet, whose lyrics have been tattooed on strangers' ribcages and quoted in academic papers about the commodification of grief — his ears are pink because you are wearing earrings he gave you.
It is, genuinely, one of the most devastating things you have ever seen.
When you pull up to the restaurant. He glances at you. Something steadying in it, something that is both for you and, you think, for him. "Let's go do this, Doll." he says.
And there it is. Landing quiet and certain, like it has always been there, waiting.
You face forward.
You think: this is going to be a problem.
The private room is warm and small, and his family is already there, and the first thing you understand when you walk in is that Min Yoongi did not come from nowhere.
His father stands. Shorter than Yoongi, broader through the shoulders, the same eyes — the kind that take things in and file them without announcement. He smiles when he sees you and it rearranges his whole face, and you think: there it is. That's where Yoongi got the one he doesn't take out often.
"You must be—" his father starts.
"She is," Yoongi says.
His father looks at him. Yoongi looks back. You recognize this immediately — the language of two people who argue not because they disagree but because agreeing out loud has never been either of their first instinct. They are, from a distance of four feet, almost comically similar. The same set of the jaw. The same economy of expression. The same way of standing like they have already thought about this and reached a conclusion and are simply waiting for the room to catch up.
"I was going to let her introduce herself," his father says.
"She was about to."
"Before you interrupted."
"It wasn't an interruption, it was context."
"The context," his father says, turning to you with a patience clearly developed over three decades, "was her name."
You put your hand on Yoongi's arm. Lightly. He stops talking.
His father watches this. Something moves through his expression that you can't fully name yet.
"He's exactly like you," you tell him.
His father laughs — real and surprised — and Yoongi makes a sound beside you that is not quite objection but is in the neighborhood.
"I've been saying this," his father says, "since he was seven years old and told me I was explaining a recipe incorrectly."
"I was correct," Yoongi says.
"You were seven."
"The kimchi jjigae was underseasoned."
"He was right," his mother says, appearing from the other side of the table, and kisses Yoongi's cheek before he can arrange his face properly, and then turns to you with warm hands and a smile that is, you understand immediately, where Min Yoongi's face actually came from. Because his father gave him the eyes, the jaw, the bluntness, the way of standing. But the face itself — the structure of it, the particular arrangement that makes strangers stop and look — that came from her.
She is beautiful. Warm and deliberate and currently looking at you like she is very glad you exist.
"I've wanted to meet you," she says. "He doesn't tell us enough."
"I tell you—" Yoongi starts.
"Enough about the center," his mother says. "Not enough about you." She squeezes your hands and then, before you can respond: "Come sit by me."
It is not a question.
Yoongi's older brother Jihoon arrives fifteen minutes late carrying, by your count, a diaper bag, two coats, a tote bag whose contents remain unknown but are clearly substantial, what appears to be a portable sound machine, and a look of a man who has not slept more than four consecutive hours since approximately three months ago. His wife Eunji follows behind him carrying the baby, who is three months old and fully, aggressively awake, and who is also the only person in this family currently unburdened by anything.
"Sorry—" Jihoon starts.
"The baby," Yoongi's mother says, already standing, already making grabbing motions.
"Her name is Haerin—"
"Yes, yes. The baby."
The handoff happens. Haerin — round and duck-onesied and deeply skeptical of this restaurant — is transferred into her grandmother's arms and immediately closes her eyes.
Yoongi's mother looks vindicated in a way that transcends language.
"Don't," Yoongi says. "I'm not doing anything." "You're doing the face." "I don't have a face." "Eunji, tell him he has a face." "He has a face," Eunji says without looking up.
Jihoon grins at you. "Welcome. He talks about you constantly. It's the center this, the kids that, the director—"
"He calls her by her name," his father says, from behind his menu. Conversational. Like he is reporting something mildly interesting. "Not the director. Not my friend from the center." He turns a page. "Your name. Since the beginning."
The table is quiet for a moment.
Yoongi picks up his water glass and takes a sip looking like a man who has decided that this glass of water is the most important thing happening in this room right now.
You look at the menu.
The menu is also very interesting.
"The bulgogi looks good," you say.
"It does," Yoongi says.
Neither of you looks up.
The dinner is, against all expectation, the best time you have had in months.
This is the problem with Yoongi's family. You were prepared to like them adequately. You were not prepared for Jihoon's deadpan timing, for Eunji's quiet devastating accuracy, for his father's questions about the center that build on each other and reveal that he has actually been listening. You were not prepared for his mother to refill your glass before you notice it's low or to ask about the grant history with the genuine interest of someone who wants to understand rather than just be polite.
You tell them more than you mean to. The yellow walls. Seojun's sign. The Dragon Room. The way you built it grant by grant because banks are not in the business of funding things that should exist but don't yet.
"It sounds," Yoongi's father says, "like something that should have existed already."
"It should have," you say. "That's why I built it."
He looks at you.
Across the table, you feel Yoongi looking at you too.
You think about who he is on stage — the precision of it, the controlled devastation, every word placed to land exactly where he means it to land. You have heard that album. You know what he made and what it cost him. You know the lyrics that made journalists cry and critics write dissertations and strangers get them tattooed somewhere permanent.
And here he is, passing his father the side dishes first. Cutting Haerin's blanket back into place when it slips without being asked, without making it a gesture. Listening to his mother with the particular quality of someone who does not take for granted that she is still talking.
The same person.
Both of them, every time, the same person.
You find this so unreasonably moving that you have to look at your chopsticks for a moment.
"Isn't he handsome?" his mother says.
This arrives without warning, in the small pause after the table has been laughing about something Jihoon said. She is looking at Yoongi with the uncomplicated pride of a woman who made a beautiful thing and knows it. Then she looks at you.
"My boy," she says. "Isn't he the most handsome man."
Yoongi goes very still.
"Eomma—"
"I'm asking her a question."
"It's not a—"
"Yoongi-ya, I'm talking to your girlfriend."
You look at him. He is looking at the table with the composure of a man who has made a decision about where his eyes are going and is committed to it.
You look back at his mother.
"Yes," you say simply. "He really is."
His mother beams.
Yoongi says nothing. He picks up his chopsticks and takes a precise, deliberate bite of food and chews it with great attention, and you think: he is so good at pretending not to be affected by things.
You look back at your plate.
This is going to be a very long twelve days.
It is Jihoon who breaks the argument.
He is explaining, incorrectly, why a particular investment strategy is correct. His father is explaining, patiently, why it is not. Yoongi has entered on his father's side with the energy of someone who has been waiting for an opportunity to be right about something. All three of them are talking at the same time.
"You're all saying the same thing," Eunji says.
They stop.
"From different angles," she adds, rocking Haerin. "And arguing about the angles."
Silence.
Yoongi looks at Jihoon. Jihoon looks at their father. Their father looks at Yoongi.
"She's right," you say.
"She's always right," Eunji says, without vanity. Pure fact.
The table laughs. Full, warm, the kind that lingers. Haerin opens her eyes, decides this situation is acceptable, and closes them again. Yoongi's mother is laughing with her hand over her mouth. Jihoon is shaking his head. His father—
His father's laughter fades last.
In the quiet after, he looks across the table at his youngest son. Something in his face has shifted — the argument is completely gone from it. What is there instead is older. Quieter. The look of a man who is keeping careful count.
"I'm glad," he says. "To see you like this. Settled." A pause — something moves through it, brief and real. "Happy."
The room doesn't go quiet. Eunji adjusts Haerin's blanket. Jihoon refills water. His mother smiles at her plate.
But you feel it.
And you watch it move through Yoongi — fast, like weather crossing open ground. He looks at his father. Looks down. When he looks up again he is composed, level, the surface arranged exactly where he keeps it.
"Yeah," he says. Careful and quiet. "Me too."
You look at your hands.
The blue dress. The earrings from a trip to somewhere, Tokyo maybe, that you wore tonight because they matched.
Practical, you told Dani.
Twelve days, you told yourself.
You pick up your chopsticks.
You do not look at Yoongi.
Because you have your own unresolved feelings about the morning that neither of you has mentioned, about eight months of deliberate distance, about three and a half years of knowing someone and choosing proximity and then losing it. You have been very organized about all of this. You have filed it and managed it and told yourself it was handled.
And now you are sitting at a table with his family while his father looks at his son like he is counting good moments, and you are wearing the earrings, and he said doll in the car like it was always a word that belonged to the two of you—
You are realizing, with some clarity, that you have made a miscalculation.
Not about the funding. The funding is real and the center needs it and that part is fine.
The miscalculation is this: you told yourself twelve days of pretending.
You did not account for the possibility that you would not entirely be pretending.
Outside, his family disperses.
His mother hugs you again, longer. Jihoon shakes your hand with the grin of a man exercising significant restraint. Eunji says it was lovely and means every word. His father takes your hand in both of his, warm and unhurried.
"Come again," he says. "Don't let him think you have to be invited."
"She doesn't let me think anything," Yoongi says, beside you.
His father smiles. Pats your hand. Lets go.
You watch him walk to the car.
There it is again — something in the careful way he moves. The way he takes the step from curb to street with a steadiness that is just slightly more deliberate than it should need to be. You file it. You don't examine it yet.
Yoongi is quiet beside you.
The street is still. The restaurant hums warm behind you. Somewhere above, an open window is letting music out into the night air, slow and unhurried, drifting down without knowing where it's going.
"Let's take you home, Doll."
Quiet. No destination in it. Not a redirect. Not reassurance. Just the word, slipping out like it forgot to wait for permission. Like something true making its own way through.
You look straight ahead.
"Goodnight, Yoongi," you say.
He says nothing.
But you hear the exhale. Small. Almost nothing.
You walk to your front door.
You do not look back.
You are in significant trouble and you know it and you you sit in your living room for a moment in the quiet with your hands in your lap, and you think about twelve days, and the earrings, and his father's face at the end of the laughter.
You think: I should call Dani.
The text arrives at five fifty-three PM.
You are in the middle of closing the center — which is less a single task and more a sequence of small negotiations, because closing the Maeum Center requires confirming that all children have been collected by a responsible adult, that the Dragon Room piano lid is down, that no one has left a snack somewhere it will become a science experiment by Tomorrow, and that Seojun, specifically, has not hidden himself in the supply closet again in protest of going home, which he has done twice and will do again.
Your phone buzzes on the front desk.
Unknown number: Come to dinner. Yoongi will pick you up at six. This is your mother in law.
You stare at this for a moment.
Then you look at Dani.
Dani is reading it over your shoulder because Dani has no concept of privacy when they have deemed the information relevant, which is always.
"She got your number," Dani says.
"She got my number."
"From Yoongi."
"Presumably."
"Who is currently," Dani consults their phone, because Dani knows things, "in rehearsal for the Gwanghwamun concert."
"She called herself your mother in law"
You look at the text again.
Min Eunha: Yoongi will pick you up at seven.
Yoongi does not know he is picking you up at seven. Yoongi is, at this precise moment, somewhere in a practice facility running choreography for one of the largest concert events of the year, and his mother has drafted him as chauffeur without informing him, and this is so deeply, specifically funny that you have to press your lips together for a moment.
"Should I tell him?" you ask.
Dani considers. "She'll have already told him by now."
"You think?"
"She texted you at five fifty-three. She texted him at five fifty-two."
You think about this.
"She planned the whole evening," you say.
"She planned the whole visit," Dani says, with the tone of someone filing a thought they have held for several days. They pick up their clipboard. "Go get changed. You have paint on your neck."
You reach up. You do, in fact, have paint on your neck.
"It's a good color," you say.
"It's purple."
"It's a great color."
"Go," Dani says.
Yoongi texts at five forty.
Min Yoongi: I'm coming at six. My mother has opinions.
You: I know. She texted me at four fifty-three.
A pause.
Min Yoongi: She texted you before she told me.
You: Dani thinks five fifty-two.
A longer pause. You can feel, through the screen, the specific quality of Min Yoongi arriving at a conclusion about his mother that he has probably arrived at many times before.
Min Yoongi: I was in the middle of rehearsal.
You: I know.
Min Yoongi: She doesn't care.
You: I know.
Min Yoongi: Are you ready.
You look at yourself in the small mirror in your room. You have dealt with the paint. You are wearing a rust-colored top that is not the blue dress but is in the category of things that do not have craft supplies on them, and your hair is doing something acceptable, and you have put in the strawberry earrings because the blue ones feel like too much to explain to yourself two days in a row.
Ready, you type.
His response is immediate. Just: okay.
You know that okay. It is the okay of someone who is managing several things at once and has decided to manage them all quietly. It is the okay of someone who is feeling something about this situation — the rehearsal interruption, the mother's maneuvering, the fact that you are about to spend another evening with his family in a house that is his space and that he does not love sharing — and has filed all of it under fine because fine is more efficient than the alternative.
You know him.
This is, increasingly, the problem.
He pulls up at six fifty-eight.
Two minutes early. Of course.
He is still in his rehearsal clothes — black sweats, a worn jacket over them, his hair not the version from last night but the version that means he's been running through choreography and didn't have time to do anything about it after. He looks tired in the way of someone who is not going to say he's tired. He gets out of the car when he sees you and opens the passenger door, and you think — not for the first time — about the specific quality of his consideration. It is never performed. He does not hold the door because he is making a point about it. He holds it because it is the thing to do and so he does it, and that's the end of his thinking about it.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi." He looks at you. Something in his face adjusts — not the blue dress reaction, nothing that dramatic, but something. The strawberry earrings maybe. The fact that you showed up. He doesn't say any of this. "Ready?"
"I've been ready since four fifty-three," you say.
Something moves in his expression that is almost a smile. "She does this," he says. "Plans things and tells everyone at the same time and acts like the planning happened naturally."
"It's very effective."
"It's extremely irritating," he says, and gets in the car.
You get in. You look at him. "It worked though."
"Obviously it worked." He pulls into traffic. "It always works. That's what makes it irritating."
You think about his mother, warm and deliberate, refilling your glass before you noticed it was low. Planning from the first syllable.
"You love it," you say.
He doesn't answer.
Which is an answer.
He is quiet for most of the drive, which does not concern you the way it might concern someone who doesn't know him. His quiet is not absence. It is just — him, thinking, the interior running while the exterior idles. You have learned to sit in it. Most people can't. Most people feel the quiet and reach for something to fill it, and Yoongi registers this as noise, as effort, as someone requiring him to perform presence he is already giving. You don't reach. You just exist in the same space, and he drives, and the city moves past the windows.
After a while he says: "I'm sorry about this."
"You already apologized."
"I'm apologizing again."
"Yoongi—"
"It's my apartment," he says. "My parents are there. I know it's—" He stops. "I know it's a lot to ask."
You look at him. The line of his jaw. The way his hands sit on the wheel, unhurried, always unhurried, even when the interior is not.
His apartment. The one where everything has a place and the place is specific and the reason is usually music — stacked a particular way, a particular alignment, the kind of careful order that happens when someone's mind runs fast and they have learned that the outside world being organized is the only counterweight. You have been to his apartment. You know what the inside of it means.
And his parents are there.
"How's your dad doing?" you ask.
The question lands the way you meant it to — small, no weight added, just the question itself.
Yoongi is quiet for a moment.
"It's back, this time it is worse." he says.
You understand immediately what they contain: the cancer, the recurrence, the weight of why this visit matters more than the usual visit. He does not elaborate. He does not need to.
"I know, babe." you say.
Not I'm sorry. Not how bad. Just: okay. I have this information and I'm here and you don't have to carry it differently because I know.
He exhales.
"He wants to see—" He stops. Starts again. "He's been asking about my life. Whether I'm—" A pause. "You know."
"Settled," you say.
"Yeah."
You look out the window.
"Yoongi." You say it the way you've always said his name when you mean it directly. "I'm here. It's fine."
He doesn't say anything.
But something in his hands on the wheel goes slightly less tight.
"The aunt is also there," he says, after a moment. "My mother's sister."
"...okay."
"She asks questions."
"What kind of questions."
"The kind," he says, "that you should know are coming."
"How bad."
A pause.
"She asked Jihoon, at his wedding, in front of the officiant, whether he and Eunji had discussed having children specifically or were just hoping things worked out."
You stare at him.
"At the wedding," you say.
"During the ceremony."
"While it was happening."
"The officiant," Yoongi says, "recovered professionally. I'll give him that."
You look at the approaching apartment building. At the lights on in the windows.
"We should have made a story," you say. "A timeline. When we met, what we said—"
"We have a story," he says.
"We have the truth with some parts left out, which is different."
"The parts we left out are the parts that don't matter."
You think about the parts that don't matter. The morning. The eight months. The specific quality of his voice at 2:34 AM when he asked will you help me like it cost him something to say it.
"Right," you say.
He parks. He turns off the car. Neither of you moves for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he says again. Quietly. The third time now, which for Yoongi — who does not repeat himself without reason — means something.
"Stop apologizing," you say. "Let's go."
You get out of the car.
After a moment, he follows.
The apartment is warm with people in the way that his apartment probably hasn't been in a long time.
His mother has done something with the kitchen. This is the first thing you notice — not that she has rearranged it, but that she has worked within it, found where everything lives, and used it all. It smells extraordinary. His father is in the living room in the armchair that is almost certainly Yoongi's usual armchair, wearing the expression of a man who has found the most comfortable seat in the house through the reliable process of sitting in every seat until the right one revealed itself. Jihoon is on the couch with Haerin asleep on his chest, both of them out cold, father-daughter, breathing in the same rhythm.
Eunji, cross-legged on the floor with a cup of tea and her phone, looks up when you come in. She smiles at you with the warmth of someone who made a decision about you at dinner last night and is glad to confirm it.
And then, from the kitchen doorway, appears a woman who is clearly Yoongi's mother's sister, because she has the same bone structure and warm eyes and approximately none of the same restraint.
"There she is," she says, pointing at you.
"Auntie," Yoongi says.
"I'm just saying. There she is." She looks you up and down with the open appreciation of someone who does not believe in doing anything subtly. "Very pretty, Yoongi-ya. Good job."
"I didn't—" He stops. "That's not how—"
"Sit, sit." She waves you both toward the table, which has been set for the card game, chips divided into neat piles, a look about it that suggests this was organized by someone who wanted to win. "We've been waiting. Your mother said you were coming at seven."
"It's seven oh four," Yoongi says.
"Auntie has been here since five," his mother says from the kitchen, peacefully.
"I wanted a good seat."
The game is hwatu.
You have played it exactly once, in university, badly, and remember approximately nothing except that you lost everything and that the cards are beautiful — small, lacquered, thick as confidence.
Yoongi's father deals.
He does this with the ease of a man who has dealt these cards so many times that the shuffle is automatic, the distribution even, the whole thing done before the conversation around it has finished its first sentence. He sets the deck down. He looks at you across the table.
"You've played?" he asks.
"Once," you say. "I lost everything."
"Then you already know the important part." He picks up his hand. Studies it. Does not show any expression about what is in it, which tells you a great deal. "The rest is details."
Yoongi, beside you, leans slightly close. "Do you actually know how to play?"
"I know the basics," you say.
"The basics are not sufficient for this table."
"Watch me."
He looks at you.
You look back.
Something almost playful moves across his face — so fast you would miss it if you didn't know where to look — before he picks up his own cards.
The aunt starts forty-five seconds in.
"So," she says, arranging her hand with the focused attention of someone who is absolutely also managing a secondary conversation. "How long?"
"Three and a half years," you say, at the same moment Yoongi says, "About a year."
Silence.
Everyone at the table looks at you both.
Yoongi looks at you. You look at Yoongi.
"We met three and a half years ago," you say, smoothly. "We've been—" you glance at him—"together about a year."
"Together-together," the aunt clarifies, with a gesture that suggests she is specifying something specific.
"Yes," you say.
"Officially," Yoongi adds.
"What does officially mean," the aunt asks.
"It means," Yoongi's mother says, from her side of the table, "that they are together and you should play your cards."
The aunt plays her card. She does not look satisfied. She looks like someone who is going to return to this. "So before officially—"
"We were—" you start.
"Friends," Yoongi says.
"—close," you say, at the same time.
Another pause.
"Close friends," Yoongi says.
"Yes," you agree. "That."
Jihoon, who has woken up at some point during this exchange and is watching with Haerin still on his chest and the alert expression of a man witnessing something he will be thinking about for weeks, says nothing. He picks up his cards. He is smiling at them.
"What was the first thing you noticed about him?" the aunt asks. This is twenty minutes later, and you are, somehow, winning. You are not sure how this happened. You are beginning to have a theory.
"His music," you say, which is true. Which is so true that it barely needs to be said.
The aunt looks at Yoongi. "And you?"
Yoongi looks at his cards. Then at you. Then at his cards again. The tips of his ears, you notice, have gone a very specific color.
"The way she talks about her work," he says.
The table waits.
He doesn't add anything to this. He says it the way he says things that are true — without decoration, without the runway, just the thing itself set down plainly. The way she talks about her work. Delivered in a voice that has no performance in it.
You look at your cards.
Your cards are very interesting right now.
"Three years," his mother says, pleasantly, to you. Not looking up from her cards. "I call him every Sunday. Your mother calls on Sundays, you talk about your week—" she places a card, smooth and unbothered— "for three years, every Sunday, there was always something about the center. Something funny that happened. Something you said. Something you thought." She picks up her next card. "He never called you the director. Always your name. From the first week."
You look at Yoongi.
Yoongi is looking at his cards with the deep concentration of a man who has found them extremely interesting just now.
"He doesn't talk much," Jihoon offers helpfully. "So when he does—"
"We notice what he talks about," his father finishes, and takes a sip of his drink.
You think about eight months of silence. About Dani's extension and center-related correspondence and your name being said, apparently, every Sunday for three years to his mother on the phone while he said nothing to you directly.
You arrange your cards.
You are a little mad about this.
You are going to win all of his money.
"Are we playing?" Yoongi says, to his cards.
"We're playing," his father says, and deals the next round
Thirty minutes later, you are winning by a margin that has made Jihoon sit up straight.
You are winning because twenty minutes ago, while Yoongi was distracted, his father leaned over and showed you which cards to hold.
"But that's—" you started.
He raised one finger to his lips.
He looked back at you like a man who has never once lost sleep over this and does not intend to start.
You held the cards.
"She's cheating," Jihoon says, staring at your pile.
"I'm winning," you correct.
"Those are different things."
"Jihoon-ah," his father says, sorting his own hand, "sometimes the line is a matter of perspective."
"You taught her," Jihoon says, with the dawning horror of a son who has been the victim of this his entire life and is only now seeing it in a new light. He looks at his father. "You've been doing this to me for thirty years."
"You've been learning for thirty years," his father says. "There's a difference."
Yoongi is looking at his father with an expression you have never seen on him before — something open in it, the fondness so unguarded it almost doesn't look like him. And then he looks at you, and the fondness shifts somehow, gets complicated, gets warm in a different way, and he says:
"That's my girl."
Quietly. Not to anyone. Just out, into the air between you, the way something says itself when it has been waiting long enough that it stops asking permission.
Your chip pile suddenly requires your full attention.
Jihoon points across the table. "You're happy she's cheating with our father—"
"She's winning," Yoongi says.
"Same thing—"
"Jihoon," Eunji says, without looking up from Haerin, "you've lost four rounds."
"I've lost four rounds fairly—"
"Have you though," his father says.
The table erupts. His mother laughing, his aunt triumphant, Jihoon aggrieved in the way of a man processing a betrayal he did not see coming and is taking personally. Yoongi reaches over and takes a single chip from your pile and adds it to his own. You look at him. He looks back. On anyone else it would be a grin.
On him it is something small and private and entirely real.
You look back at your pile.
That's my girl.
He didn't even know he said it.
That's the problem.
That's the whole problem.
The evening winds down the way good evenings do — gradually, without anyone wanting to be the one to say it's time. The cards are put away. Tea is made. Haerin wakes up, decides the room is acceptable, goes back to sleep. The aunt has exhausted her question supply and is now telling a story about something that happened at a cousin's birthday that is long and elaborate and requires hand gestures.
At some point you end up on the couch beside Yoongi's father.
He is quieter at this hour. Still warm, but the energy of the card game has settled into something slower. He has a cup of tea in both hands. He is watching his family with the careful attention of a man who is not taking anything for granted.
"You're good for him," he says, without preamble.
You look at him.
"He's—" He pauses. Considers the words. "He carries things quietly. Always has. Since he was small. You'd never know from looking." He takes a slow sip of tea. "But he's lighter. When he talks about you." He says this not like an observation but like a fact he has held for a while and decided it was time to put down. "A father notices."
You don't know what to do with this.
You look across the room at Yoongi, who is listening to his aunt's birthday story with the expression of someone who has heard this story and all its iterations and has arrived at a relationship with it that transcends reaction.
He glances at you.
You look away.
You think about that's my girl, said to no one, just released into the air like a fact.
You think about a man who spends eight months not calling, who comes back with a practical arrangement and a funding offer, who holds a door and picks you up two minutes early and goes very still when his mother says something that catches him off guard.
You think: he is a performer. He knows how to make something feel real. The albums, the stage, the fifteen years of turning the inside of himself into something an audience could hold. He is very, very good at making things feel real.
That's why it feels real. Because he's good at it.
And then Yoongi laughs at something his aunt says — a real laugh, short and sudden and not performed, the one that escapes before he can do anything about it — and his father beside you makes a quiet sound of satisfaction, like a man hearing a song he wrote a long time ago and finding it still holds.
You tell yourself to stop it. You tell yourself twelve days. You tell yourself you are fine and this is manageable and you have handled harder things than Min Yoongi in a warm room being kind to his family.
You are not fine. This is not manageable. You have not handled harder things than this, actually, and you know it, and that is the most inconvenient true thing you have encountered all evening.
He drives you home at ten-thirty.
The city is quieter now. The car warm. You are both a little full and a little tired and sitting in the easy silence that has always been one of the things about the two of you — the way you can exist in the same space without it costing anything.
"Your father taught me to cheat," you say.
"I saw."
"He didn't tell me he was teaching me to cheat. He just showed me which cards."
"That's how he does it," Yoongi says. "He did it to me for fifteen years before I realized it was intentional."
You look at him. "When did you realize?"
"When I started doing it to Jihoon."
You laugh. He glances at you — quick, warm, gone.
"They likes you," he says, after a moment.
"I like them."
Yoongi nods. He doesn't say anything else about it. He doesn't say thank you for coming or I know this is strange or any of the several things that are true and available. He just drives, and you sit beside him, and the city moves past.
"The aunt is going to ask more questions," you say.
"Yes."
"We should figure out what we're saying."
"We're saying the truth," he says. "With some parts left out."
The truth. Right.
The truth is a complicated document at the moment — it has eight months in it, and a morning neither of you has named, and the way your heart did the involuntary thing the second his name appeared on your screen, and the earrings you told yourself you wore because they matched the dress.
The truth has edges.
You have been carefully not touching them for a long time and you are sitting in his car right now with all of them and your face, which has never once in your life done what you told it to, is almost certainly showing every single one.
You look back at him.
He is watching the road.
Good, you think. Keep watching the road.
"We gave different timelines."
"We recovered."
"We barely recovered."
"You're very quick," he says. Quiet. Almost nothing.
He is very still.
"I know you," you say, before you can decide not to.
He's still looking at the road.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
You reach your building. He pulls up. The engine runs.
Day Two ends the way the previous one did — with you in the passenger seat of Yoongi's car, the city quiet outside the windows, the particular easy silence that has always been one of the things about the two of you that you have tried very hard not to think of as a thing.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.
"Rehearsal runs until four," he says. "I'll come after."
"You don't have to come get me every—"
"I'll come after four," he says, in the tone that means this is not a discussion, which is distinct from rudeness — it is just Yoongi, who has decided something and communicated it and considers the matter addressed.
You have learned not to argue with that tone.
You have learned a lot of things about him that you are currently pretending you haven't.
"Fine," you say. "I'll be at the center until six anyway. Seojun has decided Für Elise needs a second verse and I have to talk him out of it before it becomes structural."
Something moves in Yoongi's expression. "He's not wrong that it's incomplete."
You stare at him.
"The ending is abrupt," he says.
"Do not tell him that."
"I'm just saying—"
"Min Yoongi, I am begging you, do not give that child musical ammunition—"
"He's nine and he has good instincts."
"He is nine and he will use this against me for months—"
Yoongi looks at you. The almost-smile again, the small private one, the one that lives just at the corner of his mouth and never quite commits. "I'll pick you up at five," he says. "Text me if it runs over."
You look at him for a moment.
This is the problem. Not the card game, not the aunt's questions, not that's my girl dropped into the warm air of his apartment like it belonged there. This. The specific, understated quality of his consideration — the way he shows up without announcing it, drives you home without making it a gesture, tells you text me if it runs over like it is the most ordinary thing, like of course he wants to know, like where else would he be.
He does not perform care.
He just — has it. Quietly. Permanently. Pointed at the people he has decided matter.
You think about nine days remaining.
You think: you are so good at this. Performer, fifteen years, a Grammy stage, a stadium that goes quiet when he wants it to. Of course it feels real. Of course he can make text me if it runs over land like something it isn't.
"Goodnight," you say.
"Goodnight."
You get out. You don't look back.
Upstairs, you take out the strawberry earrings and put them in their dish. The blue ones are still where you left them.
You have never been good at lying to yourself. This has always been the problem and the point of you — you feel things fully and you say them when they need to be said and you build things out of them when you can.
Twelve days of pretending.
It is day two.
You are already failing.
author's note 🎹
hi. hello. welcome to The Real Thing.
if you're new here — hi, I'm Ria, pull up a chair, we're going to have a very good time and also possibly cry a little, I make no promises about the ratio. This is a standalone fic. You do not need to have read anything else to be here. You have everything you need. Come as you are.
if you have read What Happens When You Fall — first of all, thank you, genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, for everything that story has meant. It's complete, it's sitting right there on my masterlist if you're new and curious, and yes, you might recognize a name or two in this story. You might notice something small that makes you go oh. That's intentional.
because here's the thing about The Real Thing — it stands on its own. It has its own people, its own mess, its own slow disaster of two people who know each other too well to be doing what they're doing. You don't need the map. You just need to show up.
which brings me to the bigger thing I want to tell you about.
The Real Thing is part of The B-Side Series.
Seven love stories. One universe. Seven members, seven readers, seven different ways of saying I choose this, even knowing what it costs. They're all connected — same city, same people moving through each other's lives, the same found family building itself one story at a time. Some connections are obvious. Some you'll only catch if you're reading everything. All of them are intentional.
WHWYF was the first. This is the second. There are five more after this, plus a finale, and I am not going to tell you anything else about that yet except that it's going to wreck you in the best way.
The B-Side Series is named for the songs that don't make the album. The real ones. The private ones. The ones that exist underneath the public versions of their lives.
This is Min Yoongi's.
I hope you love it.
— Ria 🖤
The Real Thing — Part One Part of The Truth and Lies Series Book 1
curious about a character or a story? want to know more before it drops? → ask me anything
want to know the second a new part goes up? → join the taglist — permanent or fic-specific | click here
You're best friends with Min Yoongi and somehow along the way he became a father figure to your daughter.
Yoongi never planned on being anyone’s appa.
He barely planned on being out of bed most days, if he’s honest.
You were his constant first—late-night calls, takeout on the floor, quiet companionship that didn’t ask too much from him when the world already did. He liked you because you didn’t need noise to fill space. You understood him in the pauses.
And then your life shifted.
Suddenly there was a tiny human in your arms, and everything about you sharpened—your priorities, your exhaustion, your love. Yoongi didn’t step back.
He just… adjusted.
At first, he stayed in the background.
He’d sit on the edge of the couch while you fed her, eyes flicking over like he wasn’t trying to stare. He’d bring groceries without asking, leave them on the counter like it wasn’t a big deal.
“You don’t have to keep doing that,” you told him once, watching him unpack formula like he’d done it a hundred times.
He shrugged. “I was already out.”
“You hate going out.”
“…I was already out,” he repeated.
You didn’t argue.
He got used to her faster than he expected.
Faster than you expected.
It started small.
Holding her while you showered.
Rocking her absentmindedly while scrolling on his phone, only to realize ten minutes later he’d been swaying the entire time.
Letting her grab onto his finger—tiny, impossibly strong grip—and just… staying there.
“She’s got you wrapped already,” you teased one night.
He scoffed. “She weighs like, what, three kilos?”
“Four now.”
“Still.”
But he didn’t pull his hand away.
Sleep became the biggest thing.
Not his—yours.
Yoongi noticed the way your eyes burned, the way you moved like you were running on fumes and instinct.
So one night, when she wouldn’t settle, he just… stood up.
“I got her,” he said.
You blinked at him. “Yoongi, you don’t—”
“I got her,” he repeated, already taking her from your arms with a surprising amount of confidence.
You hesitated. “She might cry.”
“She’s already crying.”
“…fair.”
He didn’t look at you again, just turned and paced slowly around your living room, her small body tucked against his chest.
And you—despite yourself—fell asleep on the couch.
You woke up to quiet.
That kind of quiet that feels suspicious.
For a split second, panic hit—until you sat up and saw them.
Yoongi, slouched back against the couch now, head tilted slightly, eyes closed.
Your daughter asleep on his chest.
One of his hands was resting protectively over her back, fingers splayed like he’d been making sure she stayed there even in his sleep.
Your chest tightened.
He didn’t even realize what he’d become.
It stopped being a question after that.
He had a key.
He showed up unannounced.
He knew where everything was—diapers, bottles, her favourite blanket.
“You reorganized,” you said one afternoon, watching him move through your kitchen like he lived there.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Made more sense this way.”
You stared at him for a second. “…you’re nesting.”
“I am not nesting.”
“You are absolutely nesting.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it.
She started recognizing him.
That was the turning point.
The way her face lit up when he walked in. The way she reached for him, little arms grabbing, tiny voice babbling excitedly.
Yoongi tried to play it cool.
Tried.
But you saw it—the way his shoulders softened every time. The way his voice dropped an octave when he spoke to her, quieter, gentler.
“Hey,” he’d murmur, taking her from you like it was second nature. “You good today?”
She’d just grin at him like he hung the moon.
The first time it happened, it wasn’t even a big moment.
No build-up. No warning.
Just a normal afternoon.
You were in the kitchen, Yoongi on the floor with her, letting her crawl all over him while he half-heartedly protested.
“You’re heavy,” he muttered as she climbed onto his stomach.
She laughed, patting at his face with clumsy hands.
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “You’re strong, I get it.”
You smiled to yourself, leaning against the counter, watching them.
And then—
“Appa.”
Everything stopped.
Yoongi froze.
Completely.
“…what?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your daughter just blinked at him, then smiled again, like she’d said the most natural thing in the world.
“Appa,” she repeated, clearer this time.
Your breath caught.
Yoongi didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
“She—” he started, voice cracking slightly. “She didn’t—did she just—”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “She did.”
He looked at you like you needed to confirm it was real.
Then back at her.
Then back at you.
“I didn’t teach her that,” he said quickly, almost defensive.
“I know you didn’t.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “That’s not—”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Because she reached for him again.
“Appa.”
That did it.
Something in his expression broke open—not messy, not overwhelming, just… quiet and deep and completely unguarded.
His hand came up slowly, almost unsure, brushing her hair back from her face.
“You can’t just say things like that,” he murmured to her, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.
She giggled.
Didn’t understand a word.
You stepped closer, kneeling beside them. “You okay?”
He let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in his chest for years.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
His eyes flicked to yours, something vulnerable sitting right there.
“That’s… a big word.”
“I know.”
“She shouldn’t—” he started, then stopped himself.
You tilted your head. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Call me that,” he said quietly. “I’m not—”
“You are,” you cut in gently.
He shook his head. “I’m not her—”
“I’m not saying you’re replacing anyone,” you said, just as soft. “But you’re here. You’ve been here.”
He looked down at her again, at the way she was clutching his shirt, completely content in his space.
“She chose that,” you added.
That hit.
You saw it land.
Because Yoongi had never been someone who believed he deserved things easily.
Least of all something like this.
“…appa,” she mumbled again, already distracted, tugging at his sleeve.
He huffed out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
Then, carefully—so carefully—it was almost like he was afraid of doing it wrong—
He adjusted her in his arms.
Held her a little closer.
“Yeah?” he murmured, voice low and steadying. “You calling me?”
She beamed.
And Yoongi—
Min Yoongi, who kept his world small and controlled and guarded—
summary: your heart sinks when you hear the Minks mention that the rest of the Strawhats and Law have finally arrived at Zou. you and him had parted with lingering feelings that had always been ignored, and after mourning him and assuming the worst, the thought of facing him now feels impossible. before you can stop yourself, you're fleeing into the jungle and climbing the nearest tree. but unfortunately, while you're busy climbing, you hear a familiar voice call from below.
pairing: Law x gen!Reader
word count: 3.3 k
tags & cw: hurt to comfort, mutual pining, soft Law, yearning Law, Dressrosa spoilers? Zou arc, first kiss.
notes: this might be my favourite fic so far, or at least the one i've enjoyed writing the most woouughhbbb. don't know if you guys enjoy slow, sensory and introspective writing, but i do hehe :> enjoy!
Masterlist ⊹ AO3
"…Care to tell me what you think you're doing?"
You barely manage to suppress a yelp as your grip almost slips and you cling harder to the tree's branch. For a moment you consider pretending you didn't hear him, thinking that maybe if you stay perfectly still, clinging to the branch like some creature of the forest, he'll assume you're just part of the scenery and leave.
Law is standing at the base of the tree; arms crossed, looking up at you beneath his hat; and you can tell from his expression that he's noticed the way you're very clearly stuck.
"I– I can explain…"
"I'm listening."
Of all the possible circumstances in which you could have run into him again, it had to be this one. Stuck in a tree, wearing the beautiful robe a Mink had gifted you just today —now regrettably dirty— your hands scraped and your pride literally hanging by a thread. This is not how you wanted to face him, and you wish the earth would just open up and swallow you whole.
You turn your face away, hoping he won't see how much you are actually regretting this.
"I got lost," you lie.
"…And that's why you climbed a tree," he says slowly.
"Yes."
His eyes narrow and he gives you a look, there's no way you actually think he's buying that. Law looks you up and down, "Dressed like that."
You squeeze your eyes shut, "…Yes."
The way your dirty robe must be looking right now wouldn't be exactly dignifying. You risk a glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying to read his expression, but stop when you feel the fabric slide against your legs the moment you twist. You gasp and kick your legs in a useless attempt to stop it from sliding any further, failing to reach the branch with them and only managing to curl up instead.
"I swear," you warn him as your face starts to heat up, "if you're looking where you're not supposed to, I'll kill you."
"You needn't worry, the angle is not exactly in my favor."
Well, that's a relief, you think. At least this can't get any worse than it already— wait, "In your favor??" you protest out loud.
You see the corner of his mouth twist into a shameless smirk beneath his hat; the bastard is enjoying this far more than he should. But his teasing quickly vanishes when your sudden movement nearly makes you lose your grip, his hand quickly lifting by reflex as his blue dome surrounds you and his Room covers the area.
"Oh no— don't you dare!"
"You're gonna fall."
"Then I'll fall, I don't care!"
"Well I do."
"Wh—" Since when did he care so much? You shake it before it gets to your senses, "No! You can't get any closer!"
"And why's that?"
"Just don't! I can't face you right now!"
Because only weeks ago, you thought you might never see him again.
Back in the Sunny, the sudden gunshots that had echoed through the transponder snail, followed by Luffy screaming Law's name, made all the blood drain from your body. Your mind had raced with the terrible fate that might have befallen Law, and your body burned with an overwhelming urge to abandon everything right then and there, turn the ship around and run straight into Doflamingo's claws, if that's what it took.
But you knew that wasn't clever and would only get you killed, leaving the rest of your crew in danger, so you followed your captain's orders and sailed for Zou instead. And your heart tore at that.
Your mind kept spiraling around the same question: Would it have been better if you had simply been honest about your feelings, being able to share even a single moment with him before he was taken from you, however brief… Or never been anything at all, only to realize too late how deeply you cared, knowing you would never get the chance to say it?
It'd only been a few weeks and your heart was still struggling to catch up with reality; with how close he had come to dying and the uncertainty of whether you'd be able to see him again. Or if he had already gone somewhere far beyond your reach.
Only to suddenly see him standing there, as if nothing had happened.
"Please," you mutter to yourself, unable to stop the tear that rolls down your cheek, "not right now."
But your grip finally gives, and it hurts when the bark scrapes your hand.
Law ignores your petition and, before you can fully realize what's happening, he's already holding you mid-air. Your bodies blink out of space and re appear on the top of a higher branch.
His arms close around you far more tightly than necessary as he steadies you both. He feels your body warm against his, your breathing uneven, your hands clutching at his shirt with tremor… It's hard for him to believe that he can finally feel you like this. You're well, far from danger, breathing and alive.
"You fool," he mutters under his breath, holding you even tightly as he inevitably hides his face in the crook of your neck. How dare you risk your life like that after he'd lost all hope of seeing you again?
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and he leans back a little to take a look at you, but you evade him and turn your face inward, pressing it in the space between his shoulder and his chest. It hasn't even been five seconds when he feels a faint damp where your face is hidden. His brow furrows… Are you crying?
He doesn't get it, you had been so adamant about keeping him away and you now seem determined to not let go of him at all.
"Put me down" your words don't match your actions, and that leaves him disconcerted.
"…Alright."
He loosens his hold and sets you back on your feet atop the branch. You retreat almost immediately until you feel your back press against the trunk, your face turned away from him.
Law remains where he is, the hand with which he held you still half-lifted, watching how you're intentionally refusing to even look at him. Did he do something..? What happened?
Before Dressrosa, if he'd been in a similar situation, he would have simply left to give you the distance you needed, and probably try again later. He would have done so before he found himself in a situation where he had to accept the harsh reality of never being able to see you again.
A lot has happened… He's thought about so many things, and the mere thought of leaving you like this now settles heavy in his chest. He can't do it anymore.
He had spent weeks trying to convince himself that distance was easier, that those small pauses in the brief conversations he shared with you— when you looked up at him mid-conversation and forgot what you were saying when your eyes met his; when you accidentally crashed into each other in the hallway but neither of you walked away; when you lingered at the doorway when leaving, trying to find an excuse to stay a while longer… Whatever that was, it would be better left alone.
He couldn't afford any distractions, he needed to keep himself focused and collected if he wanted his plans to unfold the way they should. Besides, the farther you were away from him, the safer you'd be.
—
The last rays of sunlight disappear and the night breeze shakes the leaves above as it welcomes the moonlight. Although it has gotten darker, he still can see the faint tremor in your hands even from where he stands. You look like you could break at any moment.
Taking courage, he steps closer. He knows you must be watching from the corner of your eye as he approaches you, yet you remain exactly as you are. Law only stops when he's barely a step away, and is surprised that even then you still refuse to look at him. Doing his best not to annoy you any further, he crouches down, resting his head against his folded arms as he simply watches. His eyes move to your face and he sees the faint shine of the tears you're trying very poorly to hide. Your eyes… Have they always been this beautiful? Your eyelashes cling and sparkle when another tear clouds your eye, and it reminds him of dew falling on a petal.
The white robe you're wearing moves softly with the wind and forms gentle waves. The fabric, thin and light, gathers at your waist and falls in elegant layers along your frame. It's something he has never seen you wear before. And… It suits you. The robe is adorned with delicate thread patterns of different botanical species that flow along the edges of the cloth. Clearly something not meant to be worn when climbing trees, and he can't help but smile at the thought. What were you thinking?
Still, he's glad you're wearing it, no matter how dirty and stained it's become. Somehow that suits you even better, and he wonders if you're aware of how beautiful you look.
A twinkle beside your neck draws his attention, and Law notices a carefully made piece that hangs from your ear and swings gently with the breeze. A thin cord from which feathers have been tied alongside something carved and smooth— bone, most likely. He wishes he knew the story behind how you got your ear perforated; the image of a Mink insisting on helping you, telling you how well it would suit you before you have any chance to protest comes easy to his mind, and he wishes he could have been there to see it.
He watches how it brushes lightly against the curve of your neck each time the wind moves. And without meaning to, he pictures how you'd look if you wore one of his; one of the small golden rings he wears on his own ears.
The image appears so suddenly and with such clarity it makes him stop. What exactly is he thinking? You are standing here with tears still clinging to your lashes, refusing to even look at him, and his mind is choosing this moment to adorn you with his jewelry.
Your breathing is still uneven from everything that has just happened, making your lips tremble when a shaky breath leaves them, slightly parted, and he's captivated by the way your lower lip softens with the exhale and then presses the upper one when you swallow.
He'd never paid so much attention to your mouth before; there's something disarmingly soft about them that draws his attention no matter how much he tells himself to stop, and he finds himself helplessly wondering how they might feel against his fingers. If they'd be warm, if they'd be as soft as they look against his own—
No. Idiot. He cuts the thought before it can fully form, lowering his gaze in sudden fear of being caught. His chest sinks with a mix of guilt and embarrassment for daydreaming about you when you're standing right in front of him. He can't help it, he's missed you, and is now slowly realizing how inevitably close that feeling has come to desire.
You both knew there had always been something between you. Though it had been too awkward and quiet, it had also been simultaneously loud and obvious to everyone around you, even for you. But still, whenever your crewmates brought it up, the two of you continued to deny it, thinking it was inconvenient enough and not worth your time nor heartbreak. This alliance was going to end soon anyway.
But now that he's able to see things from a different perspective, he finds himself at a loss for what to do; this feeling is no longer a passing curiosity he can simply ignore or deny. Now that you're right in front of him, he has no idea how he's supposed to approach you in that way without losing you again.
Your fingers twitch, it's getting colder, and Law notices the injury in your hand. Ah, the branch must have scrapped your skin during your fall earlier, and you probably haven't even looked at it.
Slowly, he rises from his crouch and steps closer, still unsure whether getting closer could only make things worse, but he's willing to take the risk. Once he's reached you, he slowly reaches for your hand and gently holds it in his.
He was right. His thumb brushes along the reddened skin of your palm, assessing the scratches that he's glad to see aren't deep and nothing more than irritation. Still, it bothers him. And before he can quite stop himself, his fingers close around your hand, until he's carefully squeezing it, bringing it closer to his face as he lowers his head. He fights the irrational urge to suddenly hold you, and instead is only able to press your knuckles against his forehead while he stays still, like you're the most precious thing he's ever held... like it's something he had almost lost the chance to ever hold.
That's enough to make your tears stop and pull your attention back to him, taken aback by the sudden gesture that looks almost like a reverence.
Judging by the tears you've shed, the injury in your hands is hardly the worst thing he's caused tonight. And Law begins to understand what's been shaking you this entire time— why you've been trying so hard to avoid him, why you happened to be ‘lost', and he fears you had simply been trying to get as far away from him as you could.
How long have you believed he was dead? How many times had that thought crossed your mind and made you feel? The alliance ending painfully sooner, and those gunshots being the last thing anyone ever heard of him. Even though you were never anything to each other (or at least not out-loud), the thought of you carrying that grief… of you believing he had died when things had been left unsaid, things he had never allowed himself to name; it all made him feel like a complete idiot.
Had you imagined it? His broken and lifeless body laying somewhere where it could not be retrieved? Had it been fair of him to steal glances at you when he thought you weren't looking, to hold your gaze a second too long until heat rose to your cheeks and you asked, half flustered, if he needed something. Only for him to look away and leave you standing there with the answer he always avoided.
His fingers tighten around your hand because he knew, he knew none of this came out of nowhere. He'd been playing the role of a fool, then walked into his death and left you with nothing but silence.
"…I'm sorry."
Of all the things you thought Law might say tonight, an apology had never crossed your mind, and even less one as genuine and vulnerable as he had just let it out.
You feel your chest tighten as tears begin to fill your eyes even more than before, making an effort to swallow the stir that's forming in your stomach before it comes undone against your will.
"Don't… say it like that," your voice trembles.
Law remains for a moment as he is, your hand still resting against his forehead. Not exactly sure what to do, he slowly lifts his head to take a proper look at you. Your knuckles slide from his brow and brush along the bridge of his nose, until they come to rest against the side of his face. His mouth curves into a sad smile when he meets your eyes, glad you're finally not avoiding him anymore. For a second it almost looks like he might lean further into your hand and press a devoted kiss to it, but he halts before it fully happens and keeps your hand pressed tightly against his lips instead. The way he's looking at you right now is enough to steal the air from your lungs.
You had seen Law irritated, distant, quietly amused and cold most of the time. But this… this softness feels almost unreal in him. The sharpness that usually rests in his face has been replaced by something deeply gentle.
"You don't want me to apologize?" he asks in the most vulnerable tone, coming muffled against your hand.
"That's not what I—" his thumb brushes lightly over your fingers, and the quiet devotion with which he keeps holding you there makes it difficult to breathe.
Your eyes are completely captivated by his, and the silence between you suddenly feels dense, briefly broken by a strong breeze that makes the leaves sway and fall around you.
Law lowers your hand with a reluctant slowness before letting it go, only so that he can step closer instead and settle his hands on your face. His palms cradle your cheeks, his thumbs rest just beneath your eyes, gently brushing the traces where your tears still linger, and the way he looks at you then is so unbearably tender that it makes something inside your chest swirl in heat.
Then, very slowly, he leans closer, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he closes his eyes, still holding you with bewitching devotion.
Your breath catches and your heart stumbles into a nervous rhythm. You can feel the faint brush of his breath against your lips and the steadiness with which he remains there, holding you in this moment of intimacy that you never imagined he'd be so able to express; your entire body melting beneath each tender gesture he makes.
"Law? I—" your lungs struggle to keep you steady, "I'm… not used to this."
He leans back a small distance, his hands remaining exactly where they are, and you can see the moonlight glow on his eyes when he opens them.
"And you think I am?"
You can see the intensity behind that look when he says it, feeling the space between you grow even closer than before, and when you catch his eyes drift to your lips, you feel your heart beat even faster and all strength leave your system. You try to draw in more air, making your lips part slightly without meaning to.
Law notices, and his eyes seem to ask for permission when he lifts them to meet yours.
Your eyes get heavy when he leans in again, his warm breath drawing closer and brushing your lips, until you finally feel the gentle press of them against yours. It feels even better than what he's imagined. They are smoother and softer than what he expected, and give in easily beneath his own as he presses further.
When you slightly part, he feels the slight tremor of your breath against his mouth; his chest tightens when he realizes that you are just as nervous as he is. You are here, you are real.
His thumbs move against your skin before he presses his lips on yours once more, his hands tightening as he deepens the kiss and your thoughts scatter completely. Your hands slip into his hair, loosening his hat and making it fall and land at the bottom of the tree with a quiet thud that Law doesn't seem to mind.
When your fingers grab his hair, you feel the last fragile restraint finally snap inside him; his arms slip around you in a sudden, undeniable need to keep you close, bringing you closer against his chest until there is no space left between your bodies at all.
He's wanted you for so long he wonders why he ever spent so much time holding back, unsure what to do with the overwhelming sensation that is now stripping him of all logical thought now that he finally has you in his arms.
As impossible as it would be to hold back the breeze that shakes the leaves, or ask the stars to abandon this night, he's now absolutely certain it'd be impossible to ever let you go.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: idol Min Yoongi x choreo female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Idol!au, situationship, angst, smut, coworkers (pretend to be shocked pls), love triangle
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end, until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hi! New fic, yup. Warnings to be included within each chapter. Verrryy excited with this one esp cause it’s been cooking for a while. I think it’s gonna be angsty, and sexy, and yummy. Written for @glossdebut for winning a little contest I ran last year.
Preview // .01 // .02
INTRO UNDER THE CUT
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
They noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that.
So you do.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine shyt. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous.
They’ve tried dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s...
