✮ ︎Ali ✮

‧₊˚🕸05-liner ‧₊˚🕸 ⚠︎MDNI ⚠︎ -ˏˋFluent in English + Swedish ˊˎ ✮ taking requests ✮ More info below ⇘ ⇙

[wh0r3r4ngh43]

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⇢ ˗ˏˋ Hiii! Welcome to my (very fucking new) blog ^^

Imma be so fr rn, I’ve been an avid tumblr user for years but I have a shitton to learn when it comes to running a fanfic/writing page. So please, be patient with me ˃ᴗ˂

As if right now, I’m pretty low on ideas so feel free to send any requests on the button that’s in my bio <3

Rules (so far, I’ll be adding more later):

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈

1. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! ➜ I’ll probably be writing a lot of smut, and I’d be deathly uncomfortable if a minor interacted with any of those posts…or just my posts in general. I’ll most likely check profiles for the age in your bio! Minor=Blocked.

2. I’m going to be mainly focusing on SEVENTEEN (occasionally BTS). Though, if you have a request on a member from another group, I’d be happy to try and write something about them.

3. As far as smut goes—I’m perfectly happy to write content that revolves around BDSM/Kinks etc. Though, please note that I will most likely not do anything that’s very extreme and I’ll NOT be writing things such as: Petplay, Age-play, anything involving animals (such as hybrid stuff n etc), piss/shit/vomit kinks, anything to do with gore & ACTUAL rape (CNC kink can be fine unless it’s too extreme), and uhhhh…that’s all I can remember right now but I’ll be adding more later!

4. When sending a request pls make sure to specify the genre that you wish for me to write it in (for example: smut, angst, fluff, etc etc), so that I know more specifically what you want me too write ^^. Please also specify the reader’s gender n etc. As for smut, do specify things such as petnames and things such as the specific kinks or sexual acts that you want me to include. I wanna try my best to make it as good as possible for you, so I’d really appreciate a few details so that I don’t end up writing something that you don’t enjoy <3

5. This is safe place for people of any race, gender, sexuality etc. NO discrimination or hate toward groups of people (unless it’s towards racist bigots and such lmao) will be tolerated! No extremist beliefs such as religion and right-winged politics pls! Just be nice n chill here.

6. Please note: I’m a person who has AuDHD (both Autism and ADHD). I’m struggling to finish my last year of school (12th year) without failing + dealing with bad mental health. So, just pls be patient :) It might take me awhile to post or complete some requests, but I promise that I’m trying my best. Mwah ᥫ᭡.

I think that’s all as of right now, but I’ll be updating this <3

✰ ✰ ✰ About me ✰ ✰ ✰

𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈⭒♬ ﾟ. 𝄞𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈

[glossdebut]

bts at the chris brown / usher concert bro like………….

yeah it’s indefensible

[inthelow]

── STUPID SONG | min yoongi.

pairing: songwriter fem! reader x idol! min yoongi

summary: As a songwriter you’ve always trusted your words more than your feelings. Unfortunately, falling for Min Yoongi makes both impossible to ignore. Wanting someone so much that you’re lost for words was slowly driving you mad. And somewhere between studio sessions, late-night conversations, and one too many stupid songs that sound suspiciously alike, you begin to wonder if love is supposed to feel this wonderfully unbearable.

genre: (fluff). co-worker—friends-to-lovers. romantic comedy. idol au. idiots in love.

warning! ── none. yoongi might be the most patient and perfect man ever. reader a bit anxious and an over-thinker. bit of jealousy and hurt. cringe scenes of me pretending to know how’s the process of writing songs/music.

author’s note: i love this one so much i hope you do too. it’s so cute and i try to describe the feeling of falling in love so fast it makes you feel insane the best i could. hope i made justice to the song. i really hope u like this one<3

word count: +14k words

──── pretty sad for a girl so in love (series)

It was so frustrating how nothing felt exactly wrong and yet everything had somehow started feeling a little off.

You had spent the last couple of weeks waiting for something to happen, although you couldn’t have said what that something was supposed to be. Nothing in your life had changed enough to justify the feeling. Work was still work, your deadlines were still piling up in the same irritating way they always did, your friends were still dragging you out to places you didn’t particularly want to go, and you were still sleeping at whatever hour people who worked in music apparently decided sleep was optional. There was no crisis, no heartbreak, no sudden realization that you had chosen the wrong career and needed to disappear to a cabin somewhere in Vermont. If anything, everything was going suspiciously well. Which, somehow, was making it worse.

You sat on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom of someone’s apartment in Brooklyn, one knee pulled against your chest while the bathroom fan struggled uselessly against the smoke filling the room. Someone had opened the tiny window above the bathtub, but it hadn’t made much of a difference. Three of your friends were crowded around the sink, passing a blunt between them and arguing about whether a guy they had met downstairs was actually attractive or just tall. You had been listening for the last ten minutes, occasionally laughing when you were supposed to, but your attention had drifted somewhere else a while ago.

“You’re not even listening,” Maya said, pointing at you with the blunt.

“I am.”

“What did I just say?”

You looked at her for a second, then glanced at the others as if one of them might have been paying enough attention to rescue you.

“Something about his eyes?”

“See?” Maya said, looking unbearably pleased with herself. “She’s gone.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for three weeks. You’re not even sharing one with us.”

“Well maybe I’ve been tired for three weeks.” You repeated her words like that explained something.

That earned you a round of laughter, all your friends too high to think it was a great joke, although you only smiled before looking down at your phone again. You had been checking it more than usual lately, though you had yet to figure out why. There was always something waiting for you anyway. A producer sending a revision at two in the morning, a manager asking about a session, someone needing lyrics cleaned up before a demo was sent off, or one of the artists you worked with deciding that a song they had collectively abandoned six weeks ago was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

Your own work had become particularly strange lately. You were still writing, obviously, but everything seemed to take longer. You would sit in front of a notebook and know exactly what you wanted a song to feel like without being able to find the right words for it, then spend an hour changing one line and another hour convincing yourself the original had been better. It wasn’t writer’s block. It wasn’t even frustration with the work itself. You simply felt distracted in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you needed a break, maybe you needed to sleep. Or maybe you just needed to stop saying yes every time somebody asked you to go out.. God, you were getting old.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced at the screen and saw Yoongi’s name.

For a moment, nothing about it felt unusual. You had been working together for a few months now, long enough that late-night messages from him weren’t particularly surprising. His new project was still mostly floating around in pieces, half-written ideas and unfinished melodies that existed in voice notes, scattered documents and whatever you happened to remember after a session. He was still working with his group, too, which meant your schedules were constantly shifting, so your work together tended to happen whenever you could find a few hours that belonged to neither of you.

The message contained a file and nothing else. You stared at it.

You: are you at the studio?

His reply came quickly.

Yoongi: Yeah

You: why

Yoongi: Couldn’t sleep

You smiled faintly, mostly because it was such a typical answer from him.

You: you have a session in the morning

Yoongi: I know

You: a group session

Yoongi: I know

You: so go to sleep

There was a longer pause this time.

Yoongi: got an idea.

You looked at the file he’d sent again, then at the time in the corner of your screen. It was nearly two in the morning.

You: for what? a personal or group project?

Yoongi: I don’t know yet

You could practically hear his voice in the vague little word.

You should have told him to send it tomorrow. You probably should have told him to stop working and go home, because whatever inspiration had decided to show up at two in the morning could survive until breakfast when you were in your paid schedule and sober enough to know what you were thinking about... Instead, you found yourself opening the message again without actually playing the song.

“Who you talking to?” Maya asked.

“Yoongi.”

She hummed. “Your Yoongi?”

You looked up. “He’s not my Yoongi.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“You literally said ‘your Yoongi.’”

“Because you work with him.”

“Right.”

Maya raised an eyebrow at your defensiveness but wisely decided not to continue.

Your phone buzzed again.

Yoongi: Are you busy tonight?

You glanced around the bathroom, at the smoke, the cramped space, the people talking over each other, and then at the unopened song sitting on your screen… Busy? Not really busy now were you?

A minute later, you were typing before you could think too much about it.

You: i’ll come by.

His response was almost immediate.

Yoongi: okay

Yoongi: I’ll wait for you

That was it. No questions, no surprise, no attempt to talk you out of it and tell you how you should be out on a Friday night instead of working like him…

You slipped your phone into your pocket and stood, brushing imaginary lint from your jeans. “I’m leaving.”

Maya stared at you. “To where?”

“The studio.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, already reaching for the bathroom door. “I’m bored.”

That was true, at least.

It was easier to believe you were leaving because you were bored than to admit that, lately, there was something strangely comforting about the idea of being around Yoongi. Not exciting, not romantic, not anything you could put a name to yet. It was just comforting. You had started noticing that you felt more settled after your sessions, even when you hadn’t actually accomplished much, you had started looking forward to working with him in a way that felt slightly embarrassing considering you spent most of your life complaining about having to work.

Yoongi just gave you a sense of comfort about your work and understood how important was music for you. Working with him had become a pleasure.

Outside the bathroom, the party was louder than you’d remembered. Music shook the walls, someone was laughing loudly in the kitchen, and two people you didn’t recognize were making out against the hallway wall as if they had paid rent there. You found your coat among the pile near the door, waved goodbye to your friends, ignored several attempts to convince you to stay, and stepped outside into the cold Brooklyn night.

The air felt good against your face. You stood on the sidewalk for a moment, pulling your coat tighter around yourself while the noise of the apartment disappeared behind the door. New York was still awake, as usual. Cars passed at the end of the street, a cab slowed near the curb, and somewhere a siren echoed between the buildings before fading into the distance.

You checked your phone again. Nothing from Yoongi. You shoved your hands into your pockets and started walking toward the studio, telling yourself that you were only going because you had nothing better to do.

By the time you got to the studio, the city had gone quiet, the streets were still full of people but the noise had softened into something distant and almost comforting. You let yourself in with the code Yoongi had given you a few weeks ago after the company gave him a studio there. You shrugged off your coat as you walked down the familiar hallway. You had been there enough times now that you didn’t really think about it anymore. The studio had stopped feeling like a place you were visiting for work and started feeling like somewhere you could show up without needing a reason, which was probably why you hadn’t thought twice about coming over at two in the morning.

There was light coming from underneath the studio door. You knocked twice before pushing it open.

Yoongi was sitting on the couch with his laptop balanced on one knee, headphones hanging around his neck and a half-empty cup of coffee sitting on the table beside him. He looked up when you walked in, and for a second his expression was almost surprised, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to come despite having told you to. Then his mouth curved into a small smile.

“You actually came.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t tell you to.”

“You sent me a song at two in the morning.”

“I sent you a song.”

“At two in the morning.”

Yoongi nodded thoughtfully, as if you had made an excellent point. “Right, because that’s so different.”

You laughed as you dropped your bag beside the couch. “That’s practically begging.”

“It isn’t!.”

He shifted to make room for you, and you sat down beside him, close enough that you could see the project open on his laptop. There were several tracks stacked across the screen, most of them labeled with names that were barely distinguishable from one another, along with a handful of notes he’d apparently written for himself and then forgotten to make comprehensible for other people.

“So,” you said, leaning forward to look at the screen, “what exactly was so important that you couldn’t sleep?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Great.”

“I said I had an idea.”

“You sent me a twelve-second clip.”

“It’s a good twelve seconds.”

You looked at him and he looked back at you, completely serious.

You laughed again, and he finally smiled properly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tried to hide it by looking back at the laptop. You had noticed his smile before, obviously, but you still found it slightly strange how different he looked when he actually let himself grin. Yoongi had a naturally quiet expression, one that could make him seem more intimidating than he really was if you didn’t know him, but when he laughed properly, that entire impression disappeared. His gummy smile made him look almost boyish, and you had already seen it enough times to know that he smiled a lot more than people probably assumed he did.

You had learned that about him over the last few months.

When you’d first started working together, you’d assumed he was going to be difficult to get to know. Not because he’d been unfriendly, but because he seemed like the sort of person who could spend an entire afternoon sitting in silence and genuinely enjoy himself. You had prepared yourself for short answers, long stretches of awkwardness, and having to carry every conversation yourself.

Instead, once he’d gotten comfortable with you, you’d discovered that he talked. A lot.

Yoongi made stupid jokes when sessions got too serious, complained dramatically whenever someone suggested changing a part of a song he liked, sent you random voice notes that had absolutely nothing to do with whatever you were working on, and had somehow developed a habit of asking your opinion on things that had nothing to do with music. He was still quieter around people he didn’t know well, but with you, he seemed to have no problem filling the silence.

You liked that. And you liked working with him, too.

It had actually been one of the first things he’d told you when he’d mentioned wanting to keep working together beyond the album he was currently finishing with his group. A few months earlier, after one of your sessions had run much longer than expected, he’d casually mentioned that he had a lot of unfinished ideas and that, if he eventually put together another solo project— or even if he just wanted to keep making music without necessarily knowing what it would become— he wanted you involved.

“You have a good work ethic,” he’d told you at the time, like it was the simplest explanation in the world. “I like working with people who actually want to finish things.”

You’d laughed because you’d never considered yourself particularly disciplined, but you’d understood what he meant. You were stubborn about your work. If you started something, you wanted to see where it went, even if that meant staying in a studio until three in the morning arguing over one line.

That was how you’d ended up there, months later, with an unfinished album, dozens of half-written songs, and a friendship you hadn’t really expected to make.

And because of that, Yoongi texting you at ridiculous hours wasn’t unusual anymore.

Sometimes he wanted your opinion on a lyric. Sometimes he had a melody he couldn’t place. Sometimes he sent you something at three in the morning with absolutely no explanation and expected you to understand what he meant from context alone. You did the same thing to him. It had become part of the rhythm of working together, and somewhere along the way, the conversations had started lasting longer than the work.

Tonight wasn’t any different. You listened to the melody a few more times, stopping it occasionally to point out something you thought could work better. Yoongi played around with the chords while you hummed different possibilities, and eventually the original twelve seconds had turned into almost a minute of music.

“This part,” you said, pointing at the screen, “feels like it wants to go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.” He looked at you. You shrugged. “That’s why I said feels like.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I came here for free.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You literally sent me the song like you were begging for help.”

“I sent you the song because I wanted you to hear it.”

“And now I’m here because of those actions.”

“And now you’re complaining.”

“I’m always complaining. Be glad I’m here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

You smiled and leaned back into the couch.

For a while, the conversation drifted away from the song entirely. It happened naturally, like it usually did with him. One minute you were talking about the melody, and the next you were telling him about the party you’d just escaped from, complaining about one of your friends and the guy she’d spent the entire night talking about. Yoongi listened with the same amused expression he’d had all evening, occasionally interrupting with a question or making some comment that made you laugh.

“Should we try putting some lyrics?” You grimaced at that. He immediately noticed. “What? Too tired now?”

“Nah. I just don’t know if now I’m able to write a song,” you said with honesty.

“What do you mean?”

With that, you found yourself telling him about the strange feeling you’d been carrying around lately. “I don’t know,” you said, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I’ve just felt weird recently.”

“Weird how?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He waited. You looked down at your hands. “It’s like I know there’s something I want to write about, but every time I try, it doesn’t sound right. And it’s not even one specific thing. It’s just… this feeling. It’s been there for a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”

“I always overthink.”

“I know.” You gave him a look but he just smiled. “You do.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re really not.”

He laughed softly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Maybe you just need to force yourself to write it down.”

“Force myself?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense. Just write whatever comes into your head.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“It’s literally how writing works.”

“Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I know it sucks, I won’t leave it alone until I get it perfect.”

“Just write something that sucks and get it out of your system.”

You laughed under your breath. “That’s easier said than done.”

“You’re a songwriter. You’re allowed to write a bad song.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem like you know.”

You turned your head toward him. “I won’t write a bad and stupid song!”

Yoongi smiled again, softer this time. “Just try it.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Fine… Maybe I will.”

The conversation moved on almost immediately. He started telling you about something ridiculous that had happened during a group schedule earlier that week, and you listened, laughing when he exaggerated certain parts of the story. At some point he reached across you for the laptop, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he pulled it closer so he could show you something on the screen.

You looked down at the screen while he explained what he’d been trying to change, his voice close beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours. You nodded along, half listening before you looked at him.

And something inside you shifted. Not because he’d done anything different. That was the worst part… It was completely ordinary. So ordinary that you didn’t even think about it at first.

He was still Yoongi. Still your coworker, still your friend-ish, still the person who sent you unfinished songs in the middle of the night because he trusted you enough to listen to them before they were ready. He was still the same person you’d been sitting beside for months, the same person whose bad jokes you had started anticipating, the same person whose messages you’d begun answering even when you were busy.

You simply looked at him and suddenly understood why everything had felt strange.

Why you’d been checking your phone. Why his messages had started standing out among all the others. Why you had started looking forward to sessions even when you were exhausted. Why you felt strangely disappointed whenever someone else had his attention. Why leaving the party at two in the morning had seemed like the easiest decision in the world. Why being around him had started feeling like something you needed rather than something you simply enjoyed.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh.

You looked away so quickly that Yoongi glanced at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He studied your face for another second, clearly noticing something you didn’t, before turning back to the laptop.

“Okay.”

You swallowed and stared at the screen, although you couldn’t tell him what he was showing you anymore. Because suddenly the feeling you’d been trying to write about for weeks didn’t seem so mysterious.

You knew exactly what it was. You just really, really wished you didn’t.

——————————

Realizing you had a crush on someone was embarrassing enough on its own. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with was worse. Realizing you had a crush on someone you worked with, actually liked as a person, and had absolutely no intention of doing anything about was, in your professional opinion, humiliating.

You spent the next few days trying very hard not to think about it…. This proved to be considerably more difficult than you had expected.

The problem was that there were too many reasonable explanations for what had happened at the studio that night, and you intended to use every single one of them. You and Yoongi had been working together for months. You had spent countless hours in studios together, usually at unreasonable times, talking about music and life and whatever else happened to come up when you were both too tired to keep pretending you were only there to work. Songwriting was intimate by nature, anyway. You had to be honest about things you would probably never say out loud otherwise, and even when the songs weren’t autobiographical, there was something about sitting beside another person and pulling apart emotions until you found the right words for them that made you feel closer than you probably should.

Maybe that was all it was.

Maybe you’d simply confused intimacy with attraction because you’d been spending too much time with him.

It happened… Probably.

You had read about it somewhere, or maybe you’d invented it to make yourself feel better. Either way, it sounded plausible enough.

And Yoongi was nice. Really nice. He was funny, he listened to you, he respected your work, he remembered stupid little details you mentioned in passing, and he had somehow become one of the easiest people in your life to be around. None of those things necessarily meant you wanted him. They just meant you had a good friendship.

That was normal.

Having a crush on your friend was not. Especially not when your friend happened to be someone you were professionally involved with, someone whose music you were helping shape, someone who trusted your opinion and had made it clear that he wanted to keep working with you beyond the current project. There were lines you didn’t cross simply because you were capable of understanding consequences, and you were, at the very least, supposed to be an adult with a functioning brain.

You were a professional, for God’s sake!

So you decided the best way to deal with the entire thing was to write about it. It was what you always did when you didn’t understand something. You put it on paper until it stopped being yours.

You sat at your desk one evening with a notebook open in front of you and your laptop pushed aside, determined to finally get the strange feeling out of your head. You weren’t going to write a song, exactly. You weren’t even going to write anything good. You just wanted to give the feeling somewhere to exist so it would stop taking up space inside you.

For a while, you stared at the blank page.

Then you finally started writing. You wrote about wanting something you didn’t have a name for. You wrote about how easy it was to mistake familiarity for desire, how spending too much time beside someone could make ordinary things feel important when they weren’t. You wrote about a voice that had become familiar enough that you could recognize it through a crowded room, about hands resting on a piano, about someone laughing when they were trying not to, about the strange comfort of knowing somebody would answer if you called them at an unreasonable hour….

The more you wrote, the more obvious it became that you were writing around the thing rather than about it, carefully avoiding the center of whatever you’d been trying to understand. So you kept it vague. You turned it into a poem instead, something distant enough that you could pretend it belonged to somebody else.

By the time you reached the final lines, you were almost annoyed with yourself. You stared at the page for a moment, then wrote the last sentence.

But maybe it isn’t anything at all.

You looked at it. That was good. That was exactly what you wanted. You added one more line underneath it.

But maybe it is only a feeling, and feelings passed.

Then you put the pen down.

There. Problem solved.

You tore the page out, folded it twice without really looking at what you’d written, and threw it into the trash beside your desk. You sat back in your chair and let out a quiet breath, suddenly convinced that you’d just performed some sort of emotional surgery on yourself.

It wasn’t important, it was just a crush. A stupid, inconvenient, temporary crush. You could handle that. And if you ignored it long enough, eventually it would disappear…

A few days later, you found yourself back at the studio with Yoongi and the rest of the group.

The session had been much more crowded than the ones you usually had with him, mostly because they were working on something together and you had been asked to help with a few sections. It was different seeing Yoongi around the others. He was louder, more animated, constantly interrupting someone or laughing at something happening on the other side of the room, and every once in a while you caught yourself watching him before remembering that you had promised yourself you weren’t going to do that anymore.

You were doing very well… Mostly.

By the time the session wrapped up, it was late enough that everyone was starting to gather their things. You were slipping your notebook into your bag when Yoongi looked over from the computer.

“You’re leaving?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah.”

He nodded toward the screen. “Can you stay for a bit? I want to fix something and I could use another opinion.”

You hesitated for approximately five seconds. “Um, yeah. Sure.”

Totally normal.

You were coworkers. Friends, technically. People who worked together. Nothing unusual about staying late at a studio with him. You were very normal about this.

You sat down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving what you considered a perfectly reasonable amount of space between you. Yoongi looked at you for a second, then went back to the computer. You tried to focus on the track, you really did. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided that now was the ideal time to become hyperaware of every single thing about him. The sound of his voice, the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, the little crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he concentrated. You became painfully conscious of the fact that he was sitting only a few feet away.

This was ridiculous.

You shifted farther toward the edge of the couch.

Yoongi looked over. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you sitting over there?”

“I like this part of the couch.” He stared at you and you looked around trying to ignore his eyes.

Yoongi seemed unconvinced but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back to the computer, played the section he’d been working on, and asked what you thought.

You listened carefully, giving him a few suggestions, and slowly the tension in your shoulders began to disappear. It was strange how quickly that happened around him. Within twenty minutes, you were back to normal, arguing about a lyric and laughing when he insisted one of your suggestions was “objectively terrible.”

“You’re the one who asked me.”

“I regret it.”

“You always regret asking me shit”

“Because you’re mean.”

“You can handle it.”

Yoongi didn’t directly looked at you. He only smiled behind his fingers before shaking his head. “See? Mean.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The rest of the evening passed almost exactly like every other session you’d had together. The work became less important as the hours went on, conversations drifting from music to food to his schedule and then somehow to a story about one of his members that made you laugh so hard you had to put your head down on the table.

You forgot, for a while, that you were supposed to be worried about liking him.

You realized that was the thing with Yoongi. He made it too easy to forget. There was something calming about being around him that you hadn’t fully appreciated until recently. You could sit beside him without talking and it didn’t feel awkward. You could complain about something stupid and he would listen without making you feel stupid for complaining. He never seemed to expect you to perform a particular version of yourself around him. You could be tired, irritated, sarcastic, quiet, distracted, and he treated all of it like it was normal.

By the time you finally looked at the clock, it was well past midnight.

“Oh, shit.”

Yoongi glanced over. “What?”

“It’s late.”

He checked the time too. “Yeah.”

“I’m going home. I have an early session tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Yoongi didn’t seem bothered by it. He simply saved the project and started shutting things down while you gathered your things.

“You staying?”

“Probably.”

“You should sleep.”

“I’ll do that eventually.”

“That’s why people always complain when you fall asleep in random places.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.” He smiled. You put your coat on and slung your bag over your shoulder, lingering for a second longer than necessary before finally heading toward the door “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Get home safe.”

You walked out before you could think too much about the fact that you’d spent another night with him and survived.

See? It wasn’t that bad.

Maybe you’d exaggerated everything in your head. Maybe the crush really was just a crush, something small and harmless that had appeared because you’d been spending too much time together. Maybe you could simply acknowledge it without doing anything about it and eventually it would disappear on its own.

By the time you got home, you were almost completely convinced.

You changed into your pajamas, washed your face, crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.

Except, unfortunately, you thought about Yoongi.

You remembered his laugh. Then the way he’d smiled when you’d made that stupid comment about him handling when you were mean. You remembered his hand resting on the edge of the laptop. His fingers on his lips. His voice. The way he’d looked at you when you were leaving….

Stop!

You closed your eyes. It wasn’t a big deal, it was just a crush. You could live with a crush!

Eventually, you fell asleep.

And sometime in the middle of the night, your brain decided that all of your careful reasoning had been completely irrelevant. What usually ended up with dreams about future lyrics or anxious thoughts over what will you be working on tomorrow… it all changed suddenly. Now you dreamed about him.

Not about music, or work, or some vague version of him sitting beside you in the studio. You dreamed about his mouth. His hands. The warmth of him standing close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. You dreamed about his long fingers brushing against yours, against your mouth this time, you dreamed about looking up at him and somehow knowing exactly what was going to happen before he leaned down and kissed you.

It felt real enough that when you woke up, you heart was already beating way too fast.

Your eyes opened fast. You lay completely still, staring at the ceiling, your heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Your skin was hot, your hair was sticking to your forehead, and you were breathing like you’d just run several blocks.

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh, God.”

You stayed like that for another moment, desperately hoping that if you didn’t acknowledge what had just happened, it would somehow stop being real. It didn’t. You dropped your hands and stared into the darkness of your bedroom.

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

You didn’t just have a crush on Yoongi. You were falling in love with him.

This was going to be a problem.

——————————

The worst thing about realizing you’re falling in love with someone was that, eventually, you had to admit you were falling.

There was no pretending it was a crush anymore, not after the dream, not after the way you’d spent the following morning thinking about him before you’d even properly opened your eyes, and definitely not after you caught yourself checking your phone three separate times before breakfast in the hope that he might have messaged you. You had crossed some invisible line somewhere between one late-night studio session and the next, and now you were on the other side of it, looking back at the person you’d been a few weeks ago and wondering how she’d managed to be so blissfully unaware.

You were falling in love with Yoongi.

It was a ridiculous thing to know about yourself with such certainty.

You tried avoiding him at first, mostly because you thought distance would help. You told yourself that if you stopped accepting every invitation to the studio, stopped replying immediately when he sent you something, stopped finding reasons to linger after sessions, the feeling would eventually become less intense. It was a sensible plan. Mature, even. You could give yourself some room to breathe and allow your brain to remember that he was a person you worked with and cared about, not the center of the universe you’d somehow made him into.

The problem was that you didn’t actually want to avoid him.

That was the part you couldn’t seem to explain away.

You could spend an entire afternoon convincing yourself that you needed to create boundaries, and then your phone would light up with his name and you’d find yourself smiling before you’d even opened the message. If he asked whether you were free later, you were free. If he mentioned that he was going to be at the studio, you somehow found a reason to be there too. If he sent you a song, you listened to it immediately, even when you were in the middle of something else. You wanted to know what he was working on, what he was eating, whether he’d slept, whether the ridiculous story he’d told you about one of his members had actually ended the way he’d claimed it did. You wanted the insignificant pieces of his life just as much as the important ones, which was perhaps the clearest indication that this had stopped being a simple attraction a long time ago.

You wanted time with him. You wanted all of it.

And there was something humiliating about knowing that while simultaneously having no idea whether he wanted the same thing.

That was the worst part. You could spend hours trying to interpret every little thing he did, but there was no way of knowing what any of it actually meant. Yoongi was affectionate with people he cared about. He was attentive. He remembered things. He listened when you spoke. He had a way of making people feel like they were the only person in the room when they had his attention, and because you had become one of the people he trusted, you couldn’t tell whether the things that made your stomach flip were simply the way he treated his friends.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you across the studio and immediately wonder what he’d been thinking. Maybe he was wondering whether you’d finished the lyrics. Maybe he’d noticed that you were staring at him first. Maybe he was thinking about something completely unrelated.

You wished you could read his mind. You wished you could sit inside his head for five minutes and find out what he thought of you.

Not even what he felt romantically, necessarily. You wanted to know how he described you when someone asked about you. You wanted to know whether he considered you a close friend or simply someone he enjoyed working with. You wanted to know whether he ever thought about you when you weren’t around, whether he ever saw something during his day and instinctively wanted to tell you about it, whether your name ever appeared on his phone and made him feel the same small rush of happiness that his name caused in you.

Mostly, you wanted to know what he would say if he knew.

Because sometimes you imagined telling him. Not actually telling him, obviously. That would have been insane. But you’d imagine sitting across from him after a session and finally saying, I think I have feelings for you.

Then you’d imagine his face.

Would he laugh because he’d already known? Would he go quiet? Would he look uncomfortable? Would he tell you that he’d never thought about you that way? Would he say something kind because Yoongi was incapable of being cruel even when he had every reason to be? Would everything suddenly become awkward between you?

That last possibility was the one that scared you most. Because whatever you were feeling, whatever had happened inside your head over the past few weeks, what existed between you and Yoongi already felt like something worth protecting.

You didn’t know exactly when the two of you had become friends.

There hadn’t been a moment where either of you had announced it. You had simply started knowing things about each other. You knew what kind of coffee he preferred when he was tired and what kind of coffee he ordered when he was pretending he wasn’t tired. You knew which songs he was proud of and which ones he refused to play for anyone until they were finished. You knew when he was genuinely annoyed and when he was pretending to be annoyed because he wanted you to argue with him. You knew that he talked more when he was comfortable, that he got quieter when something was actually bothering him, and that his laughter changed depending on how funny he found something.

Yoongi knew things about you too.

He knew when you were lying about being tired. He knew which parts of your writing you were insecure about. He knew that you hated being interrupted when you were trying to tell a funny story and that you tended to tap your fingers against whatever surface was closest whenever you were thinking.

None of it was extraordinary but, somehow, it was everything.

One afternoon, you were sitting across from him in the studio while he worked through a melody, and you caught yourself watching his hands instead of the screen. He noticed after a while. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“The song.” He looked at you skeptically. You held his gaze for a second before smiling. “I’m allowed to think.”

“I know. I’m just curious what you’re thinking about.”

You almost told him. The answer was sitting right there, painfully obvious, and for one terrifying second you wondered what would happen if you just said it.

You.

Instead, you pointed at the laptop. “I think the second verse needs something.”

He nodded and turned back to the screen. You breathed again.

Another time, he sent you a message asking if you wanted to grab food before a session. You spent the entire walk there wondering if he’d asked anyone else or if he’d thought specifically of you. When you arrived, he had already ordered something for you because he remembered what you liked.

You stared at the food. “How did you know I wanted this?.”

Yoongi looked up from his phone. “I think by now I pretty much know everything you like.”

It was such a simple answer but you didn’t like how much it affected you.

“Right. We are spending a lot of time together.”

He smiled. “We are.”

You wanted to ask him what he thought about that.

You wanted to know whether remembering you was something he did without thinking because he knew you well, or whether there was some part of him that actively paid attention to you in the same way you paid attention to him.

But you didn’t ask, you never asked. You became an expert at almost asking.

You’d start a sentence and change it halfway through. You’d look at him for a second too long and then pretend you were distracted. You’d find yourself wondering what would happen if you leaned closer, then immediately move away as if your body had betrayed you.

And Yoongi never seemed to notice… Or maybe he did.

That was the other thing driving you insane.

Sometimes you’d catch a look on his face that you couldn’t interpret, something quiet and thoughtful that disappeared before you could decide what it meant. Sometimes he seemed to anticipate what you were going to say before you said it. Sometimes he’d look at you for a little longer than necessary, and you’d spend the rest of the night wondering if you’d imagined it.

You wanted to ask him. God, you wanted to ask him so bad. But every time you came close to the idea, you remembered what you already had.

This new friendship, those stupid late-night messages. The jokes that weren’t funny enough to justify how hard you laughed at them. The comfortable silence. The way you could walk into a room where he was and immediately feel less tired.

You had spent your entire life believing that knowing whether someone loved you was the most important part of loving them. Now you weren’t so sure. Because the more you thought about it, the more you realized that even if someone could guarantee that Yoongi didn’t feel the same way, you still wouldn’t want to lose him.

You would still want to sit beside him in the studio. You would still want to hear all his unfinished songs. You would still want him to send you ridiculous messages at two in the morning. You would still want to know what made him laugh, what annoyed him, what he was thinking when he stared at the ceiling after a long session. You would still want to be his friend… And maybe that was what frightened you most.

You had always thought love was supposed to make you want more.

More time, more certainty, more closeness, more of the person until eventually you couldn’t imagine being satisfied with anything less. But with Yoongi, wanting more didn’t make you want less of what you already had. You wanted him desperately, yes, but you also wanted to keep the exact relationship you had with him now, even if it meant carrying this ridiculous, aching secret for as long as you had to.

Maybe that was love too. Maybe love was wanting someone so badly that you were willing to let them remain exactly where they were, simply because having them in your life was better than having nothing at all.

So you stopped trying to figure him out. Not completely, of course. You were still curious. You still wondered sometimes what he would say if he knew, still caught yourself studying his expression when he looked at you, still wished you could reach into his mind and steal one honest thought about yourself.

But you stopped needing the answer. Because whatever Yoongi thought about you, whatever he might or might not feel, there was one thing you already knew. He was your friend. And you loved him.

And for now, that was enough.

——————————

You had written three versions of the same chorus, hated all three, deleted two of them, and were currently staring at the third one as if looking at it long enough might make the words rearrange themselves into something worth keeping… They didn’t.

The cursor blinked at the end of the line, patiently waiting for you to figure out what came next. You played the melody again, fingers moving absentmindedly over the keys while the piano filled the studio with something soft and unfinished, and the moment the chorus came around you made a frustrated noise and stopped playing altogether.

“God, this is so stupid.”

You leaned back in your chair and rubbed both hands over your face.

The problem wasn’t that you didn’t have anything to say. You had too much. And that’s what made it so unbearable. For the first time in your life, you understood what it meant to have a feeling that was bigger than your vocabulary. You had spent years turning emotions into songs. Heartbreak, jealousy, loneliness, desire, grief, infatuation, all of it had always been manageable once you had a melody and enough time alone with a blank page. You could take something messy and private and turn it into three minutes of words that made sense.

But this was different. Every line sounded too small. Every metaphor felt embarrassing. Every attempt at describing what you felt seemed almost insulting to the feeling itself, as if reducing it to a lyric made it less true. You had written about someone’s hands and deleted it because it sounded too obvious. You had written about someone’s laugh and immediately hated yourself for how sentimental it looked on the page. You had tried writing about wanting to be around someone all the time and decided it sounded like something a seventeen-year-old would put in their diary.

Nothing worked, nothing came close.

You played the chorus one more time, grimaced, and started pushing two notes with anger making the piano sound horrible.

“Stupid ass song. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

The studio door opened behind you.

“If you break it you’re gonna pay it.”

You turned your head, stopping your tantrum. Yoongi stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, looking at you with a small smile. You stared at him for a second before turning back toward the piano. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He closed the door behind him and walked farther into the room. You heard him move around behind you, followed by the quiet sound of him dropping his things somewhere near the couch. You didn’t turn around again. You were too busy pretending that the last thing you’d said hadn’t been heard. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Working.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m working badly.”

“Ah. Makes more sense.”

You heard the couch creak as he sat down behind you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You adjusted one of the controls on the equipment in front of you even though there was nothing wrong with it, then played a few notes without really listening to them. Yoongi didn’t interrupt. That was something you’d learned about him. He never rushed you when you were struggling to explain something. He didn’t fill silence just because it existed. He seemed perfectly comfortable letting you take your time, even when you were obviously trying to figure out how to say something.

Eventually, he spoke again. “What’s wrong with it?”

You sighed. “Everything.”

“Be more specific for me.”

“I’ve been trying to finish this for hours and I can’t.”

“Why? What’s it about?”

You hesitated. Then you shrugged, pretending like it wasn’t something big. “Love.”

There was a small pause behind you. “Love?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when do you write love songs?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “I’ve written love songs.”

“You’ve written songs that sounded like love songs.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and he smiled. You turned back around, trying not to smile yourself. “Whatever.”

He was quiet again for a moment. “So what’s different about this one?”

You stared at the keyboard. You could have lied and you almost did. Instead, you said, “I’m trying to write how I feel about someone. How I’m… in love with someone.”

The words felt strange as soon as they left your mouth. Not because you hadn’t admitted it to yourself. You had. You’d spent weeks thinking about it, arguing with yourself about it, trying to write it away and failing spectacularly. But saying it aloud made it real in a way thinking about it never had.

Behind you, Yoongi was silent.

“Oh.”

You couldn’t see his face. But didn’t turn around anyway. For some reason that made it easier for you.

You watched the little light blinking on the equipment in front of you while you continued, your voice quieter now. “I thought I could just write about it, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed about my feelings… But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

You rested your elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Everything I write sounds stupid. I keep trying to describe it and it just feels…” You searched for the word. “Wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Too small.” He didn’t say anything. You swallowed. “It’s like I know what I feel, but I don’t know how to explain it. And that’s never happened to me before.”

Yoongi hummed quietly, thoughtful rather than judgmental.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard to explain it.”

You frowned at the screen. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe you don’t have to explain the feeling.” You looked over your shoulder again. Yoongi was still sitting behind you, relaxed against the couch, his attention on you even though you weren’t facing him properly. “You always try to make everything make sense,” he continued. “Maybe this doesn’t have to.”

“But it’s a love song.”

“I know.”

“So it has to make sense.”

“Does it?” You opened your mouth to argue but nothing came out. Yoongi smiled faintly at that. “You could just write what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“No, I mean…” You sighed. “Nothing happened between us.”

That earned a brief silence. You hadn’t intended to emphasize the us. You immediately wished you hadn’t.

Yoongi didn’t comment on it but instead, he asked, “So what happened to you?”

You looked down at your hands. “I just started feeling differently.”

“About them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You laughed softly. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Maybe you don’t need to.” You looked at him again. He shrugged. “Maybe you just like them.”

“Him. I love him.”

The words came out too quickly. You froze in place for a long second. It was the first time you had said it out loud. You loved him.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a second. “Okay.”

You looked back at the keyboard. You weren’t sure why saying it in front of him made your chest feel so tight. You wanted to throw up so badly. Maybe because you’d never told anyone. Maybe because you’d spent so much time trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t serious, and hearing yourself say I love him made every excuse you’d invented seem ridiculous.

Yoongi’s voice was gentle when he spoke again. “Does he know?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

You smiled bitterly. “He’s my friend.”

“So?”

“And we work together.”

“That’s complicated.”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Do you think he’ll be upset?”

You thought about it. “No.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t want to lose what we have.” There was something about the silence that followed that made you feel as though he’d understood more than you’d actually said. You kept your eyes on the keyboard. “I really like what we have now,” you admitted. “They’re one of the few people that understands me. I don’t want to risk that just because I decided to develop feelings.”

“You can’t really control that.”

“I know.”

“Then maybe you don’t have to do anything.”

You looked over your shoulder. Yoongi was already looking at you. You couldn’t quite read his expression from the angle, but there was something soft about it, something that made you look away again before you could think too much about it.

“Have you ever felt like that?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you loved someone and didn’t know what to do with it.”

He considered the question. “Yeah.”

You turned slightly in your chair, just to see him properly. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

He smiled a little, looking at the other side of the room now. “A while ago.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was talking about someone specific. You didn’t ask, you didn’t want to know really . Instead, you looked back at the piano and said, “So we’re both idiots.”

Yoongi laughed quietly. “Maybe.”

You smiled. The tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders seemed to loosen a little. There was something comforting about knowing that he understood, even if you had no idea whether his experience had anything to do with yours. He didn’t try to convince you to confess. He didn’t tell you that you were being stupid. He simply listened, offering small pieces of advice when you needed them and leaving everything else alone.

Eventually, you played the song again. This time, you didn’t try to fix the words. You let the melody run while you listened to it, thinking about what he’d said. Maybe you didn’t need to explain everything. Maybe the feeling could exist without being perfectly translated. Maybe the song didn’t have to capture all of it, maybe it didn’t have to be the greatest melody or the most heartfelt lyrics.

Maybe it could just be a stupid song.

“That part,” Yoongi said from behind you, “is good.”

You glanced back. “Which part?”

“The melody of the chorus.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“I know.”

You smiled. “It’s still bad.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

You turned back toward the piano, trying not to smile too much.

For another few minutes, you worked quietly while Yoongi sat behind you. He didn’t offer more advice unless you asked for it, and eventually you realized that you weren’t struggling quite as much as you had been before he’d walked in.

When you finally stopped playing, you leaned back in your chair.

“I think I’m done for tonight.”

“Good.” You heard him stand. He walked around the chair and stopped beside you, looking down at the notes scattered across your desk. You expected him to say something about the song, but instead he simply looked at you. “You got this.”

You smiled tiredly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then he reached down and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, the kind of casual gesture you’d seen him make countless times before, and stepped away. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was just Yoongi being Yoongi. You watched him grab his things and head toward the door. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight.”

The door closed behind him. You stayed in your chair for a while, staring at the empty doorway.

When you turned back toward the piano and looked at the unfinished song for once you didn’t hate it. It still wasn’t enough to say everything you felt. But maybe that was okay. Maybe some things weren’t meant to fit neatly into three minutes of music.

——————————

By the time dinner started, you had almost convinced yourself that you were doing better.

Not better in the sense that you had stopped loving Yoongi, because you weren’t delusional enough to think a few days of trying not to think about him could undo months of growing closer. But you’d gotten better at carrying it. You could sit beside him without analyzing every word he said. You could listen to him talk about music without wondering whether every opinion he gave you had some hidden meaning. You could leave a studio after spending four hours with him and make it all the way home without replaying every second of the evening in your head.

You were learning how to live with it… Which was why it was particularly unfair that the universe had apparently decided to test you at dinner.

It was supposed to be an easy night. Nothing formal, nothing work-related, just a group of friends getting together at a restaurant in Manhattan because it had been too long since everyone had been in the same place at the same time. You had arrived in a good mood, genuinely excited to see everyone, and for the first hour or so, you had almost forgotten that you were supposed to be worried about anything at all.

Yoongi was sitting across from you, laughing at something one of the others had said, and every once in a while you’d catch his eye from across the table. He’d smile, you’d smile back, and then you’d go back to whatever conversation was happening beside you.

It felt normal and comfortable… Until she arrived.

You had known who she was long before you’d ever met her. Most people in the industry did. She was a well-known producer, someone who had worked with Yoongi for years, long before you’d ever been introduced to him, and their history together was one of those things people seemed to know without ever knowing exactly what was true. There had been rumors about them dating years ago, speculation that had never really disappeared despite neither of them ever confirming anything. They were close, obviously. They had worked together for years, understood each other’s music almost instinctively, and had the kind of familiarity that came from knowing someone long before anyone else had a reason to pay attention.

It didn’t bother you at the start. Even before you had feelings for Yoongi, you’d noticed them. You’d noticed the way she could interrupt him without apologizing. You’d noticed how easily they fell into conversations that nobody else at the table could follow. You’d noticed the way he laughed around her, the way she leaned toward him when she spoke, the way he sometimes looked at her like he already knew what she was going to say.

It had never mattered before. Or at least, you’d never had a reason to let it matter. Now, sitting across the table and watching her lean closer to him as they talked, you felt something inside you quietly collapse.

It wasn’t even anything dramatic. She said something you couldn’t hear over the conversation happening around you, and Yoongi laughed, lowering his head for a moment as she nudged his arm. She laughed too, covering her mouth with her hand, and then she leaned closer again so she could say something else.

You looked away so quickly it made you dizzy for a second.

You tried to keep eating. You tried to listen to the person beside you talking about something that had happened at work, nodding at the right moments and making the occasional comment, but your attention kept drifting back to the other side of the table.

You hated yourself for noticing every little thing. You hated that it was bothering you. Most of all, you hated that you didn’t have the right to care.

Yoongi wasn’t yours. He had never been yours.

He hadn’t promised you anything, hadn’t led you on, hadn’t done anything wrong. He was sitting at dinner with a friend and talking to someone he’d known for years. There was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing you could point to and say there, that’s the problem. The problem was you. You were the one who had fallen in love with him without permission. You were the one who had started wanting things you had no claim to.

By the time the main courses had been cleared, you were barely participating in the conversation anymore. Your mood had gone from bright to flat so gradually that nobody seemed to notice. You weren’t angry, you weren’t even exactly sad, you simply didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

When someone suggested ordering dessert, you shook your head.

“I’m good. I think I’m probably going to head out.”

Several people immediately looked at you. “Already?”

“Yeah. I’m really tired.”

It was a terrible excuse. You knew it. Yoongi knew it too. He had looked at you the moment you said it, his expression changing slightly as he studied your face. “Hey. You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Just really tired.”

He didn’t argue about that. You said your goodbyes, hugged a couple of people, and slipped your coat on. You were almost at the door when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Hey. I’ll take you home.”

You turned around and Yoongi was already reaching for his coat. “Oh, you don’t need to. I’m taking a cab.”

“It’s safer if I take you home.”

“It’s just a car. I can’t take a taxi by myself. You were having a great time here I don’t want to bother you.”

You stared at him, starting to get a little irritated. Yoongi stared back. “I’m taking you home.” There was something so matter-of-fact about the way he said it that arguing seemed pointless.

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.”

You sighed, already feeling exhausted. “Fine.”

The drive started quietly.

You sat in the co-pilot seat looking out the window while Manhattan passed by in streaks of light, your hands folded in your lap. Yoongi drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the center console, and for several minutes neither of you said anything. Which actually made you a little glad, you didn’t want to talk at all.

Eventually, he turned the music down a little bit.

“Was dinner bad?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even wanted to stay for dessert. That’s when the conversation gets better.”

“I guess I’m really tired.”

“Yeah. You’ve said that twice.” You looked out the window. Yoongi didn’t push. Instead, he tried something else. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe you. You didn’t blame him, you weren’t doing a great job either trying to hide your frustration.

The silence returned and you watched the city outside, trying to settle the uncomfortable feeling in your chest. You didn’t want to talk about it. You didn’t want to lie to him, either. There was no version of the conversation where you could explain why you’d suddenly become miserable without saying something you weren’t ready to say… so you stayed quiet.

After a few more minutes, Yoongi spoke again. “You know you can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry so bad it felt almost pathetic. “I know.”

“Okay.” He left it there. A few blocks later, he glanced at you. “Did I do something?”

You turned toward him. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, but you could see that he was thinking. You looked back out the window. He didn’t ask again. That somehow didn’t make it better. You knew he was giving you space, but you also knew he was paying attention. He wasn’t going to force you to talk, but he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t noticed either.

When he eventually pulled up outside your building, you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course.” You reached for the door but eh called again. “Hey.” You paused and looked back at him. Yoongi was already looking at you. “If you change your mind…” You waited and he smiled faintly. “You know where to find me.”

You were supposed to complete the inside joke with ‘At the studio. As always’. Instead you nodded at him slightly before looking away. “Goodnight.” You stepped out of the car and closed the door.

You were halfway to the entrance when the window rolled down. “Hey!” You turned and Yoongi was watching you with that same patient expression. “You really were quiet tonight.”

You shrugged weakly, not knowing exactly what to say. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to be.”

You stared at Yoongi but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

For a second, you wondered if he knew. Not everything, surely. Not the extent of it. Not the fact that watching another woman laugh with him had made something inside you ache so badly you’d wanted to disappear. He couldn’t possibly know that… Could he?

You smiled faintly, because you didn’t know what else to do. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

He held your gaze for another second before nodding. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

The window rolled back up and you walked inside.

You didn’t see him leave. You didn’t see the way Yoongi stayed parked for another minute, staring at the entrance you’d disappeared through, or the small sigh that escaped him as he finally started the car again. You didn’t know that he’d recognized the look on your face the moment she had sat beside him. He had noticed the way you’d gone quiet. He had noticed the way you’d stopped laughing. He had noticed that every time he looked across the table, your eyes were somewhere else.

He had even wondered, for a brief moment, whether he should move away from her. Not because there was anything between them, there wasn’t. There hasn’t been anyone… for a very long time. But because he’d started understanding you well enough to know that sometimes you needed things to be said without actually asking for them.

Yoongi hadn’t known whether you’d wanted him to move. So he’d waited. He would keep waiting. Not indefinitely, perhaps, but patiently. Because he wasn’t interested in guessing games, and he wasn’t interested in making you jealous just to see what you’d do. He stopped guessing and trying to read your mind the second he saw that look on you three months ago. The one he could recognize immediately because he had been wearing it for months before you even had the chance to wonder.

That’s why Yoongi didn’t want to manipulate whatever you were feeling into becoming something you weren’t ready to admit. He simply wanted you to know that if there was something you wanted to say, you could say it… And if there wasn’t, he would still be there.

That was the difficult part about caring for someone who hadn’t caught up to you yet. You couldn’t drag them there. You could only leave the door open and hope, eventually, they decided to walk through it.

——————————

It was insane how much you could think about one person.

You had always assumed there was a limit. A reasonable amount of time a human being could spend thinking about another human being before their brain simply became bored and moved on to something else. Apparently, you had been wrong, because Yoongi had managed to occupy an unreasonable amount of your thoughts without even being there.

It had gotten particularly bad over the last few weeks. His group had been busy promoting their new album, which meant their schedules had become impossible, and your usual late-night sessions had almost completely disappeared. You had seen him only a handful of times, usually briefly, usually surrounded by other people, and your conversations had been reduced to messages sent between schedules. Sometimes he’d send you a song or a voice note, sometimes you’d send him something you’d been working on, and every once in a while you’d manage to have an actual conversation that lasted longer than five minutes.

It shouldn’t have been enough to make you miss him but it was.

You missed him in embarrassingly specific ways. You missed hearing him complain about songs he was the one who had written. You missed the way he’d lean back in his chair and close his eyes when he was listening to a new melody. You missed his stupid jokes and the way he’d pretend to be offended whenever you told him one of his ideas was terrible. You missed sitting in the same room with him without having to talk at all.

You even missed his messages. That was when you knew you had a problem. You had started sleeping badly too, which would have been easier to blame on work if your dreams hadn’t become increasingly inconvenient. Yoongi had somehow managed to make an appearance in your subconscious often enough that you were beginning to resent your own brain for its lack of boundaries. You could go an entire day without seeing him and then wake up the next morning having dreamed about him as if you’d spent the entire night with him.

It was exhausting and very humiliating. But, worst of all, there wasn’t really anything you could do about it. You couldn’t exactly call him and say, Hey, I’m thinking about you so much that my own dreams have become a hostile environment.

… So you worked. You worked until late nights and early morning, because work was at least something you could control.

And one nigh, by the time you finally shut down your laptop and started gathering your things, the studio was almost empty. You stretched your arms above your head, rolled your shoulders and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. Nothing from Yoongi. That was totally fine. You haven’t heard from him in three day, you could live like that… Yeah, you were lying.

You had just reached the hallway when you nearly walked straight into him.

You stopped so abruptly that your bag swung against your hip. Yoongi looked up from his phone. For a second, neither of you said anything.

You blinked confused. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Hi to you too.”

“Hi.” You looked at him again, as if there was a chance you’d somehow mistaken him for someone else. “You’re supposed to be on promotions.”

“I am.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Finished early.”

“Oh.”

It was ridiculous how much relief you felt at seeing him. You tried very hard not to let it show, although you weren’t sure you succeeded.

He looked tired. Not exhausted, exactly, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times during the day. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on for his schedule, and something about seeing him like that, still carrying the evidence of a long day, made the familiar ache in your chest return.

“You just finished?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going to work?”

He glanced toward the studio. “I was going to.” You waited as he lazily shrugged. “Don’t really feel like it anymore.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You came all the way here to not work?”

“I guess.” There was something almost amused about the way he said it. You didn’t think too much about it. He looked at the bag hanging from your shoulder. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you eaten?”

You hesitated. “Not really.”

“Do you want to?” You looked at him. He nodded toward the elevator. “I mean, I’m hungry. Could use some company.”

There was no reason to say no. “Sure.”

His gummy smile appeared almost immediately. “Okay.”

You followed him toward the elevator, trying not to think about how stupidly happy you suddenly felt.

And if dinner was supposed to be quick, it clearly wasn’t.

You ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks away, sitting across from each other at a table near the window while the city moved around you. It wasn’t particularly fancy, and neither of you seemed interested in making it anything more than what it was. You ordered food, Yoongi complained about how hungry he was, you made fun of him for acting as though he’d been stranded in the wilderness, and within ten minutes you had fallen back into the rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing so badly.

You had almost forgotten how easy it was with him.

He told you about his promotions, about how chaotic the schedules had been, about one of the members nearly falling asleep during a waiting period and another one stealing his food. You laughed at all the parts you’d already heard through messages, mostly because the stories were funnier when he told them himself.

“You look tired,” you said.

“I am.”

“You should sleep more.”

“I’ll sleep.”

“You always say that.”

“I do sleep.”

“Eventually.”

He smiled. “You’re keeping track?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You remember everything I tell you.”

You looked down at your food. “I worked with you a long time.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It is.”

He smiled to himself. You hated that you couldn’t tell whether he was teasing you or genuinely pleased by the fact that you remembered things about him.

The conversation moved on, and eventually he asked about your work. You told him about the song you’d been struggling with, leaving out the part about what it was actually about. He listened carefully, resting his chin against his hand. “Did you finish it?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“It’s not finished.”

“You always say that when you don’t like something.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because it doesn’t sound right.”

“Still writing about love? Is the same song ?”

You looked up, caught in action. He was already watching you. You had forgotten you’d told him that. “Yeah.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “How’s that going?”

“Badly.”

He smiled. “Maybe you’re getting better at it.”

“Or worse.”

“Could be.”

You laughed. There was something about the way he looked at you when you laughed that made you want to look away, but you didn’t.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t really awkward. You could sit there with him, looking at him across a table in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and somehow feel like you were alone. You found yourself wondering what it would be like to have this all the time. Not the studio or the late nights, or the unfinished songs. But dinner after work. Talking about nothing, knowing how his day had gone. Knowing he’d be there when yours was over.

The thought was so simple that it almost hurt.

Yoongi reached across the table and stole something from your plate.

You stared at him. “Did you just take my food?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s mine.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to!”

“Too late.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’ve become really annoying.”

“You’ve known me for months.”

“And you get more annoying over time.”

“But you’re still here.”

You looked at him and he was already smiling.

Something in your chest tightened. “Unfortunately.”

“Sure.”

You rolled your eyes, but now you were smiling too.

He leaned back in his chair, looking completely comfortable, and you realized how much you’d missed this. Not simply seeing him, but being around him without a schedule, without a deadline, without a room full of other people. You had forgotten how much you liked the version of Yoongi that appeared when he wasn’t working.

He was softer, looser. He laughed more, he talked about stupid things. He looked at you like you were someone he had chosen to spend time with rather than someone he’d happened to end up working beside. And that thought stayed with you. Because you couldn’t stop wondering why he was here.

He could have gone home, he could have gone back to the studio and worked. He could have called one of his friends. Instead, he’d found you leaving and asked you to dinner.

You didn’t let yourself read too much into it. You couldn’t. Maybe he was simply hungry. Maybe he really had wanted company. Maybe you were just projecting because you were hopelessly in love with him and had started turning ordinary kindness into evidence. So you pushed the thought away. You focused on him instead. On the way his eyes softened when he talked about something he cared about. On the way he smiled when you made him laugh. On the way he remembered things you’d mentioned weeks ago without you ever having to remind him. On the way he seemed to know when you were about to change the subject because something had made you uncomfortable.

You wondered, not for the first time, if he knew you were in love with him.

Then you immediately decided that was impossible. If he knew, surely things would be different… Wouldn’t they?

You didn’t notice the way Yoongi watched you when you looked away. You didn’t notice that he’d spent the last week thinking about seeing you. You didn’t know that when his schedule had ended early, the first place he’d thought of going was the studio because he knew there was a good chance you’d still be there. You didn’t know that he’d checked your usual working hours before leaving the building, or that the decision not to work had been made long before he’d found you in the hallway.

You only knew that he was sitting across from you now. And that you wanted him so badly it almost frightened you. You were sure nobody has ever wanted another person like this. Not with this much tenderness, not with this much patience. Not with the strange certainty that even if you never got what you wanted, you would still be grateful that you’d gotten to know him at all.

When dinner was finally over, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave. You two slowly stood outside the restaurant together, the night air cool against your face.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” Yoongi said.

You smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

“I was hungry.”

“Me too.”

He chucked. You started walking toward his car, but after a few steps he fell into pace beside you.

“I’ll take you home.”

This time you didn’t fight him. “Thanks.”

You looked at him and he smiled softly at you.

And as you drive beside him through the city, talking about nothing and everything, you found yourself thinking that maybe this was enough. Maybe you didn’t need to know what he felt. Maybe you could just keep having nights like this. Maybe you could keep loving him quietly, keep writing songs that never quite captured it, keep pretending that your heart didn’t jump whenever he looked at you for too long.

Because if this was all you ever got, you thought, you’d still be happy… You didn’t know that Yoongi was thinking something remarkably similar. Only his conclusion was different. He didn’t need you to say it tonight. He could wait.

——————————

By the time you finally gave up, there were pieces of paper everywhere.

Some were crumpled tightly enough that you couldn’t remember what you’d written on them. Others had been folded in half, crossed out so aggressively that the ink had nearly torn through the page, while a few had been abandoned beside the piano with single lines written across the top and nothing underneath. Your notebook was open in front of you, several pages covered in half-finished verses, arrows, corrections and words you’d circled so many times that you’d almost worn holes through the paper.

You had spent the better part of the evening trying to write a love song. Again.

You had started with different type of music in your mind. But then you came up with a lovely melody, then changed it. You’d written a verse, hated it, rewritten it, hated that one too. You’d tried something softer, something more honest, something less obvious, something that didn’t sound like every other love song you’d ever heard. You’d tried metaphors and descriptions and memories and everything else you’d spent years learning to use when feelings became too complicated to say plainly.

Nothing worked and eventually, you had stopped trying.

You pushed yourself back in your chair and stared at the ceiling, letting your head rest against the backrest as the silence of the studio settled around you. The equipment was still on, little lights blinking quietly across the room, but you had stopped listening to the melody hours ago. For the first time, you weren’t angry about it. You weren’t frustrated anymore. You had simply accepted it.

Maybe some feelings couldn’t be turned into words.

Maybe that was all there was to it. You had spent your entire career believing that every emotion had a language if you were patient enough to find it, that somewhere beneath the mess of a feeling there was always a sentence waiting to be written. You’d built your life around that belief. You’d made a career out of taking things people couldn’t say and finding a way to say them for them.

And now you were sitting in the middle of a room full of paper because you couldn’t describe how much you loved one person.

It was almost funny….

The studio door opened. You didn’t move.

“What the fuck?”

You recognized Yoongi’s voice immediately. You lowered your eyes from the ceiling. He was standing in the doorway, looking around at the state of the room with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and genuine concern.

You sighed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way. Don’t say anything.”

He ignored you. “I was going to ask what happened.”

You gestured vaguely toward the floor. “This.”

He stepped inside, carefully avoiding the papers scattered across the floor. “Did you lose a fight with your notebook?”

“I lost a fight with songwriting.”

“Again?” He asked jokingly.

You looked at him annoyed. “Again.”

Yoongi smiled faintly and closed the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at the mess again. “Sure?”

You laughed quietly. “Yeah. I finally accepted something.”

He pulled the other chair closer to you and sat down, turning it slightly so he was facing you, your knees brushing. “What?”

“I can’t write love songs.”

He stared at you. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“So you’ve decided you’re incapable of writing about love?”

“I’ve decided that whatever I’m feeling isn’t something I can write about.” He nodded slowly, as if he understood the distinction. You looked down at the papers near your feet. “It’s driving me insane, though. I keep trying to forget about this but every time I sit down to write something else I just go back to this, it turns into this stupid love song, and then I hate it because it doesn’t sound like enough.”

“Enough for what?”

You hesitated. “For how I feel.” He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper beside your chair. You reached for it. “Don’t.”

He looked at you. “Why?”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’ll decide.”

“You don’t want to read it.”

“I do.”

You sighed and let your hand fall. He unfolded the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases with his palm before looking down at the words. You watched his eyes move across the page, suddenly much more self-conscious than you had been when you’d written it.

It wasn’t really a song anymore. It was barely even a verse. Just fragments of thoughts you’d been unable to organize, lines about wanting someone so much that it made everything else feel insignificant, about being so consumed by another person, about cliches, about stupid songs. There were lines you’d crossed out and rewritten, words you’d circled and then abandoned, little pieces of honesty you’d only been brave enough to write because you knew nobody was supposed to read them.

Yoongi finished. He didn’t laugh, he didn’t make a joke. He simply looked at the paper for another moment before folding it once along one of the existing creases.

“I told you,” you said quietly. “It sucks.”

“I don’t think it does.”

“It does.”

“It’s unfinished.”

“That’s a nicer way of saying it sucks.” He smiled but you looked away. “I just hate that I can’t explain it.”

He glanced back at the page. “You write about everything.”

“I know.”

“You’ve written songs about things you said you couldn’t explain before.”

“I know.”

“So what’s different?”

You thought about it. “I don’t know.” There’s seconds of silence and after a moment, you added, “Maybe it’s because I want the person too much.” His eyes lifted toward you. You continued before you could lose your nerve. “I want them so much that everything I write feels smaller than what I’m actually feeling. I want him more than any stupid song could ever say. And that’s the one thing I’m supposed to be good at. I’m supposed to be able to take something like that and make it make sense.” You laughed softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “I can describe heartbreak. I can describe wanting someone. I can make a stupid three-minute song about missing someone sound like the end of the world, but apparently when it actually happens to me, I can’t find a single fucking word that feels right.” Yoongi listened without interrupting. You looked down at your hands. “I think I finally accepted that maybe some things just aren’t meant to be put into words.”

Yoongi looked at the page again. “Maybe.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s annoying.”

“Yeah.”

“Especially because I keep writing them anyway.”

He looked at you. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

You laughed under your breath. “You don’t have to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice.”

“You are.”

“I’m telling you what I think.” You looked at him. He was holding the paper loosely between his fingers now, his expression thoughtful. “I like it.”

“Yeah?.”

“Yeah,” his tone was softer. “And I think the person would understand.”

Something in the room changed.

It wasn’t obvious. There was no sudden movement, no dramatic shift in the air, nothing you could point to afterward and say that was the moment. It was just a look. Yoongi looked at you. And for the first time, you actually saw him. Not the version of him you’d spent months trying to understand from across studio tables and restaurant booths. Not the person whose smiles you’d memorized, whose messages you waited for, whose kindness you kept trying to convince yourself was simply kindness.

You saw his eyes. And you recognized them. Because you’d seen that look before. You had seen it every time you’d caught yourself staring at him in the reflection of a dark studio window. Every time you’d looked at yourself in the mirror after a long day and realized you were smiling because you’d been thinking about him. Every time you’d wondered what love was supposed to look like when nobody else was around to see it.

It was the same look you had.

It was him looking at you like you were something he didn’t know how to put into words either.

Your breath caught.

Oh.

You stared at him, suddenly understanding why he’d always been so patient. Why he’d never pushed. Why he’d always seemed to know when something was wrong without asking for an explanation. Why he’d found you at the studio after his schedule and claimed he didn’t feel like working. Why he’d insisted on driving you home. Why he’d sat in silence in the car and given you every opportunity to tell him what was wrong. Why he’d kept leaving the door open. Why he’d kept waiting.

You had spent so long wondering what Yoongi thought about you that you’d never considered the possibility that he’d been wondering the same thing.

Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally spoke. “Would you…” You stopped for a second, and he waited again. “Would you understand?”

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. “I would.”

That was it.

Two words. Nothing poetic, nothing clever, nothing that could ever become a chorus or a bridge or a line worth putting in a notebook. But they were enough.

You looked at him, your chest suddenly too tight, your thoughts too quiet for once. Yoongi looked back at you. There was no uncertainty in his expression now. Now that you could see him clearly. There was only patience, only that same softness you’d been trying to write about for weeks.

You looked down at the crumpled paper still in his hand. “Don’t throw this away,” he suddenly said. “I think it can become something.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s a stupid song.”

“Well if you don’t want it,” Yoongi folded the paper again, more carefully this time, “I’ll keep it.”

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary before nodding. “You can keep it.” A tiny smile tugged at your lips. “It’s yours anyway.”

okay i’ll wait for you

series taglist — @tina-20 @anabeatrizal-blog1 @yawnzshit @jksusawife @djcaughtnamjooning @crimsonp3ak @nestarasikila @lovingkoalaface @iamsodonewithlemons @motheraiya55 @elodieous @goawaysha @s1mpf0rda1k1 @libriaryshelf @kentucky-criedfricken @akl3223 @taevescence @mima795 @avantika27 @bakudon

[glossdebut]

many of you are sharing your disappointment in my inbox. i don’t mind at all, and if you want to continue to do so because it helps you get it out, feel free. i will read them. but i won’t be posting them or anything else on the subject unless something new happens. i’ve said all i needed to say on the subject.

also just to clarify, i am not and never will encourage any mindless hate towards bts. there is a clear line between criticism and being hateful, and anyone deciding to be hateful in my inbox is getting blocked. i’m upset as fuck, but i am still an army, and i still love bts. multiple things can be true at once. please think before you speak.

*taps the sign*

[glossdebut]

if you are interested in donating to an organization/shelter dedicated to helping victims of domestic violence, consider checking out these websites to find one in your area:

domesticshelters.org - U.S. and canada based, “the first and largest online and mobile searchable directory of domestic violence programs and shelters in the U.S. and canada, and a leading source of helpful tools and information for people experiencing and working to end domestic violence.” you can also donate directly to domesticshelters to support their programs and services.

kering foundation - europe based program with “long-term partnerships with a targeted number of specialized organizations and women's funds across six countries.” on this page, you can filter by country (italy, france, korea, the U.K., the U.S., and mexico).

also found:

korea women’s hot-line - created in 1983 to protect and support women survivors of violence and promote gender equality in korea. over its 40+ years of operation, the organization has helped thousands of women to escape violence and rebuild their lives. korea women’s hot-line coordinates and promotes activities aimed at shifting cultural and societies attitudes about gender-based violence in the country, with a focus on domestic violence, sexual violence, and violence against women migrants.

if anybody else knows of any specific organizations or shelters, feel free to add.

[jimilter]

not to fret | myg. (m) — TEASER

↳ COMING: AUG 23RD, 2026 ↲

When you heard that your high school crush made it big after going to college in the city, you didn't think it meant this big – so big he's got one groupie sucking his face and another sucking his neck, in a pub. Ashamed of how your heartbeat still trips despite the disgusting sight, you are pulled out of your self-loathing by a handsome, silver-haired stranger in a sexy leather jacket. Needless to say, Min Yoongi's Harley isn't the only thing you are riding tonight.

pairing: yoongi x f. reader

rating: m (18+)

genre: smut | humor | fluff | pwp | lead guitarist!yoongi | biker!yoongi | strangers to lovers!au

word count: 1 k (for the teaser) | ~10 k for the complete fic.

— warnings: profanity + mentions of sex + suggestive conversation + horny daydreams + some (unintended) foreplay + some (unintended) clit stimulation + a motorcycle ride + some road safety hazards (bec yoon gives his only helmet to her) that shouldn’t be replicated in real life, kids!

— note: guess what i finally decided to finish up lmao! this literally had 8k+ words written - i'd left the poor thing hanging in the middle of smut 💀 it's nearly finished up now, tho, just some editing left!

— masterlist | taglist | feedback?

"Yoongi! Stop looking!" Your voice comes out like a squeak, incredulous and offended. Yoongi keeps laughing, obviously thoroughly enjoying embarrassing you. “Oh my God, I’m leaving!”

But you’ve barely taken a couple of furious steps down the sidewalk when he’s rolling his motorcycle down the road next to you and calling out your name.

When you look at him, still glaring but this time with a smile you can’t hold back, he gestures to the back seat. "Hop on. I'll give you a ride home."

Goddammit, finally. Yes, yes, yes, you’ve been waiting nearly three hours for this! You were beginning to think he’d never ask. Though you can barely wait to get to the good part, you still play the character you’ve assigned yourself tonight and make a show of pondering his offer. 

Your gaze falls upon his Harley again, eyes running across its figure with interest. Matt black body and glossy black seats with silver engine work. God, it's a gorgeous ride. And you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen it around the town. Who lent it to him? There’s no way he rode it all the way here from the big city. 

You’re about to check out the license plate when he speaks again.

"Huh. You look like you know a thing or two about vehicles."

Surprised eyes flying to his own, you raise your eyebrows. "Do I?"

"You're looking at it how I look at my guitar."

Somewhat endeared by his observation, you accept the helmet he forwards you and round the vehicle to hop onto it. "I work part-time at my dad's friend's garage. Cars are more my thing but I do appreciate a good looking motorcycle."

"Ooh, I do like my girls getting down and dirty."

Settling behind him with a few inches' distance between your bodies, you sigh at the joke. You definitely do wanna get down and dirty for him. So bad.

Instead of telling him that verbally, you slide close to his body, sealing your front to his back. He gives a tight exhale at the contact, which encourages you to shift around a bit, brushing your thighs against his legs and your breasts against his back.

Grunting an almost inaudible, muted curse, Yoongi reaches out to grip at your knee. His warm hand against your cold flesh freezes you in place, goosebumps smattering across your skin in anticipation. And then he squeezes in warning and you choke out an exhale, trembling in delight at the firmness of his grip.

"Stop moving."

The strain in his voice makes you grin. 

"Sorry," you whisper, brushing the delicate skin of his neck with your breath, relishing the way he shivers in response.

You can already imagine the kind of sounds he would make when you drag your teeth against it… Fuck, you’re so wet, you might ruin the seat.

Clearing your throat, you try to cleanse your mind a bit and tell him where you live. "I'm just two blocks away, third lane on the right."

The grip on your knee tightens for a moment before he releases it altogether. You take the liberty to wrap your arms around his frame and place your palms flat against his abdomen. His chest rumbles with a chuckle.

"If your hands travel and I lose control of the motorcycle, don't sue me for health insurance…"

Laughing, you experimentally spread your fingers to the point where your pinky nudges at the waistband of his jeans. Yoongi hisses out another curse, and then as if in retribution, starts the vehicle.

Holy fucking mother of God—

The vibrations happen directly against your clit that is tilted towards the seat because of how you’re sitting, and before you can take control of the situation – you flinch. Bodily. Only for a millisecond, but that is enough for Yoongi to notice. And a moment later, he adjusts one of the mirrors to meet your eyes with a smirk.

“The vibrations too much for ya?”

Fuck. 

Embarrassed but never one to shy away from your sexuality, you cling onto him tighter, allowing your breasts to press up flat against his back. And despite the layer of clothing, he does feel them, if the responding jump his breathing gives is anything to go by. 

You smirk back through the mirror, satisfaction flowing through you when he bites down on his bottom lip.

"Before I drop you off," he begins with a raised eyebrow, "wanna ride around for a while?"

No, you don't. You honest to God don't wanna do anything that could cause delay in you getting dicked down. But you still don't know how to make that point to a guy you met hours ago without sounding like a whore. You are, on more levels than you care to admit, but you'd like to be respected until Yoongi decides to make you his little bitch.

So you give him a nod, pursing your lips and concealing your frustration behind them. 

And then the bike moves, shooting off like an arrow against the cold night air that slaps at your cheeks icily.

Your grip involuntarily tightens around Yoongi, this time more out of fear of being tossed off the vehicle than any teasing purposes. That is not to say his smirk recedes at all – you can still see the alluring oblique his lips have formed.

"You good back there?"

Inhaling deeply through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, you move your chin up to rest it over his shoulder-blade, catching Yoongi's eye in the mirror. "Yep."

The feel of his solid back against your front doesn't stop sending shockwaves of pleasure through your system, nearly distracting you from your surroundings. 

Nearly.

Because then he swerves into a lane that you use as a shortcut to one of the best lookout (read: makeout) points in your town. Where the hell is he taking you? Surely not…the one place you've always wanted to fuck at?

How would he even know of this shortcut, though? Sure, he could've asked around, but these lanes aren't exactly the simplest to navigate. You used to lose your way in the beginning before you gradually became an expert over the years. 

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, you scan the side of Yoongi's face. He looks very relaxed, as if driving around these complex streets is second nature to him.

Huh.

Is that his resting bitch face or has he been to this town before?

You have to ask.

"Um, so… where are we going?"

A snort tumbles out of Yoongi. "You can't tell?"

Okay, so you're right. He is going to the viewpoint. You're so gonna fuck him on that cloud of a ledge that overlooks the whole town.

This is about to be the best fucking night of your life.

© Jimilter | 2026

PS. this was originally meant to be posted as part of can't be tamed, a rockstar!bts collab hosted by @/jeonjcngkook, way back in 2022!

[wendabean]

Yoongi in a tank top?! 💜😭💜😭💜😭💜

[miidniightthoughts]

BIRTHDAY GIRL

for my birthday girl.

→ Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: non-idol, one shot -> Genres: friends to lovers → Warnings(s): pure smut, +21, NSFW, oral sex (f&m) riding, cowgirl, hand job, overwhelming, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, kitchen sex, table sex, bending over, doggy style, rough, hard, pull out, blow job, dirty talk, teasing, good girl and more. → Rating: mature/explicit (this is mature/explicit content, so you have been warned.) → Word count: 11.5K

Author Notes:

She knows I made this for her birthday, but I told her, “You’re not going to read this until your birthday.” So, just like you, she waited too. We’ve been together for six years. No matter how far apart we are, we’re actually just as close. Even though there’s a language barrier between us, we manage to understand each other somehow. I’ll never forget the days we spent watching concerts together. They’re among my happiest memories. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I’ve always missed you. And we found each other again, and the bond between us grew even stronger in a strange way. We began to understand each other better. I hope we’ll be together for many more years to come. I love you so much, my little baby girl. Happy birthday. Q.

It was a rainy Saturday dawn, you were in Yoongi's apartment. He had invited you to eat what he prepare.

"I wanted to try to improve my cooking." He said while he smiled with those cute and intimidating eyes of his and opened a bottle of whiskey.

"Come here, take a seat." He said in that deep, calm voice as he was making a plate of sushi. He was wearing a white T-shirt and comfortable gray sweatpants.

You sat and watched as he brought the food and laid it on the table. You could see his veiny hands.

"You're quiet today." He said, sitting next to you with a glass of whiskey.

"I'm just admiring the view." You joked as you continued to look at his veiny and slender hands. He smiled at you as he raised an eyebrow.

"Are you looking at my hands again? You have a fetish or something?" He teased.

Yoongi lets out that signature deep chuckle as he pours you a drink, deliberately flexing his fingers a bit

"You know, if you keep staring like that, I might start charging admission." He nudges your shoulder playfully with his own before taking a sip of whiskey, the glass looking tiny in his large hands

"You want me to feed you too? Since you're so fascinated with my hands today?" His tone is full of teasing, but there's that familiar warm concern in his eyes.

You playfully roll your eyes at his comment, pretending to be annoyed but secretly loving this familiar banter between the two of you.

"Oh, shut up." You say, smirking. "And as if I'd let you feed me. I can eat perfectly well by myself, thank you very much."

You take a piece of sushi and eat it, trying to ignore the way your heart flutters at the thought of his hands feeding you.

Yoongi watches you eat with that quiet, amused expression of his. He swirls the whiskey in his glass absentmindedly, the ice cubes clinking softly.

"Tastes good?" he asks, voice low and warm. "I spent hours practicing the rice-to-fish ratio… nearly gave up and ordered fried chicken instead." He smirks, nudging the bottle toward you. "But I knew you'd appreciate the effort. Even if you won't admit it."

His teasing is gentle, but there's something softer underneath—the way his eyes linger on you just a second too long before he looks away.

You can't help but laugh softly at his confession. It's just so quintessentially Yoongi, spending hours meticulously perfecting something just because he thought you'd like it. It's endearing, and a little overwhelming.

"Yeah, it's good." You admit, taking another piece. "The rice definitely tastes better than the last time we tried to make sushi together."

The memory of that disaster is still fresh in your mind, a mix of laughter, spilled soy sauce, and the inevitable ordering of fried chicken.

"Hey, we agreed never to speak of that sushi-making fiasco again." He says, mock horror in his expression. "I still have nightmares about the rice grains stuck to your hair."

He takes a sip of whiskey, chuckling softly to himself as he remembers the chaos of that evening.

You laugh heartily, the memory vividly playing in your head. The way the rice had gotten everywhere, sticking to your hair, your clothes, even your eyebrows. And poor Yoongi, trying so hard to salvage something edible out of the mess.

"That was a total disaster." You say, still giggling. "And the fried chicken was a lifesaver that night. It's a wonder we ever attempted cooking again after that."

He laughs as well, shaking his head in mock despair. "I swear, that day singlehandedly cured both of us from any desire to cook for a solid month."

He takes another sip of whiskey. "Do you wanna watch something?" he asked.

You nod at his suggestion, grateful for a distraction from the memories of culinary catastrophes.

"Yeah, sure. What do you have in mind?"

He thinks for a moment, leaning back against the couch.

"There's that new drama everyone's been talking about," he offers, gesturing toward the TV. "Or we could watch a movie."

He grabs the remote and starts flipping through the options, the whiskey clearly beginning to have an effect on him. He's a bit more relaxed, his usually stoic expression softened at the edges as he scrolls through the channels.

You lean against the couch next to him, watching him flip through the channels. He seems more relaxed, his usual stoic expression softer than usual, and you can tell the alcohol is starting to loosen him up.

You watch him for a moment, taking in the way the whiskey makes his cheeks turn a subtle shade of pink and how his hair is tousled from running his fingers through it. He's different like this—less guarded, and you can't deny it makes your heart flutter just a little.

Yoongi catches you staring again and raises an eyebrow, that playful smirk returning. "What the fuck? What's with you today? First my hands, now my face?" He flicks your forehead lightly before leaning closer, his whiskey-laced breath warm as he teases, "Should I be worried?"

You playfully shove his shoulder, feeling your face heat up. "Shut up, I was just thinking how weird it is that you actually can cook now after all our disasters."

Yoongi laughs, low and rich, before sinking deeper into the couch. "Mmm, miracles happen." He stretches his arms above his head, the fabric of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. "But if you keep staring like that, I might fuck you."

His teasing is bold tonight, the whiskey, the rain, the quiet apartment making him bolder than usual.

The moment the words leave his mouth, Yoongi's own ears turn pink. He clears his throat, suddenly very interested in refilling his whiskey glass—avoiding your wide-eyed stare.

"That was the alcohol talking," he mumbles, voice even deeper than usual. A beat of silence, then he side-eyes you with half-hearted defiance. "Mostly."

The rain outside picks up, drumming against the windows as if urging one of you to break the tension.

Yoongi exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck before finally meeting your gaze. His usual composed demeanor cracks just enough for you to see the nervousness underneath—but there's something else too, something warm and daring.

"Shit… don't look at me like that," he mutters, voice rough. "Like you're waiting for me to take it back." He swirls the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking. "I won't."

The admission hangs between you, fragile and charged. Then, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth ticks up—a silent challenge, an invitation. The air feels thicker.

The room feels like it's shrinking around you, his words and that subtle smile tugging at your heart strings.

"You're drunk," you manage, voice cracking slightly. But the protest sounds weak, even to you. You're not sure you actually want him to take it back.

Yoongi sets down his glass with a soft 'clink', "Yeah." he murmured. "Whatever."

It's the whiskey and the rain and the late hour—that's the excuse you're going to give yourself for why your heart is going so fast. For how you keep finding yourself staring at his lips, wet from the drink, and how they part around a soft exhale when he looks back at you.

He turns fully toward you now, knees brushing yours as he leans forward a bit. Close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with his usual aftershave.

"But not drunk enough to not know exactly what I'm saying."

The proximity makes your pulse race, his eyes locked on yours with an almost predatory intensity. You're hyper-aware of the warmth radiating off him, your knee pressed against his, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly gone dry even as your skin feels flushed. "You know this is a terrible idea," you hear yourself saying, but your voice lacks conviction.

"You think I don't know that?" he murmurs, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to yours. "Yet here we are."

He lifts a hand, his touch feather-light as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek for a second too long. "I have a lot of terrible ideas." The words are murmured, his tone huskier than usual.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively lean into it. You're caught between reason and desire, knowing you should stop, but the warmth of his fingers on your skin makes you ache for more.

When you find your voice, it's barely above a whisper. "This could ruin everything." You're not sure if you're trying to convince him or yourself.

Yoongi exhales a slow breath through his nose, his thumb tracing idle circles against your cheekbone—like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

"Or," he counters quietly, gaze steady, "it could be the best fucking idea we’ve ever had."

His audacity, his confidence, the way he says it with such nonchalance, it's infuriating and intoxicating. You want to argue, to insist this will end in disaster, but his words are seeping into your skin, and you can't deny the heat pooling in your stomach.

He leans closer, his other hand resting on your knee, his touch searing even through the fabric of your clothes. "Stop me," he whispers, his voice a low rumble, and it sounds like a challenge. "Please, stop me."

Your breath catches as his lips hover just inches from yours, the air between you charged with anticipation. The rain outside is the only sound, steady and relentless, like the pulse thrumming in your veins.

You should stop him.

"Stop." you whispered.

Yoongi freezes instantly at your whisper, his body tensing like he's been burned. He pulls back just enough to search your face, the playful confidence in his eyes replaced by something softer—concern, hesitation, an unspoken question.

For a second, he just stares at you, his fingers still lingering near your cheek but no longer touching. Then, with a quiet exhale, he leans back into the couch, putting careful distance between you.

"Okay," is all he says, voice rough. He grabs his whiskey glass, knuckles white around it, and downs the rest in one swallow. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until he finally mutters, "Sorry."

The word hangs in the air, fragile. He doesn't look at you.

The sudden shift is jarring, and a pang of guilt pricks at your heart at the sight of Yoongi's tense shoulders. You open your mouth to speak, but words fail you for a second. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, you manage, "No… don't apologize."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, to bridge the distance between you, but they stay firmly planted on your lap. You chew your lip, searching for the right words. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Yoongi finally glances at you, his expression unreadable. He swirls the empty whiskey glass in his hand, the ice cubes clinking softly. "Yeah," he says after a beat, voice quiet but firm. "I did."

He sets the glass down with deliberate care, then runs a hand through his hair—messier now from how many times he's done it tonight.

He exhales sharply through his nose, then forces a smirk—lopsided, unconvincing. "Let's just… watch something stupid, yeah?" He grabs the remote, thumb pressing down hard on the volume button until the TV blares to life, drowning out the rain—and whatever else might’ve been said.

The volume is loud enough to make conversation pointless—a deliberate choice, you suspect. Yoongi avoids your gaze, focusing intently on the screen as he scrolls through the movies. There's an unmistakable tension to his frame, his shoulders too tight for someone trying to appear nonchalant.

You sneak glances at him, trying to decipher his expression, but it's maddeningly neutral. It's as if a switch has flipped, and the playful, bold Yoongi from earlier is gone, replaced by this distant, closed-off version. You hate it.

The movie drones on—some mindless action flick, explosions and car chases and cheesy one-liners. Yoongi stares at the screen as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

But his gaze is glassy, like he's a million miles away. You shift on the couch, your knee just barely brushing against his, and watch as he recoils just slightly at the touch, shoulders tensing even more.

The space between you feels almost palpable, an unseen barrier erected around him. The silence is deafening over the movie's din, and you can't take it anymore. You lean forward, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie.

The sudden silence is louder than the explosions had been. Yoongi finally turns to look at you, eyebrows slightly raised in question—but his guarded expression doesn’t shift.

You take a slow breath. "Talk to me."

He exhales through his nose, jaw working. For a second, you think he’ll brush you off again. Then, quietly, he admits:

"I don’t know what to say." His voice is rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. "I crossed a line. I don’t—" A pause. "Fuck."

He rakes a hand through his hair again, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "This is why I don't do this. Why I don't—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath. "Now it's weird. And I hate that it's weird."

His gaze flicks to yours, just for a second, before dropping to his hands. "…I don't want to lose you over some drunk moment." The admission is quiet, almost reluctant, like he’s mad at himself for caring this much.

You swallow, watching the range of emotions flicker across his face—frustration, resignation, something deeper and more vulnerable hidden behind his eyes. When you finally speak, your voice is soft in the quiet apartment.

"It doesn't have to be weird." You hesitate, gauging his reaction but getting nothing. You press on, quieter.

"You didn't do anything wrong." Your fingers itch to reach out, to smooth the frown from his brow, but you keep your hands clenched tightly in your lap. "I think…" you falter, uncertain how to phrase it without sounding too hopeful, "I think… maybe we both wanted it."

The words hang heavy in the air, and you wait for his response, heart lodged in your throat.

Yoongi's gaze flicks to yours, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something else. He shifts on the couch, turning towards you, the tension in his shoulders lessening just barely.

"Maybe." He mutters more to himself than to you. Then he exhales loudly, running a hand through his hair again. "Jesus…you're gonna make me say it, aren't you."

You let out a small huff, caught between frustration and amusement. "Say what?" you say, trying to keep your voice nonchalant despite the sudden flutter in your chest. "That you wanted to kiss me or fuck me?"

The bluntness of your words makes him falter for a split second. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks up into a wry grin. "Always so direct."

He leans back into the couch, the guarded expression loosening somewhat. His gaze flicks over your features, like he's cataloguing every detail. Finally, he lets out a soft, humorless laugh. "You're right. I did want it." He holds your gaze, daring you to look away. "A lot. Still do."

Yoongi exhales sharply, the quiet confession lingering between you like the faint burn of whiskey. His fingers tap restlessly against his thigh before he finally meets your eyes again.

There's something new in his expression, a rawness beneath the guarded veneer that makes your stomach clench. He opens his mouth, then closes it, his usual eloquence failing him. When he finally speaks, the words are hushed, barely audible over the rain.

"You're driving me fucking crazy."

The admission is quiet but powerful, carrying a weight that makes your heart race. You hold his gaze, the air between you charged with something electric and unspoken.

"You're not alone in that," you murmur, your voice betraying a vulnerability that mirrors his. "You've been driving me crazy for years."

His eyes flicker with surprise at your admission, then something softer—a realization, perhaps. "We're a mess," he says, voice half-amused. He lets out a small huff, the tension draining from his shoulders.

"Two idiots, ignoring what's been right in front of us."

His words hit you like a blow—too perceptive to be coincidence. You swallow against the sudden thickness in your throat.

"Ignoring? Or too afraid to acknowledge it?" you countered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi's expression softens further, his walls crumbling bit by bit. "Both." He says, his tone a mixture of sheepishness and confession. "Definitely both."

He turns to face you more fully, his knee presses against yours as he closes the slight distance between you. "Fuck it."

The swear is murmured before his hand is on the back of your neck, pulling you towards him, and then his mouth is on yours.

It's not a pretty kiss; it's needy and a little bit rough, born out of years of pent-up tension. His grip is tight, fingers tangling in your hair, as he devours your mouth like a man starved. There's a possessiveness in it, something hungry and all-consuming that makes your chest ache and your mind go blank.

Desire flares white-hot in your stomach, burning away any reservations or doubts you had. Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, matching his urgency with your own fervor.

His tongue runs along the seam of your lips, and you surrender without resistance, opening for him. His free hand slides down your waist, pulling you onto his lap, and the new position allows for a deeper angle, deepening the kiss to something scorching.

Yoongi's hands roam your body with an urgency that makes your head spin. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, the roughness of his palms against your skin sending shivers cascading down your spine. He swallows your gasp as he trails kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, his touch setting your nerves ablaze.

His fingers slide up your bare thighs, grip unyielding, and he hitches your legs up around his waist.

"Our first sex won't be on the couch, maybe later on, but I want you in my bed. I want to fuck you in my bed, in my bedroom," he murmured.

His words are crude but they send a bolt of heat straight through you. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him back up to your mouth, your kiss urgent and feverish.

"Sounds like a good plan," you breathe against his lips before he claims your mouth again, his hands squeezing your thighs.

Yoongi picks you up easily, hands under your legs, as he stands. His mouth never leaves yours as he carries you down the hall to his bedroom, navigating the path by instinct. His fingers dig into your thighs.

He breaks the kiss only to lay you down onto the bed, and then he's hovering over you, eyes dark and fervent as he looks down at you with a gaze that borders on feral.

The roughness in his grip, his eyes—it's a side of Yoongi you've never seen before, and it's intoxicating. His hands grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head with a swift, rough motion, and then he's trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants, his intention clear.

His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, yet there's something tender in his movements that betrays what the hard lines of his face and body conceal. His mouth against the soft skin of your stomach sends shivers down your spine, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants as he tugs them off.

He sits back, taking a moment to look at you spread before him. His chest heaves with labored breaths, his eyes rake over your body, lingering on the way your legs fall open in an unspoken invitation.

His hands slide up your inner thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear.

"Lift your hips." he murmured

The command is simple but something about the low timbre of his voice makes you obey without question. You lift your hips, letting him slide your underwear down and off your legs.

He lets it fall to the floor before he's on you again, his hands roaming over your bare skin with an urgency that borders on desperate. There's no hint of playfulness now, just a raw, unbridled need that matches your own. His mouth finds your nipple, hot and hungry.

His hands and mouth are everywhere, rough and feverish, his touch leaving a burning trail in its wake. Your nipples are hard under his tongue, each flick and suck making you arch into him, your fingers clawing at his back.

His mouth releases your nipple with a soft pop, and he looks up at you with dark, clouded eyes. His lips are swollen and wet, but there's a glint of something wild in his gaze.

He sits up, and his hands move to his belt, unbuckling it with swift, practiced movements. The sound of the buckle being opened is surprisingly loud in the silence of the bedroom, only broken by your hushed breaths.

His fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and yanks both them and his pants down at once.

"Can I taste you?" he murmured. "Please, let me. I want to taste your pretty pussy."

The vulgarity of his words, said in that deep, gravelly voice, sends a jolt of heat straight between your legs. You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence, too overwhelmed by the sight of him and his unexpected hunger.

"Yes," you manage to whisper, your thighs falling open in a silent invitation.

Yoongi's hands grip your thighs, thumbs running over your skin as he settles between your legs. His eyes are fixed on you, watchful and intense, as if he's committing every detail to memory.

His mouth presses soft, gentle kisses to the inside of your thigh. "You smell so good," he whispered.

His words seem to echo in the air, sending a shiver up your spine. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, his lips moving from your thigh to the inside of your knee, then back again, leaving a wet trail of kisses. He pauses for a second, his hands splaying your legs further apart, giving him better access. He inhales deeply, like he's savoring your scent.

"Sweet," he murmured. "So sweet." His fingers brushed through your slick folds, spreading your wetness.

Your hips jerk at the contact, your hands clenching the bedsheets. Yoongi's touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he spreads you open with his fingers. He leans in, his mouth hot and wet, and then he's licking a broad stripe up your slit, from your entrance to your clit.

He lets out a low, hungry groan as his tongue meets your clit. His hands slide up your body as he devours you, reaching for your chest, palming at your nipples.

His fingers brush across your mouth, and reflexively, you open for them, sucking them in, moaning around them as his tongue swipes across your clit.

The combination of his mouth on your clit and his fingers in your mouth is too much to bear, and you find yourself mindlessly pushing against his face. He hums against your clit.

"Ride baby," he murmured.

His words, mumbled against your clit, seem to send electric sparks through your core. You do as he says, lifting your hips off the bed, pushing against his mouth, seeking more pressure.

His fingers in your mouth press down on your tongue, muffling your moans as he flicks his tongue over your clit, fast, rough, and relentless. Your back arches off the bed, your hands flying down to tangle in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to.

"Yeah baby, you can pull them," he murmured.

You grip his hair tight, both hands tugging on the strands as you grind against his face, seeking friction. His fingers slide out of your mouth, only to wrap around your thigh, holding you in place, his grip tight, almost bruising.

His tongue on your clit is a flurry of movement, swirling circles, then hard, flat pressure, then sucking, all mixed with little scrapes of his teeth that send sparks of heat through your belly. Your legs quake around his head, your muscles tightening as you approach the edge.

Your mind fogged by pleasure. You're teetering on the edge, every nerve ending on fire. You grind against his face, chasing that sweet release. Your fingers twist in his hair, your voice a mix of moans and pleads.

"Don't stop, oh god, don't stop.." you gasp.

His hands on your thighs seem to dig in further, anchoring you. His mouth on you is relentless.

You can feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter. All you can hear is the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the rasp of your breaths, your moaned pleas and his grunts, and the rain pounding against the window.

His grip on your thighs is almost painful, but you can barely feel the pain. Your body is on fire, your spine tingling, your muscles clenching, and then he's sucking on your clit, hard.

That's all it takes. Your orgasm hits you with a force that takes your breath away. Your body arches off the bed as you come, a silent scream escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he holds you through it, lapping up every last drop until you're trembling and boneless against the sheets.

Slowly, he releases your thigh, his hands gently easing your legs off his shoulders. He looks up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark, wild, and filled with something else. Something more intense than desire.

He crawls up your body, fingers spreading your legs wider, and he leans down and kisses you.

His mouth is hot and rough, tasting of you. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can't help but taste yourself on him. His hands grip your waist, holding you pinned against the mattress as he deepens the kiss.

His body feels solid, heavy on top of yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, his taut muscles, the roughness of his skin against yours.

He breaks the kiss for a moment to lean up and pull his shirt off, tossing it aside with a careless flick of his wrist. His hands are everywhere, your breasts, your stomach, your legs, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake. He lowers his body again, his breath hot against your ear, chest pressing against yours.

"Delicious." he murmured.

His words send a shiver through you, adding fuel to the fire that's still burning inside. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them next to your head. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and licking the sensitive skin there.

His hips shift, grinding against yours, and you feel something thick and hard pressing against your clit. You gasp, arching your back, and he grinds down harder, his name falling from your lips in a breathy sigh.

He rolls his hips again, the friction between you maddening, but not enough. You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his breath hot against your ear.

His hands tighten around yours, fingers almost bruising, as he keeps you in place, completely at his mercy. He's a contradiction of roughness and tenderness, feral and gentle all at once.

"You're so wet." He murmured against your neck, his voice rough and low. His hands move to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he grinds against you again.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his mouth by your ear. You can feel the smug smirk in his tone, the cocky arrogance that you'd be annoyed by if it wasn't so hot. "I am rock hard for you, and leaking so much pre cum. Shit, look at it."

His words make your head spin, your hands clenching on his fingers. You can feel it, the thick, hard length of him grinding against your clit, leaving a wet trail on your stomach.

"Feels good, don't it? You feel how big I am? You feel how hard I am for you?" he murmured, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, spreading your legs wider.

He releases one of your hands, and you reach down, wrapping your fingers around his dick. It feels even more massive in your hand, hot and slick and rock hard, the veins pulsing under your touch.

"Feel it angel." he murmured.

Your fingers can't even wrap around him completely. You run your thumb over the head of his dick, collecting the precum and spreading it down the length. It's so hot and heavy in your hands.

"You're so big." you breathed, sounding almost awed.

He let out a low groan in response, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he grinds against your hand.

"You like it, don't you? You like how big I am." He murmured, his voice low and guttural.

You nod, unable to form words. Your mind is a mess, filled with thoughts of him, of his hands, of his body, of his scent, of the way he sounds.

"Spit on it, make it more wet for you." he murmured.

You obediently lean forward and spit on his dick, letting it drip down his length. You spread it with your fingers, using both hands now to stroke him.

His hands fall to the sheets, fisting the fabric, his body quaking above you.

"So pretty. So good for me," he murmured, his hands clenching tighter as he tried to hold himself together. "Such a perfect little mess for me, aren't you?"

He moaned as you stroked him, his head falling forward onto your shoulder. He was hot all over, the roughness gone from his touch now, replaced by something rawer, needier.

"God…you feel so good," he murmured, his voice tight with pleasure. "Your hands are perfect."

You can feel him shaking, his fingers trembling against your skin. Your hands move faster, your grip tighter.

"You're big and thick, Yoongi." you murmured. "Feels so good in my hands."

He buried his face in your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"You're not… supposed to stroke it like that." He managed to say, his voice low and shaky. "Fuck."

You slow your movements, looking up at him. "You don't like it?" you asked, a playful glint in your eyes.

He growled lowly, and before you could react, he rolled you over, so you were on top.

"Take it." he murmured.

His hands left yours, moving to grip your waist. With one swift movement, he lifted you up and repositioned you over his lap, his legs spread to accommodate you.

You placed your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, your legs straddling his thighs. His fingers gripped your waist, holding you in place.

His hands were rough again, but there was still that gentleness under it. His eyes were dark as he looked up at you, his gaze unwavering.

"Down." he murmured.

You sank down onto him, a gasp escaping your lips as you felt him nudge against your entrance. You were so wet for him, your body eagerly accepting him inside you, and he groaned as he slid inside you.

"So tight." he murmured, his grip on your waist tightening. "So wet."

He held you in place, not letting you move just yet. He was letting you adjust to his size.

He leaned back, his hands resting on your thighs, his touch almost reverent. His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—your flushed face, your parted lips, your heaving chest.

He slid his hands up your thighs, up your sides, and rested on your hips, fingers ghosting over your nipples. "You look beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice softer than before. "Straddled in my lap, taking my cock so well."

Your mind blanks out at his words, the compliment making your heart flutter. You lean down, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging at the strands.

He let out a small whine at the sensation, and your heart swelled with a strange fondness at the contrast of his roughness and his sensitivity. You leaned down even more, your body pressing against his, your body burning with a need to feel him closer.

His hands found your hips again, guiding your movements.

"Ride me," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Bounce it."

It was an order, yet there was a plea in his voice. You obeyed, raising your hips and sinking down on him again, a moan escaping your lips as he filled you. He moaned too, his head falling back onto the mattress, his eyes shut.

His hands on your hips encouraged you to move again, and you did, finding a rhythm that made you both gasp and moan.

He groaned again, his fingers digging into your hips. "Just like that." he murmured. "So good, such a good girl."

The praise made your stomach clench, your heart skipping a beat. You rode him harder, riding him with more urgency.

"Faster," he panted, his face etched with pleasure. "Squeeze your boobs. Show me."

His rough demand sent a jolt of heat through you, and you sat up, your hands grabbing your breasts. You moaned, your back arching, and you felt him twitch inside you in response.

"Like this?" you asked, your voice breathy and needy. Your fingers pinched and rolled your nipples, the sensation adding to the pleasure building inside you. You clenched around him, your pace picking up.

He moaned, his hands gliding up your stomach to cover yours. "Oh, God," he murmured. "Perfect fucking titts, shit. So beautiful."

You moaned at his words, your fingers intertwining with his, guiding his hands to your breasts. He squeezed them gently, pinching your nipples with just the right pressure.

His hips rocked up to meet your movements, the rhythm of your bodies growing more frenzied. "You're so wet," he murmured, his breath coming in short pants. "So hot. Fuck, listen to how wet you are, baby."

The squelching sounds mixed with your moans, echoing in the room. You couldn't help but clench around him, desperate for more.

He moaned deeply, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. He slid his hands down to your ass, gripping it firmly, urging you to move faster, harder.

"Fuck, fuck. perfect ass." he murmured.

Your mind was a mess, your thoughts reduced to single syllables—yes, please, more, so good. You rode him eagerly, spurred on by his praises and the ache between your legs.

"That's it," he murmured, his fingers sinking into your flesh. "Just like that, angel. Use it, fuck me. Fuck yourself."

The vulgarity of his words, the roughness of his hands, paired with the raw vulnerability in his eyes and voice combined to a dizzying effect. You moaned, your movements growing faster, more frantic.

"Y-Yoongi." you gasped. "I'm close." You barely recognized your own voice, raw and needy.

He moaned, his fingers stilling on your ass, his body trembling beneath you. "Me too." he groaned. "Touch yourself."

You moaned, one hand moving down between your legs, your fingers finding your clit. You could feel him getting closer, his hips starting to lose their rhythm.

You circled your clit desperately, your movements getting more clumsy as you lost yourself in pleasure. He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry, his mouth partially open. "Faster," he hissed. "I wanna see you come on my cock."

You moaned, your fingers working faster, your body trembling. "Oh, God." you moaned. "Yoongi, I'm so close." Your muscles clenched around him, the pressure building to an almost unbearable level.

He moaned, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Come, come, come." he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. "Come on my cock."

You could feel the tension building, the room becoming nothing but heat and flesh and noises. "Yoongi, I—"

"Come for me." he growled. "Come right now."

And you did, with a cry that mingled with his name and echoed his release. You collapsed against his chest, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. Your heart raced, your lungs burning with the need for air. For a few moments, the world narrowed down to just the two of you: your hearts thumping against each other, your breaths mingling.

Both of you were breathing heavily, coming down from the high. He held you against his chest, his arms strong and comforting. "Holy…Jesus." he managed to huff. "I haven't been this intense in years."

You chuckled, the sound muffled against his chest. "You were something else."

His fingers ran down your spine, tracing the ridges, and you shivered at the touch. "I blame it on the rain," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble under your cheek.

The sound of the rain outside seemed to intensify, a fitting backdrop to the storm that had just occurred. You lifted your head slightly to look up at him, taking in his disheveled hair, his flushed cheeks, the sweat glistening on his forehead.

"The rain, huh." you said, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "Definitely the rain."

He huffed out a half-laugh, a sound that rumbled through his chest. "Definitely the rain." he repeated. "And you. Jesus." His fingers moved up to your hair, stroking the strands absently.

You rested your chin on his chest, looking up at him.

He met your gaze, his eyes a mix of vulnerability and satisfaction. For a moment, you just looked at each other, the weight of what had just occurred settling upon you both.

He shifted slightly, a small wince crossing his face. "I should probably…pull out." he murmured.

You nodded, your heart beating a little faster at the thought. You lifted yourself up, hissing as you felt him slide out of you, the sudden emptiness making you feel empty. He let out a soft groan.

"Fuck, so much cum." you murmured and chuckled.

He huffed out a dry laugh, running a hand over his face. "Yeah. That tends to happen." There was a hint of humor in his voice, but also something else, something warmer, more vulnerable. "I come a lot.. sorry about that."

You shook your head, still lying sprawled on top of him. "Don't be sorry." you murmured. "It felt really good."

His hands rubbed up and down your back, his touch both soothing and intimate.

"Good." he murmured. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before adding lowly, "You felt really good."

You huffed a laugh. "So did you."

His hands continued their absentminded journey across your back, the roughness of his fingers a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch.

"Seriously though." you said, propping yourself up on your elbows. "We've made a mess."

He chuckled, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine. "Yeah, we did."

A moment of silence passed, then he said gruffly, "I should grab something to clean us up." He moved to stand up.

You rolled off him, allowing him to get up. He stood up, stretched, and walked naked to the adjoining bathroom. You lay there for a moment, watching him go, feeling oddly content despite the mess.

He returned a moment later with a wet washcloth.

"Open your legs, angel," he murmured.

Your heart skipped a beat at the simple command, and you did as he said, parting your legs for him.

He settled back between your legs, the washcloth in his hand. He pressed it against your inner thigh, the slightly cool material a stark contrast to the scorching heat of your skin. You flinched at the sensation, but he held you in place with a firm hand on your hip.

Your body was oversensitive, every touch sending shivers down your spine. He brushed the cloth over your folds, cleaning up the mess while being surprisingly gentle.

"Sore?" he asked, his voice still gruff but softer now, like the rough edges had been shaven off.

You swallowed, feeling the ache between your legs. "A little," you admitted.

He paused, giving you a look that almost resembled concern. "Sorry." he murmured, a hint of guilt in his voice. "Took you too hard."

You reached out, touched the back of his hand. "It's okay," you reassured softly. "I liked it. A lot."

His gaze flicked back to you, and for a moment, the hard lines on his face softened. "Next time," he said, "I'll take better care of you."

Your heart fluttered at his words. "There'll be a next time, huh?" you said, unable to stop the slight flutter of hope in your voice.

He huffed out a small chuckle, the first trace of a genuine smile on his face the whole night. "If you want there to be." It almost sounded like a question.

You offered him a small, genuine smile. "I do." you said, your voice softer than you'd intended.

Something softened in his eyes at your words. He ran the cloth over your inner thighs again, and you shivered at the sensitivity, the cotton slightly rough against your skin.

"Good," he murmured. He seemed to think for a moment before adding, "Do… you want to stay the night?"

The question caught you off guard, but there was no hesitation in your answer. "Yeah." you agreed. "I'd like that."

He finished cleaning you up, tossing the washcloth onto the floor. He gestured for you to move over, making room for him next to you on the bed.

"Come here." he murmured.

You scooted over to him, nestling into his side. His arm draped over your waist, pulling you closer, and you rested your head on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a stark contrast to the frenzied pace it had been moments ago. The silence was comfortable, filled with a newfound easiness.

The rain hammered against the windows, creating a soothing background noise. You let out a contented sigh, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones.

His fingers ran soothing circles on your hip, the roughness of his knuckles a contrast to the warmth of his touch. "You should sleep." he murmured.

You nuzzled closer into his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under you. "You should too." you murmured back.

He let out a small huff that might've been a laugh. "Probably," he replied, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Fuck, we did it."

You hummed in agreement, feeling the weight of the night settle around you. "Yeah, we did."

He huffed again, the vibrations resonating through his chest. "Finally." he murmured. "I've wanted to do that for a while."

You chuckled, the sound muffled against his chest. "You're not the only one."

time skip.

You leaned back in your chair, sighing as you rubbed your eyes. Your fingers rested on the keyboard of your laptop in front of you, half written essay forgotten for the moment.

It had been a week since that night, and you'd been replaying it in your mind obsessively. Everything about it had been seared into your brain—his hands, his mouth, his voice, the way he moaned your name, how he held you after.

You shook your head, trying to clear the image from your mind. You couldn't afford to be distracted now. Finals were approaching, and you had a paper due next week.

You tried to refocus on the essay on your laptop screen, but your thoughts kept wandering back to that night, sending shiver after shiver down your spine. You remembered the roughness of his voice, the possessiveness in his words.

Suddenly, the door to your apartment clicked open, snapping you back to the present. You turned in your chair to see Yoongi stepping inside.

"Hello angel baby." he smiled.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He looked unfairly attractive in a grey t-shirt that hugged his biceps, black sweatpants emphasizing his long legs. His hair was pulled back in a small bun, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones.

"Hey." you managed to utter, trying to control the flutter in your chest. "Come, give me a hug"

His smile widened, and he strode over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you up into his embrace. You couldn't help but inhale his musk, the scent igniting a spark of desire deep within you.

"Missed me, huh?" he murmured, his breath warm against your neck.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to play it cool even as your heart raced. "A little," you admitted.

He chuckled, his hands running up and down your back. "Only a little?" he teased. "Come, hold me."

His hands shifted, hooking under your thighs and lifting you off the ground. You were so caught off guard you squeaked, arms tightening reflexively around his neck. He carried you to the couch, sitting down with you straddling his lap, hands still under your thighs.

"There." he murmured, settling you comfortably on top of him. "Much more comfortable."

You obliged, letting him pull you closer, pressing your body against his. His hands roamed freely, possessive and domineering. You could feel the heat of his touch through your clothes.

"You've been avoiding me." he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. "I don't like that."

Your legs rested on either side of his hips, the position leaving little space between your bodies. His hands settled back on your waist, his fingertips just grazing the skin under your shirt. You leaned closer, resting your hands on his shoulders, letting your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck.

He let out a small sigh as you played with his hair, his hands tracing patterns on the small of your back. "Someone's clingy today." he murmured, amused. "I like it."

You huffed out a small laugh, but didn't pull away. In fact, you leaned further into his touch, letting your forehead rest on his shoulder.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. Your stomach pressed against the firm muscles of his abdomen, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

"Long day?" he murmured, his fingers still drawing patterns on your spine.

You nodded against his shoulder. "Just this stupid essay. Professor's being a pain."

He hummed, his fingers moving up to massage the nape of your neck. "You'll get it done and smash it. You're smart." he murmured.

Your heart fluttered at the compliment, but you couldn't help but mumble, "I don't feel very smart right now."

His hands stopped their movement, and you felt him pull back just enough to look at you. "Hey." he said firmly, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. "Look at me."

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark and serious, his fingers grazing along your jaw.

"You're smart, okay? You are the smartest person I know." he said, punctuating each word. "You're gonna finish that paper, and it's gonna be amazing. And then you're gonna get those good grades, and you're gonna make that prof wish he never gave you that assignment in the first place, alright?"

His words, the unwavering certainty and belief in his voice, stirred something in you. You leaned into his touch, feeling the weight of his words sink in.

"Yeah." you murmured, feeling a little more determined. "Yeah, I will."

His grip on your jaw gentled, his thumb rubbing against your bottom lip. "Damn right you will." he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile. "Hungry, baby?"

The change in subject threw you off, and it took a moment for your brain to catch up. "Uh, yeah." you finally managed to say, a little dazedly.

His hands slid down to your waist, and he lifted you up effortlessly, setting you back on your feet between his knees. "Come then," he said, rising to his feet and offering you his hand.

You took his hand, feeling a bit unbalanced after being hoisted off his lap. He led you to your small kitchen, gesturing for you to sit at the table while he rummaged through your fridge.

He emerged moments later with some eggs, carrots, green onions, and some beef. You watched as he moved around your kitchen like he owned it, chopping up the vegetables with practiced ease.

He moved with a surprisingly captivating efficiency. His hands were quick and precise, his muscles flexing under his shirt as he chopped. You couldn't help but admire the way he moved, the grace and strength in every motion.

He was quiet as he cooked, focused on the task at hand. Every now and then, he'd catch you watching him, your eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and hunger. He pretended not to notice, but the corners of his mouth would twitch with suppressed amusement.

The room filled with the aroma of sautéing vegetables and sizzling beef. You couldn't help but feel a sense of peace, watching him cook.

He moved back to the fridge, grabbing some soy sauce and sesame oil, then drizzled them into the pan. He continued to stir the ingredients together, the clink of metal against the pan the only sound in the room. You could sense the concentration on his face, the slight furrow in his brows as he focused on the task at hand.

Minutes later, the room filled with the rich aroma of stir-fried food. Your stomach growled in response, making you feel a little embarrassed.

He must've heard the noise because he chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Hungry, are we?" he murmured. Without looking at you, he scooped up a spoonful of the contents of the pan and held it out to you. "Open up."

Your cheeks heated at his words, but you obeyed, parting your lips slightly. He brought the spoon close, the sizzling ingredients dripping hot onto your tongue. His eyes remained focused on your mouth, watching as you chewed and swallowed.

The food was delicious, flavorful and hot, but your attention was fixed on him. You met his gaze, holding his heated stare as you licked your lips.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, his eyes darkened, locked on your mouth as you swiped your tongue across your bottom lip. He let out a rough exhale through his nose, the sound almost resembling a growl.

"Stop licking your lips like that." he murmured.

You swallowed, feeling the thrill of defiance and the need to push him further. "Why?" you replied coyly, lifting a hand to run your finger along your bottom lip, collecting a bit of the sauce and bringing it to your mouth.

His eyes followed your every movement, his jaw clenching.

"Because it makes me want things." he gritted out.

You fought the urge to smirk, loving the fact that you had this effect on him. You swiped your finger across your bottom lip again, this time making it a show, your tongue darting out to lick the sauce off.

"Stop playing, angel." he murmured.

But you weren't going to make it easy for him. His reaction was too enticing, too fun. You swiped your finger across your lip again.

"I wish I could suck your dick like this." you murmured.

"Jesus, baby." he murmured. He set the spoon down on the counter.

You could see the tension in the way he stood, the way his shoulders were taut, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He was trying to hold himself back. You wanted to see him break.

You leaned forward in your chair, parting your lips, a silent invitation. His dark eyes tracked the movement, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

"Yoongi." you murmured, your voice soft and sultry. "Come here." He visibly swallowed, his hands flexing again at his sides. His eyes were locked on your mouth.

Without a word, he rounded the countertop, stepping between your legs, his knees pressing against yours.

His chest was inches from your face, your hands resting on his waist. You could feel the heat from his body, his muscled chest rising and falling with each breath he took. You could smell the scent that was uniquely him, a mix of sweat, leather, and now, a little bit of soy sauce.

You reached up, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. "This needs to come off." you murmured.

His hands found the hem of his shirt, lifting it up over his flexed abs, the movement fluid and swift. You watched, admiring the way his muscles moved under his skin. Soon, his shirt was tossed onto the counter, leaving him in nothing but a pair of low-sitting sweats, pressing your lips to his stomach.

One of his hands came up to tangle in your hair, tightening as you moved your mouth lower, your hands coming down to grip his hips. You mouthed over the V of his hip bones, feeling the heat pooling in your belly. You reached the hem of his sweatpants, your fingers toying with the elastic.

"Take these off." you murmured.

"Is that so, princess?" he murmured, his fingers tightening in your hair. "You giving commands now?"

You nipped at his hip bone, smiling against his skin. "Take them off." you repeated, your hands already pushing down his sweatpants.

He obliged, pushing his sweats down his legs and kicking them away. You leaned back, taking in the sight of him standing there in front of you, naked and toned and all for you. Your eyes roamed over his body, starting from his broad shoulders, down his firm chest, the ridges of his abs, and lower.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him, long and thick, already starting to harden at the tip. You knelt before him.

His hand was still in your hair, his fingers twitching, his eyes dark as he looked down at you. "You want it, baby girl?" he murmured. "You want my dick in your mouth?"

You looked up at him, your hands pressing against his hip bones. "Yes." you murmured, your mouth mere inches from him. "I want it."

He groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck." he murmured.

You took him in your hand, feeling the weight and thickness of him. He was hot and hard, the skin satin-smooth under your grip. You gave him a firm stroke, and he groaned again, his fingers flexing in your hair.

"It's leaking already." he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. "Want a taste, angel?"

You couldn't resist, you were aching for him. You wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him in your mouth. You leaned forward, your tongue poking out to lap at the head of his cock.

He inhaled sharply, his grip on your hair tightening. "Jesus." He breathed. You flicked your tongue over his head again, tasting the salty precum. You moaned, the taste making your mouth water for more.

"More?" he murmured. "Go on, take it."

You moaned again, not needing to be told twice. You took him into your mouth, wrapping your lips around him as you slid down his length. He moaned above you, his fingers flexing in your hair. "Shit, yeah." he groaned. "Just like that, angel. Take me nice and deep."

You moaned around him, taking him as deep as you could. You moaned at the taste of him, the weight of him in your mouth. You pulled back spit on it.

He groaned again, his head falling back. "God damn." he moaned. "You have such filthy little mouth."

You didn't respond, not with your mouth full. You bobbed your head, taking him in deeper, your fingers wrapped around the base of him. He moaned again, his hands tightening in your hair. "Good girl." he murmured.

You moaned at the praise, the ache between your legs growing stronger. You pulled off him just to catch your breath.

He took the opportunity to lift you up, picking you up as you squeaked in surprise. He set you down on the dining table, knocking the contents off it, and then grabbed your hips, pulling you to the edge of the table.

You gasped as he manhandled you, shock quickly replaced by excitement. He pulled your pants off, tossing them aside. He stepped between your spread legs, his hands gripping your thighs. He leaned forward, his mouth by your ear.

"I'm gonna eat you out." he murmured

Your heart skipped a beat, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Yeah?" you managed to say, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

He chuckled, his hands spreading your legs even wider. "Yeah." he murmured.

He kissed down your neck, his hands sliding down your thighs. He knelt in front of the table, his fingertips grazing the insides of your thighs. He looked up at you as he leaned forward, and his hot breath fanned your pussy. You moaned at the sensation, your hands clenching in his hair.

He moaned against you, the vibration only adding to the sensation. His tongue flicked out, tasting your clit, and you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned against you again, his hands spreading your legs wider, his tongue diving deeper.

You moaned again, the heat pooling in your belly. It felt so good, his mouth on your clit like this. You lifted your legs to rest on his shoulders.

"Such a pretty pussy princess." he murmured against you and spit on it a few times. "Do you like the way I move my tongue around your clit?'

"Y-yeah." You moaned, arching your back off the table. "Feels so good."

His hands moved up, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you down. "You're so wet for me, baby." he murmured. "Fuck, I love burying my face in this fucking pussy."

He flattened his tongue, tracing it up and down your clit. You moaned, your hands still tangled in his hair.

"Just like that." he murmured. "Don't hold back, I wanna hear you."

His hands spread you wider, his tongue moving faster. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. You couldn't help but arch your back, your moans getting louder.

"God, I need to be inside you.'" he murmured

You moaned in agreement, your hands fists in his hair. "Please." you breathed. "Please, inside me."

He moaned against you at your words, his fingers digging into your hips, and you could feel him pull away.

"You want me, baby?" he murmured, his voice rough.

He moaned against you, his hands reaching up to grab your breasts. You moaned, the sensations almost too much.

He pulled back, standing up between your legs. He took your hands and pulled you up into a sitting position. "Turn around." he murmured.

You obeyed, turning around and getting onto your hands and knees. You could feel his gaze on your back, his hands on your hips.

"Good girl." he murmured. "Arch your back."

You obeyed again, arching your back, your ass in the air. His hands gripped your hips, his cock hot against your entrance.

"This view is even better." he murmured, his grip on your hips tightening. Your back arched further, wanting him.

You could feel him lining up with your entrance, and you moaned in anticipation. But he paused, his hands gripping your hips.

"Look at me." he murmured.

You looked over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. His gaze was dark, his jaw clenched. He held your gaze as he pressed into you. Your moan was breathy, your fingers digging into the table.

His hands gripped your hips firmly as he slid fully inside you. You moaned again, your eyes fluttering shut. "Look at me." he repeated hoarsely. You forced your eyes open, trying to focus on his face.

He set a brutally fast pace, his hands digging into your hips. You moaned loudly, your moans echoing in the room. He groaned behind you, the noise coming from deep in his chest.

He leaned over you, his other hand grabbing your hip. He pounded into you, his hips slapping against your ass. His pace was punishing, relentless. You moaned with every thrust, the sound mingled with the wet sounds of him.

You moaned louder, the sounds filling the room as he took you from behind, the sound of his balls slapping against your skin echoing the slap of skin on skin.

He moaned, his grip on your neck tightening. "I wanna see your face." he murmured, his voice rough with need. He pulled out, his hands on your hips turning you around. You lay back on the table, looking up at him.

He looked hot, his chest heaving, his hair falling in his face. He looked wrecked, and the power it gave you was heady. He grabbed your legs and slid straight back inside.

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist. He leaned over you, his hands on the table next to your head, caging you in. He set a hard pace, his hips snapping forward with each thrust.

You moaned again, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. He moaned in response, his mouth finding yours. The kiss was sloppy, needy.

Neither of you even tried to take control, your mouths just moved together, desperate for more. His hands found yours, fingers intertwining and pinning them to the table. his fingers clenched around yours.

His pace grew relentless, the kiss breaking as he buried his face in your neck, his grunts and moans hot against your skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist.

Your bodies moved together, a mess of moans and gasps and sweat. You could feel him starting to lose control, his movements becoming erratic.

"Baby, I'm close." he groaned against your neck.

You moaned, your nails digging into his back. "Me too." you managed to say. Your legs tightened around him, trying to keep him close.

He grunted, his hips stuttering. "Fuck, baby." he panted, his hands tightening on yours. "You're so tight."

You moaned, the praise sending waves of heat through your body. "So close, Yoongi, so close." you moaned, your body trembling with building tension.

He groaned, his pace picking up. "I know, I know." he panted. "I'm right there."

His movements grew more frantic, his grip on your hands turning bruising. The table creaked beneath you, the sound mixing with the slapping of skin and the moans and grunts coming from both of you.

Your moans got louder, your body arching under him. "Don't stop, don't stop!" you whimpered.

"God, I'm gonna-" He growled. He buried his face in your neck, his hips rutting against yours.

You moaned, your body trembling with anticipation. "Please, please." you whined, your hands clenching in his hair.

He moaned, "Oh, god." He bit down on your neck, the sharp pain mixing with the pleasure.

His grip on your hands tightened, painful and desperate. You moaned, on the edge.

You writhed beneath him, the pressure building to an almost unbearable level. "Yoongi, I'm gonna-" you managed to say, your voice trembling.

"Come, baby, come." he growled against your neck. "I need you to come."

His hips snapped forward one last time, and that was all it took. You screamed, your fingers clenching so hard your knuckles turned white.

"That's it, that's it, that's it!" he moaned, his words a mantra. He kept pushing, his movements jerky and erratic. You moaned through the waves of pleasure.

You moaned, the feeling too intense. "Too much, too much." you moaned.

He didn't stop, his hands squeezing yours, his mouth on your neck. "You can take it, baby. Just a little more." he gritted out.

You moaned again, the sensation almost overwhelming. He moaned as well, his hips grinding against yours, his movements becoming more urgent.

"Just a little more, I'm almost- oh god." he panted, his movements becoming sloppy. "I'm so close, baby." He moaned, his grip on your hands growing tighter.

A fresh wave of pleasure shot through your body, making you clench around him. You moaned again, your voice wavering. "Come, please come." you moaned, the words escaping before you could stop them.

His moaned against your neck. "Oh, god." he groaned, his voice strangled. "Oh, god, I'm-"

He let out a loud groan as he pushed in one final time, his hips stuttering against yours, his fingers tightening around yours. His body tensed, and he buried his face in your neck. You moaned as you felt him come inside you.

You both lay there, panting and sweaty, holding onto each other tightly. You could feel his heart racing beneath your hands, his body trembling with exertion.

After a few moments, he lifted his head, his eyes soft and slightly unfocused as he looked down at you. He released your hands, and his fingers brushed against your cheek.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice rough.

You could only nod. Words eluded you at that moment. All you could feel was the aftershocks of pleasure running through your body. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hands still touching your face.

"God.." You murmured, your brain still trying to catch up.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest.

"Yeah." he agreed, his voice gravelly. He lifted himself off you, pulling out of you with a soft gasp. His hands left your face, and you immediately missed their warmth.

He pulled you up into a sitting position, his hands on your waist.

"You alright?" he asked, concern flickering in his eyes as he took in your flushed face and messed-up hair.

You huffed a laugh, feeling a bit of a mess.

"I'm great." you replied, your voice coming out raspy. "But I think you ruined my table." You gestured to the table. The table that you'd just been writhing all over, and would definitely need a deep cleaning.

He chucked again, his fingers still around your waist, his gaze lingering on the table.

"I'll buy you another one." he said, his tone still a little rough. "Or a better one. One that can stand up to our… activities." A small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

A small shiver ran down your spine at his words.

"Or maybe." he murmured, his thumbs running circles against your hips. "Maybe something sturdier, like a desk." His hands moved backwards, gripping your ass. "Or a chair."

Your breath caught in your throat at the suggestion, the images that flashed in your mind causing heat to stir in your belly. "Or a wall." you added, your voice soft.

His eyebrows shot up, a surprised look on his face. "A wall, huh?" he repeated, his hands giving your ass a firm squeeze.

You nodded, a small shiver running through you at his touch. "Yeah." you murmured. "Or maybe." Your hands reached up to settle on his chest. "Maybe a door."

He let out a low groan, his hands squeezing your ass again. "Jesus. Stop." He leaned down, and Yoongi’s gaze suddenly focused on the clock. "Oh fuck me."

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing at your lips. "Didn't we just do that?"

His eyes snapped back to you, the dark glint returning to his gaze. "It's 12 pm midnight. It's your birthday."

Your eyes widened, realization hitting you. "It's past midnight?"

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, princess." He brought a hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Happy birthday, and I love you."

Your heart swelled at his words, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. "I love you too." you murmured.

He leaned down and captured your lips in a soft kiss, the roughness from earlier replaced with tenderness. It was a different kind of intimacy, filled with affection and warmth.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. His hands moved from your face to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss lingered, filled with unspoken emotions and promises.

After a few moments, he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours.

He chuckled softly, his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of your neck. "You're gonna be exhausted tomorrow." he murmured. "I didn't give you much time to sleep."

You huffed a small laugh, a mixture of contentment and fatigue settling in. "It was worth it." you murmured, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his broad chest.

"Definitely worth it," he agreed, a satisfied smirk on his face.

[hwabite]

Darkest Desires | MYG.⋆♱

Pairing: yoongi x three masked men (not identified)

Warnings: includes CNC, threats with knife, death threats and (fake) blood.

Tags: non-idol!yoongi, bottom!yoongi, threesome/foursome, rough sex, manhandling, verbal degrading, bondage, crying during sex, CNC, role-playing, knife kink, hair-pulling, choking, double penetration, face slapping, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, drooling, multiple sex positions, usage of safe word, mask kink, fear kink, yoongi is into all of this and nothing is done without consent!

A/N: It's been a while since I've last written and I want this to be good. I feel like there are no good recent bottom Yoongi fics/one shots and it's such a shame :( I also want you to know that English isn't my first language but I have always written and read fanfiction in English so it shouldn't be too much of a problem except from some grammar mistakes and lack of a broad knowledge of vocabulary. I write on AO3 and Wattpad as well, both with the same username @/nirmana.

[COMING SOON]

[hwabite]

Darkest Desires | MYG.⋆♱

Pairing: yoongi x three masked men (not identified)

Warnings: includes CNC, threats with knife, death threats and (fake) blood.

Tags: non-idol!yoongi, bottom!yoongi, threesome/foursome, rough sex, manhandling, verbal degrading, bondage, crying during sex, CNC, role-playing, knife kink, hair-pulling, choking, double penetration, face slapping, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, drooling, multiple sex positions, usage of safe word, mask kink, fear kink, yoongi is into all of this and nothing is done without consent!

A/N: It's been a while since I've last written and I want this to be good. I feel like there are no good recent bottom Yoongi fics/one shots and it's such a shame :( I also want you to know that English isn't my first language but I have always written and read fanfiction in English so it shouldn't be too much of a problem except from some grammar mistakes and lack of a broad knowledge of vocabulary. I write on AO3 and Wattpad as well, both with the same username @/nirmana.

[COMING SOON]

[wendabean]

Just mop my ass up off the floor

[enchantedtowriteyou]

hoshi x reader (mdni)

summary: soonyoung pisses you off. and soonyoung using your stuff is about to make you lose your mind

content: enemies to lovers!, smut. fem! reader and reader plays volleyball. wc: 3.1k

warnings: p in v sex and as usual unprotected sex, oopsie (but you guys don´t do it). fingering (f receiving), oral (m receiving), deepthroating kinda, reader has hair that can be tied in a ponytail. they´re kinda rough at some point but not too much. not proofread correctly!

a/n: finally back! i wrote this one in the pandemic lol and have spnt the past 4 days translating to english and making it better bc it was lowkey cringy. i looooove hoshi, he´s the loml. Hope you enjoy this one and thanks for reading!! <3

Also, check my SVT masterlist for more fics!!!

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the elevator twinkles once it stops on your floor. you get down and bid your neighbors goodbye, dragging your feet up to your front door. you look through your backpack for your keys, balancing your duffle bag on your other shoulder.

you pull your shorts down your legs when they ride up and feel one of your kneepads rolling slowly down your leg. the volleyball match hasn’t gone the way you, your teammates, or your coach had thought it would. you had prepared so much, trained so hard, but still ended up losing to your sworn enemies -our rivals, one of your teammates would clarify, with a point difference that makes you want to curl into a ball and cry yourself to sleep.

you roll the key to your front door, hoping to find an empty and tidy living room, with lots of quiet and none of your roommates there. that way you can take a long shower while you pity your performance and declare yourself the worst libero in the world, then sit on the couch to eat snacks, throw away the diet your coach had ordered for your entire team, and cry for all eternity about being eliminated from the championship.

sadly, when you open your door you realize your plan has been ruined. sitting on your couch is soonyoung, one of your roommate’s best friends, shirtless, droplets of water still clinging to his upper body, with a towel, your tinker bell towel, hanging low on his hips, hair slicked back and dripping onto the velvet, fast food and ramen leftovers on the coffee table, and a computer on his lap.

your computer.

soonyoung’s gaze falls on you and freezes for a second, realizing the situation he’s in. you stop in your tracks as well, hand on the doorknob, duffle bag crushing your shoulder with its weight and a strange feeling in your chest and lower belly.

you clear your throat and close the door fully, then begin taking off your shoes and placing them on the rack by the door.

“what the fuck are you doing here, kwon soonyoung?” you say with a sigh, dropping your duffle bag and dragging it along as you walk toward him on the couch.

every single one of the encounters you and soonyoung have had is always the same: wanting to kill each other, always at each other´s throats, and filled with unresolved and not acknowledged sexual tension. that’s the reason why, right now, seeing him soak the couch with droplets sliding down his muscled arms and abs, you feel your knees trembling a bit. calm down, yn, you think to yourself, it’s just soonyoung.

he gives you an arrogant smile after moving his body toward you, the towel riding lower and your breath catching at the sight of his v line.

“hi, soonyoung. oh, hi yn, how was the game? it went super good, soonyoung, how are you? oh, i’m great, yn, thank you for asking,” he says, faking a conversation and pitching his voice higher to play "your part". he looks at you with hatred, and you roll your eyes, annoyed, as his eyes go back to the screen in front of him.

“we ran out of water at our place,” we being his wild, stupid roommates. “told kim i’d come take a quick shower after my dance practice and then i’d leave, but i found this exciting laptop... and this couch is very comfortable, and i thought it was better for me to just stay here and watch me some netflix.”

“that is my laptop,” you emphasize, taking a step closer to him and crossing your arms over your chest after letting the handle of the duffle bag slide down your shoulder and hit the floor. your backpack hangs from your elbow as you look down at him, annoyed and tired.

“i know, got confused with kim’s and, believe me,” he whistles lowly with a smirk on his face, “you won’t get how surprised i was when i found those poorly hidden, very, very naughty pictures...” you feel your cheeks warming up, thinking of the intimate pictures you had tucked away in the ‘favorite books’ folder. “and don’t even get me started on those conversations, yn...”

he smiles at you coyly, his eyes becoming crescent moons. then he takes a quick look at your body, shivering slightly from embarrassment, thinking about which embarrasing conversations he actually looked at and how many of those pictures he saw.

you can’t help your gaze from falling to a droplet sliding down from his temple, down the side of his face, his neck, collarbone, chest, and abs, before getting lost behind the tinker bell towel around his hips.

“did you lose something?” he mutters slowly. his voice makes you snap out of it, your gaze fixed on the edge of the towel. “my eyes are up here, yn.”

the feeling in your lower belly appears once again when you lock eyes with him.

a flirty smile adorns his lips and you feel your knees weaken when he nips slowly at his bottom lip. you swallow hard watching his tongue appear and disappear inside his mouth, but you regain your composure and straighten your back, crossing your arms higher and closer to your body, arching a brow in his direction.

“i need you to let go of my laptop, get dressed, and leave. now.”

soonyoung snickers at your words and leans forward to the coffee table to place your laptop on it, looking straight into your eyes while doing so. he stretches further on the couch and crosses his fingers behind his neck, legs stretched next to yours.

he smiles cockily at you, making your blood boil. the towel on his hips lowers further.

“what if i don’t?”

and you almost answer back, but you know it would lead to a screaming match between you two. and losing the game was enough torture for one day. now you had to lose against soonyoung’s witty mouth? no thanks, especially not while he is almost naked.

you just roll your eyes and murmur a “do whatever you want, kwon” as you turn your back to him.

but before you can take the first step forward, a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you around to face him once again. you can clearly see the evil in his eyes when you begin complaining, but he quickly takes hold of both your elbows and pulls you into him, making you sit on his lap, straddling him as your backpack falls to the floor.

so there you sit, on his barely covered lap.

you look him in the eye as he places his hands on your thighs, his skin calloused and rough from the gym, and cold contrasting with your warm, tired legs.

the feeling of a bulge under your center makes you swallow hard and place your hands over soonyoung’s shoulders.

“i hate it when someone turns their back on me as i’m speaking,” he says, leaning further into your space, your faces inching closer and closer.

“wait, no. you had already spoken and then i turned around,” you roll your eyes again. “i just ignored you, that’s different.” you play with the droplets of water on his strong shoulders to distract yourself from the feeling of his body against yours.

his hold on your thighs moves up to your hips, over the top of your uniform, and pulls you closer to his body, your weight dropping on him further and making his bulge more noticeable between your thighs.

“well, i like to be looked at as i’m spoken to, yn.”

“and i just want a million dollars,” you roll your eyes again, taking your hands off him and placing them on your sides, drying them with your clothes. “but you can’t have everything in life, kwon.”

he pulls you closer into him with his hands behind your neck. your faces are almost touching, noses grazing each other as you keep intense eye contact.

“oh, but there is something i’ve wanted for four years, yn. and i finally have it.” he inches closer to your lips, his breath, you can smell your toothpaste in it, hitting your face as he speaks.

after a few seconds of silence, both of you heave breaths. he lowers his hands back to your hips again and begins moving your hips over his clothed, hard member.

“aren’t you going to ask what it is that i wanted so much?” his lips graze yours as one of his hands takes your face and turns your head to the side, leaving your neck open for kisses down your chin.

“i don’t care, actually,” you whisper, breathless, trying to drown out your moans threatening to slip out of your mouth from the friction of your center against his hard member and his slow kisses on your sensitive skin.

he pulls his lips off your neck with a wet sound and stops the movement of your hips, then makes your head turn to face him. instead of looking into his eyes, you begin detailing his features: he has never looked this good, beads of sweat on his forehead, his lower lip stuck between his teeth, rosy cheeks, and pupils dilated, eyes hooded in your direction. the fucker.

“you really are a brat, aren’t you?”

“so i’ve been told, yeah.”

with that, he closes the distance between you and joins your mouths in a rough, slow kiss. passionate enough to make you breathe out and relax against him, fully dropping into his arms and pushing your chest against his.

your tongues find each other, the feel of his muscle against yours making you sigh in between kisses.

his hands grab yours, resting softly on his pecs, and place them on his shoulders. his hands go to your hips once again, though lowering to your ass this time.

you deepen the kiss, leaning your head to the side, and soonyoung sighs into you.

pulling your lips apart from his, you begin kissing his cheek and his ear, taking his lobe between your teeth and biting down on it.

he sighs as your lips go lower, soonyoung kissing your forehead lightly, watching you lick the skin of his chest. you are kissing down the body of your oh-so-hated college classmate, who despite that is the sexiest man alive. asshole.

your body follows your direction, and you find your padded knees on the floor as your lips move further down his navel. your hands on his strong thighs, holding him in place.

you look up at him after sucking another hickey on his hipbone, next to his v-line, and you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down. his lips barely open as he lets out small groans.

you push his towel to the side and his hard cock comes into view, standing tall in front of your face. the head has a drop of pre-cum on it as you take it in your hand, your tongue coming out to moisten your lips. it is hot and pulsing in your hand.

you massage the tip and his testicles, and begin licking his cock from bottom to top. soonyoung moans loudly, as always, when you take his tip in your mouth, sucking softly on it, and you hum in approval as he intertwines your hands, his free hand tangling in your hair to encourage you to sink his member deeper into your mouth.

his tip hits the back of your throat as you gag around him, a few strands of hair covering your eyes, not allowing you to catch the look on his face as you begin the movements up and down his shaft.

soonyoung huffs and takes the scrunchie off your wrist, letting go of your hair to tie it into a high, messy ponytail.

your underwear gets wetter by the second with his moans, soonyoung’s hand back on your hair, forcing your head lower down his cock, your nose touching his pelvis. you gag around him and feel tears prick your eyes.

“for someone who hates me so much, you sure are eager to give me he-ah!” his words come out strained and you end up cutting him off with his tip touching the back of your throat, sucking down on it hard as your hands toy with his balls and the base of his shaft.

you finally take his cock out of your mouth, taking a big breath as you lower your head to kiss his balls briefly, while your hand jerks his cock and you regain your breath.

you can feel his body vibrate under your hand on his abs, his mouth open with lustful moans coming out of it. suddenly, a long white spurt comes out of his cock and onto the floor of your living room, and before making any more mess, you quickly pull away from his balls and take his cock back into your mouth, catching the last bits of his cum with your tongue.

as he comes, he lets out a long drawn-out moan, his abs spasming below your hand. his head tilts back and mouth opens as he breathes hard.

your mouth still around his cock as he comes down from his high, you take your mouth off him seconds later, a string of saliva dropping to your chin.

soonyoung suddenly sits up and grabs your arms, making you sit back down on his lap. he attacks your neck with kisses and hickeys while wrapping one arm around your waist, the other sliding between your bodies, slipping into your shorts and underwear as he begins to play with your pussy.

your moans come out the moment soonyoung pushes one of his fingers inside you, curling it and pressing your soft walls. the palm of his hand brushes your clitoris while three of his fingers work your g-spot, his mouth on your neck leaving marks, his free hand moving up to your ponytail and pulling it hard, making your back arch, pressing you further down onto his fingers, and letting out a cry loud enough to wake anyone within a block.

“yes, baby, scream for me. say my name. say the name of the guy you hate so much, yn.”

your moans keep spilling uncontrollably, and you feel close to coming as his words hit right where his fingers are working magic. with a gasp, you climax and collapse against his body. he wastes no time, pulling his fingers out and stripping off the shirt of your uniform, then kissing your chest over your sports bra, which doesn’t last long before he rips it off.

“you’re an idiot, soonyoung,” you speak between breaths as he teases one of your nipples with his tongue. he looks up at you, raising an eyebrow while continuing to suck, leaving another mark.

“can’t you stop insulting me for one minute? not even while i’m making you mine?” he says with a grin, burying his face between your breasts, leaving small kisses.

“you’re not making me yours, idiot.”

soonyoung stands up with you in his arms, your legs dropping to the floor, numb from being bent for so long, as your hands hold onto his shoulders. you kiss him deeply, your tongues moving together. he gropes your waist one last time before you both walk off to your room.

you push the door open and quickly get inside, soonyoung immediately pushes you onto the bed, his body pressing yours into the mattress as his kisses trail down your chest to your shorts. he removes your kneepads, then your shorts and soaked underwear, before slowly licking your entrance and murmuring approvingly against your clit.

“why is it so hard for you to admit you like me as much as i like you?” he says, pressing himself against your entrance, sliding along your wetness. “i—ah—because it’s not like that, soonyoung,” you reply between breaths, wishing he would just push inside already.

“i already read the conversation, yn. you can’t deny it. i know everything—i just want to hear you say it.”

you can’t deny it. his mouth on your neck, his body against yours, it is overwhelming.

“damn it, soonyoung! i like you! now please, just fuck me!”

that is all it takes. he grabs your hip, lines himself up, and thrusts slowly, bottoming out and pulling a cry from your lips and a deep groan from his.

“i love how you take me, sweetheart. see? not so hard to admit it.”

“it’s my pride, soonyoung... if you care that much, we can get coffee later and i´ll tell you—but first, please.”

“fine. my treat.”

he thrusts into you again, setting a fast, rough pace, just how you like it. you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as you kiss, moaning against each other. the bed creaks, the headboard hitting the wall loudly.

he deepens the kiss, then sits up, pulling you with him, keeping your legs wrapped around him as he pistons his hips in and out of you. your bodies meet in rhythm, breathless and intense.

at some point, you bite his ear, hard enough to make him groan loudly, and his thrusts grow stronger.

“do that again, yn,” he whispers. and you oblige, licking the skin of his lobe after biting it.

he pulls out then, turning you around with your knees on the bed. one hand presses your back down as he enters your pussy again and starts thrusting fast. when you try lifting yourself, he pushes you down with a hand between your shoulder blades. then spanks your ass lovingly.

this angle sends both of you closer to the edge. he pulls your hair, pressing your back against his chest, whispering unexpected words of affection while one hand works your clitoris and the other squeezes your breasts.

a few more thrusts—and you come, crying out as your body tightens around him. pulsing waves in your pussy and you are suddenly aware of the sheen of sweat covering both your bodies.

he follows right after, groaning as he finishes inside you.

he gently lowers you onto the bed, cock still inside, softening, covering the both of you with a wrinkled blanket. your breathing slows as his arms wrap around your waist, his touch soft now. you kiss his face, then his lips, this time slower, sweeter.

“so... that was something,” you say with a small laugh. but his worried expression makes you pause. “what’s wrong, kwon?”

“we didn’t use a condom.”

you laugh softly, kissing between his brows, then his lips.

“don’t worry about that.”he relaxes, smiling as he kisses your cheek.

“i can’t believe i got you to admit your feelings for me.”

“and i can’t believe i’m saying this—but you are not terribly annoying all the time.”

he smiles big, his eyes almost closing as he pinches the skin of your hip playfully, nestling into your neck, his breathing slowing down. you kiss his forehead and let yourself drift off with him.

[minyoonjin]

33 looks so good on you, min yoongi

cr. adorehobito

[zetaares]

pretty boy | j.jk

from running away in the streets to being trapped together at a penthouse party, your dangerous secret is finally exposed. but when jungkook learns what you really are, will he run or beg you to bite?

pairing: vampire!reader x human!jungkook

genre: supernatural, vampire AU, smut with plot, heavy angst to smut, mutual obsession, dark romance

warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, blood drinking/vampire feeding, biting/marking, trance themes, alcohol consumption, dark themes, cold skin/body temperature play, fingering, lip/finger sucking, mouth play/gagging, mirror sex, jk is sooo needy.

summary: avoiding jungkook was supposed to keep him safe from your lethal vampire instincts. but when your boss invites you to an exclusive penthouse birthday party, his irresistible blood leaves you with nowhere to hide. trapped in a locked luxurious bathroom, jungkook offers his neck on a silver platter.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

staying in the city was becoming a bit of a challenge for you. you would usually escape at night in search of some drunk human stumbling through the streets here and there, and while you had to admit their blood tasted terrible, it was the best you could do in the city. it was the only way you could feed without drawing attention.

living during the daytime was also impossible.

the harsh sun hurt your skin, but you did what you had to do to survive and escape the hunters, a massive group of people who walked the town carrying holy crosses, desperate to force any creature to expose themselves. creatures like you.

your brother had warned you about them, telling you the best option was to run far away. you had managed to book late-night flights, hopping between different hotels, strategically choosing crowded areas where staying hidden was easy and finding food was always an option.

making money was another hurdle. you worked at a crowded nightclub mixing drinks, which solved two problems at once: earning money to survive and, more importantly, having a constant supply of blood.

you couldn't help what you were, you were born like this. and no, these creatures weren't just fairytale monsters, you were very, very real.

you checked your reflection in the mirror one last time. your extremely pale skin was styled with a beautiful low waisted skirt paired with a tight, long sleeved black top.

the truth was, you couldn't really feel temperature, all you knew was that it was currently winter and you needed to blend in with the crowd.

your long burgundy hair fell in loose, soft curls at the ends. after spritzing on some alcohol-free perfume and putting in your brown contacts to hide your true eyes, you left your hotel room to catch a cab to work.

vampires had a few tricks that made them special, like superhuman strength and speed, but you possessed a rare ability to control emotions. with just a small thought, you could make a super stressed person feel totally calm, or instantly stop someone's angry fight before it even started. but your smell was your strongest sense, and, right now, it was driving you insane. the terrible smell of gross, alcohol-soaked blood from the loud crowd was making your stomach turn.

that gross feeling in your stomach instantly disappeared the second you walked over to a booth of guys to drop off a tray of drinks they had ordered.

a heavy, unwanted hand landed on your butt with a sharp slap.

disgusting

your eyes flashed. you turned around fast, glaring at the creepy customer with pure disgust. a low, angry hiss came out of your throat, like a dangerous wild animal about to attack. you immediately started using your vampiric ability, trying to change his gross, mood and make him fall into a heavy, sudden sleep right in his chair to give him a secondhand embarrassment moment in front of everyone.

before you could even weave the mood shift, a tall, impossibly attractive guy stepped directly between you and the creep.

time seemed to stall into slow motion. as he stood up for you, a sudden breeze swept past him, carrying his scent straight to you.

you inhaled, and your eyes closed for a quick, helpless second.

holy shit

his blood…

it smelled… insanely and intoxicatingly sweet.

so agonizingly pure that a violent wave of starvation hit you out of nowhere. behind your closed, red lips, your sharp fangs involuntarily snapped down, throbbed, and grew long, desperate to puncture his skin.

horrified by your own body's reaction, you moved your hand over your mouth to hide your teeth, completely overwhelmed. playing it smooth, you excused yourself and slipped back toward the bar counter before anyone could notice your slip up.

behind the bar, your knees gave out. you dropped low to the ground, slapping both hands over your mouth and nose to block out the smell and hide your fangs as you fought to force them away. you had never smelled blood that pure in your entire life, let alone reacted like this.

of course, your sudden disappearance didn't go unnoticed.

footsteps approached, and the pretty boy slowly leaned over the bar counter, looking down at you with deep concern.

“sorry to bother, but, are you okay? i just saw that creepy dude touch you,” he said worryingly, his cute doe eyes searching yours.

you cut him off quickly, frantically forcing your sharp fangs to retract back into your gums before speaking.

“yes, i am fine, i just—” you forced out, finally daring to look up at him. the moment you took another breath, inhaling the dangerously sweet scent of his blood, your mind spun “i need to have a cigarette. excuse me.”

without waiting for an answer, you managed to push past your co-workers, rushing out the back exit into the freezing night air.

as soon as you slipped out the back door, you impulsively pulled out a cigarette and lit it as fast as you could. you didn’t actually enjoy smoking, but the thick, toxic smoke helped confuse your hyper-sensitive sense of smell, and that was exactly what you needed right now.

you sat down on the cold step in front of the back door and sent a quick text to your boss, asking for a few minutes to take ‘an important call’ and have a quick smoke. she agreed without a problem, taking over your spot at the bar for a bit.

the night breeze brushed against your still body, but you couldn’t feel it.

how did hot or cold even feel?

to you, everything was just frozen. that was why you never let a human touch you, no high-fives, no hugs, nothing. even when your boss had congratulated you on your fake birthday and tried to pull you into a hug, you had stepped back. catching the quick flash of sadness on her face had made you feel so terrible that you immediately used your mood-shifting ability to make her happy again.

you traced small circles on your tatted knee, playing with the soft fabric of your skirt as you exhaled a cloud of grey smoke.

having the ability to sense every single human’s mood around you was truly a curse, it left your mind constantly wandering into dark places.

i'm a monster, you thought to yourself.

horrible.

truly horrible. a single, cold tear slipped down your pale skin.

you just wanted to feel the breeze. you watched the leaves rustle in the dark trees, but then a sharp hunger hit your stomach. your body was desperately asking for blood. your vision started to blur.

finishing your cigarette in a rush, you stood up and checked your surroundings for any human walking alone.

that was when you saw a young blonde girl staggering out of the club... all by herself.

perfect, you thought.

checking for the security cameras you already knew by heart, you waited until she was finally in a blind spot about to cross the street. then, you took off with unbelievably speed, so fast no human eye could track.

the girl turned around, terrified by your sudden presence. thankfully, it was 2 AM, and the street was empty, with only a few cars driving by.

“w-what do you want?!” she asked, taking a step back as a dark, dangerous energy radiated off your body.

“i'm sorry,” you said softly. you grabbed her jaw, slamming her back against a large tree.

“HELP, NO!” she yelled.

before she could scream again, your sharp fangs stabbed her neck, right below her ear, hidden behind her long hair so the scar wouldn't be visible. your free hand clenched into a tight fist as her blood hit your tongue. she wasn't as drunk as you thought. her blood tasted far too good.

taking only what you strictly needed, you grabbed both of her wrists and forced her eyes to lock with yours. you used your ability to make her calm down, so calm that when she woke up, this whole moment would come back as a quick, blurry flash.

“y-you’re a mon— a mons—“ the girl tried to say as her eyes slowly closed.

“i know,” you said, wiping your lips clean so no visible blood remained.

the moment you saw a cab, you stopped it with your hand.

“please take her to the nearest hotel, sir,” you said, helping her inside just as loud shouting echoed from the club exit.

“oh my god, sammy!” another girl, who was clearly drunk, ran toward the taxi “oh my god, did she bother you? or vomit on you?”

you chuckled “no, no, far from that. she asked me to help her call a taxi because she’s, apparently, too drunk...”

liar

“oh, thank you very much, good samaritan!” the girl said, getting into the back of the car with her best friend.

good, you thought. everything went according to plan! a little boy-scout salute to yourself.

you went back inside to finish your shift, trying to survive the night while a pair of dark eyes connected with yours from across the room.

you were back behind the bar, preparing drinks here and there. you had to take deep breaths every few minutes because the amount of humans painfully hurt your brain with so many different, chaotic emotions.

still, you couldn't help but search for those sweet brown eyes. somehow, you felt... safe under his stance. but you internally hated yourself for it. the only time you had allowed yourself to feel this way was back in your homeland with another vampire who was stubborn as hell and completely manipulative. because of your emotion ability, his toxic feelings had wrecked you.

and yet, this man’s eyes and his feeling of protection filled your brain.

on the other side of the room, he got the memo and didn’t approach you anymore, thinking he was too invasive during your last interaction. but he had this urge, this heavy feeling of needing to be around you.

that was the thing about vampires. to the human eye, they were outrageously beautiful, perfect creatures. and that was probably what he was feeling, completely mesmerized by you. still, he held back from approaching you again, keeping his distance and just watching you finish your shift.

finally, the night came to an end and you were asked to close up the nightclub.

the moment you stepped through the heavy back doors into the 4 AM air, that powerful, intoxicating scent hit you.

it was him.

you wanted to vanish into thin air the second you saw him. he was standing right there under the dim streetlight, waiting for you.

“sorry... i couldn’t just leave without making sure you were okay...” jungkook said worryingly “are you—”

“for fuck's sake, it was only a slap on my ass! i literally could’ve punched him, i don’t need a superhero, so just—” you stared at him angrily “leave…”

what he felt when you said those crude words to him, you automatically felt: disgust, sadness, and awareness. his whole face changed. he didn't say anything else, he just walked away, hands in his pockets.

fucking monster

idiot, you thought to yourself.

treating him like shit was the best thing you could do so he would disappear from your sight. you wanted to devour him entirely, his blood had something you had never felt or smelled before.

standing alone in the dark, you mind wandered through your thoughts. you wanted to feel a human’s warmth, and not only from their neck by sucking their blood. you needed more than that: a warm hug, a kiss, a real connection.

you slammed the door and disappeared at full speed behind a tree, crying in the dark before the dangerous sun came up.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

the next evening at 10:00 PM, jungkook was in his office, sitting straight in his chair and organizing papers that clearly didn't need to be organized. his mind was wandering around those five-second memories of you, your mysterious beauty, your sad eyes, and that strange, intense attraction that activated all five of his senses.

“yo, jeon, everything alright?” matt asked, rolling over in his office chair.

jungkook popped out of his thoughts quickly “yeah, yeah...” he said “why?”

“you were staring at your desk for 20 minutes straight. i counted them with my phone,” matt jokingly said, patting jungkook’s back “ah, what about some dinner? i'm starving for some steak.”

“sure!” jungkook said, standing up and taking his coat and scarf.

they ended up going to a restaurant down the street and taking a table right next to the big glass window.

around 10:50PM, matt stood up to go to the restroom.

left alone, jungkook stared out the window into the dark. the streets were quiet, and cold wind rustled the bare trees in the park across the street.

and then, he saw…

you?

yes! it was definitely you, standing right in the middle of the park under a dim, yellow streetlight.

jungkook couldn't breathe. he stared through the glass, taking in your entire figure. you were wearing a tight black top that had slipped far below your shoulders, leaving your pale, bare shoulders and collarbones exposed to the freezing winter air. the shirt fit tight on your waist, flowing into a long skirt that rested just above your ankles.

under that soft yellow light, surrounded by dark trees, you looked unbelievably beautiful.

what is she doing out there alone at 10:40 at night? jungkook thought. it's dangerous

he watched as your small hands pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking a slow drag.

the urge to protect you pulled at him so hard it was physically painful. he couldn't just sit in a warm restaurant while you stood out there in the cold with your bare shoulders exposed.

he pushed his chair back, ready to go running to you…

“whoa, where are you going?” matt said as jungkook bumped on him

“i- i need to take an important call, i’ll be outside for a minute okay?” jungkook said quickly as matt sat back down.

“oh, alright,” he said.

jungkook grabbed his heavy coat, pushed open the glass restaurant doors, and ran across the street into the dark park, heading straight for you. before he could cross the street, a big bus suddenly drove past, making him stop in his tracks. but once it passed by, you were... gone.

“fuck,” he muttered to himself, scratching the back of his neck as he looked around, trying to catch even a glimpse of you.

were you even real?

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

the bass pounded through the crowded night club, but for you, the noise was secondary to the endless sea of heartbeats and veins around you. working as a bartender was equal parts survival and torture.

you were in the middle of wiping down the sticky counter when rachel, your boss, slid right next to you, a mischievous grin on her face. she pushed a shot glass toward you, the liquid inside a deep, ruby red.

how convenient

“drink this, boss’s orders,” rachel insisted, leaning over the counter “it’s cherry vodka”

you looked at the glass, forcing a small, polite smile while carefully maintaining your distance “rachel, you know i can't drink on shift—“

“just one shot! come on, they say i'm the best preparing it!” she pleaded, pouting.

before you could reply, the air around you shifted violently.

a sudden, overwhelming scent cut through the cheap perfume, sweat, and spilled liquor of the bar. it hit your senses like an absolute drug, rich, hot, and insanely addictive. your throat immediately burned with a vicious, hollow ache, and behind your gums, your fangs throbbed, trying to force their way out.

you froze, your eyes widening as you saw him walking towards you. he was dressed effortlessly, his dark hair slightly messy, completely oblivious to the chaos his mere presence was causing inside your head.

“oh, jungkook is here!” rachel called out, waving him over.

as jungkook turned his head and his dark eyes locked onto yours, your survival instincts screamed at you to run. you couldn't be near him. not tonight. not when your thirst was already riding such a razor thin edge.

without saying a single word to rachel, you abandoned the counter, turned on your heel, and practically flew toward the back exit, vanishing into the dark alley before he could even reach the bar.

“y/n!” your boss yelled after you.

jungkook just stood there, watching your disappearing figure with a heavy heart.

does she hate me? he thought, his chest aching.

“sometimes i really wonder what goes through her mind,” your boss sighed, shaking her head as she wiped down the counter.

“what? why?” jungkook asked quickly, looking at her.

“she’s always so anxious,” your boss explained softly “she didn’t have it easy growing up you know... she lost her entire family in a terrible car accident.”

jungkook stared at the spot where you had vanished, his chest feeling tight “a car accident?” he repeated softly, the image of your sad, pale face flashing in his mind.

“yeah,” rachel, your boss, said, leaning on the counter “poor girl keeps everyone at arm's length. she never lets anyone get close, doesn't like being touched, and works constantly. to be honest, she's terribly lonely and anxious all the time,”

jungkook looked down at his hands, trace memories of your eyes burning in his head “rachel, i... i don't know what it is, but from the first time i saw her, i was just completely stricken by her. i just can't get her out of my head"

rachel’s eyes lit up, a huge smile spreading across her face. “really? oh, jungkook, you should take her out! seriously, she needs someone like you to bring her out of her shell and ease that loneliness. try talking to her again!”

jungkook felt a spark of hope “okay i will,”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

you couldn't do this anymore honestly. his smell was a literal torture device for your body. that night, after jungkook left, and you closed up the club, you begged rachel to change your schedule. you asked to take the next few weeks off during the week and only work late weekend nights when it was too crowded for him to find you. rachel felt bad for your ‘anxiety’ and agreed.

for three whole weeks, you successfully avoided him. you thought you were safe.

until rachel announced a massive birthday celebration.

her uncle owned a luxurious, high-end penthouse at the very top of a skyscraper in the middle of the city, and she was throwing an exclusive party for her birthday. you tried your best to make up an excuse, but rachel practically forced you, saying you needed to get out and live a little.

so the night of the party finally arrived. you decided to dress up for the occasion. you put on a white long-sleeved top, a very short white skirt, and cute silver jewelry. to finish the look, you chose your favorite pair of big black boots decorated with edgy metal harnesses. your makeup was completely flawless, styled with sharp eyeliner and your special colored contact lenses, you could never forget those, or your glowing vampire eyes would give you away in a second.

since rachel knew all about your supposed ‘anxiety’ you arrived early to spend some time together before anyone else got there. you spent a couple of hours hanging out on the rooftop terrace, stringing up fairy lights, connecting the bluetooth speakers, and setting up a long table packed with alcohol. rachel even offered to buy you dinner, but you politely declined. a big meal was a hard no for you, since… your diet was strictly blood.

slowly, the guests started to arrive. a few guys tried to greet you by holding your hands or touching your arm, but every single time, you quickly made up an excuse to step away.

“she doesn’t like being touched,” rachel explained to everyone with a sympathetic smile.

a few minutes passed, and the suffocating air on the terrace became too much to handle. excusing yourself quietly, you slipped away from the pool area and retreated to the bathroom upstairs to take a few deep breaths and pull your monster back under control.

the moment you walked out into the corridor, rachel caught your eye from across the floor, waving you over with a bright, expectant grin.

“oh, crap! y/n, can you do me a massive favor?” she asked, turning to you with wide, pleading eyes “jungkook just texted me. he's downstairs at the entrance with a bunch of heavy ice bags and extra booze for the bar, but i have to finish setting up the speaker system. could you please go down and help him bring the bags up?”

your heart did a violent flip inside your chest. “rachel, i—“

“pleeeeease! it'll take two minutes, i promise!” she pouted, practically bouncing on her toes.

you swallowed hard, choking down the immediate spike of anxiety. you mustered up your courage, nodded slowly, and made your way toward the elevator.

when the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, jungkook was standing near the lobby entrance, holding two heavy ice bags under his arms and some liquor bottles in his hands. his hair was slightly messy, and he looked dangerously good in his leather jacket, what was that on lis lip… a piercing? the moment the scent of his blood hit the air, your throat burned with that familiar, hollow ache.

“oh, hey, y/n,” jungkook said, his eyes lighting up the second he saw you. a small, warm smile spread across his lips “rachel sent you to rescue me?”

“y-yeah, let me help you with those,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes strictly on the bags to avoid his gaze.

you reached out to grab the heavy bag with liquors from his hands. even though you were holding back your vampire strength, your movements were fast and effortless. jungkook blinked, clearly surprised by how easily you lifted the heavy bag without even straining.

“whoa, alright,” he chuckled, grabbing the ice bags and stepping into the elevator beside you “guess you're stronger than you look.”

you gave him a quick, uncomfortable smile and kept your back pressed against the cold metal wall of the elevator. with your head tilted down, you held your breath for the entire ride up, desperate to keep his intoxicating scent from completely taking over your mind.

she is so beautiful, he thought to himself.

once the elevator reached the 30th floor, the doors slowly opened, revealing an excited rachel who immediately ran straight into jungkook’s arms to hug him tightly. you, on the other hand, slipped past them to make your way into the kitchen, quickly storing the liquor bottles before excusing yourself to the upstairs bathroom once again.

nearly everyone's eyes followed you as you walked away.

“she’s weird as fuck,” one of rachel’s friends spat, a few others nodding along in agreement.

“just leave her alone, she’s a sweetheart. come on, let’s go, let’s go!” rachel said, gently patting her friends on the back as she led them back outside to the terrace.

but jungkook’s eyes remained glued to you. he watched as the soft fabric of your white long sleeves swayed with every step you took, perfectly accompanying the graceful motion of your body as you disappeared up the stairs.

perfection

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

it started raining at some point during the night, forcing everyone to move inside to keep the party going. with all the glass doors shut, the heavy bass of the music echoed even louder through the penthouse. human bodies packed together in the living room, dancing dangerously close, completely lost in the rhythm and the alcohol.

you, on the other hand, isolated yourself in the clear glass hallway, leaning your back against the cool glass as you watched everyone have fun.

truth was, your stomach was beginning to ache with a sharp, hollow pain. jungkook’s blood scent lingering in the air kept your instincts at war with your mind, a constant, exhausting mental battle.

you caught rachel waving her hands frantically, motioning for you to come over to the crowded dance floor where she was dancing. at first, you shook your head no, wanting to stay in the safety of the dark corridor. but seeing her pout and feel down instantly made your chest physically hurt. you mustered up every drop of courage you had left and finally made your way toward the center of the room.

jungkook was under the influence of a few drinks. it was his childhood friend’s birthday and the weekend, he desperately needed this break off from his daily duties. but the exact second he saw you round the corner of the clear glass gallery, he swore he saw an angel.

the dim, warm lights of the massive penthouse outlined your silhouette in your white clothes in a way that felt entirely unreal. he watched your hips sway from side to side and your smooth legs move with effortless grace. he wondered what it would feel like to just... touch you.

he watched you stand near the edge of the crowd, sticking as close to rachel as possible to avoid everyone else. but then he noticed something strange. rachel had been pouting just a moment ago, but the second your eyes met hers, her mood magically shifted. she stopped frowning and beamed with pure joy, as if your presence instantly fixed her spirit.

jungkook stared at your face, analyzing every detail. you were perfect. ridiculously perfect. your skin was impossibly smooth, devoid of a single mole or freckle, and your eyes held a mystery he craved to see up close.

oh,

you were going to be his tonight.

he made it his mission to slowly approach you without you noticing. slicing through the warm, sweaty bodies on the dance floor, he closed the distance between you.

the sudden shift in the air and the rush of his distinct scent immediately alarmed you, but it was too late to back out. jungkook was already standing directly behind you, dangerously close.

he began moving his body to the heavy rhythm of the drums, pressing just close enough that your inner creature screamed for more, more closeness, more touch, anything to quiet the wild hunger raging inside your mind.

“escaping from me again, sweetie?” jungkook whispered softly against your ear, his lips almost brushing the shell of your skin. you froze, praying he hadn't fully touched you.

“i-i was not escaping i—” you stuttered, a few stray strands of his dark hair brushing against your cheek because of how close he was leaning.

“it’s obvious. anytime i get close, you just disappear,” he murmured, his breath fanning over your neck “i'm surprised you haven’t left yet.”

before you could step away, his warm hands reached out and clamped around your hips from behind.

“n-no, jungkook, don’t—” you gasped, trying your absolute best to pull forward and stop this, but his grip only tightened, his fingers holding you firmly in place.

your top wasn't quite long enough, leaving a small, delicate strip of bare skin exposed right above the waistband of your white skirt. jungkook’s warm fingers shifted slightly, hovering right over that bare skin.

yet, as physically close as you were, something strange happened to your moods instincts. being this close to someone for the first time in years was actually dulling your ability to read the rest of the room. somehow, his potent blood and focused intense thoughts alone, acted like a shield against everyone else. for a brief second, you felt safe.

“come on, dance with me,” he rasped, connecting the entire front of his body to your back. he began guiding your hips to the rhythm of the music, using his hands to keep you flush against him.

you doubted yourself a million times, but the feeling of peace was overwhelming. you let your head fall back against his muscular chest, your lips pressing tight together as your fangs unconsciously began to sprout behind your gums. you squirmed under his touch, trying desperately to suppress your true nature.

but your eyes started burning, your throat was doing flips, and your tongue could feel the sharp tips of your fully grown fangs resting against your lower lip.

you couldn't stay here. not like this.

you ripped yourself from his grip and bolted through the crowd.

“y/n!” jungkook shouted over the music, his eyes widening as he immediately gave chase, matching your rapid pace as you headed straight up the stairs toward the bathroom, the furthest one from everyone else.

you burst into the bathroom, too panicked to even think about locking the door. your eyes were stinging agonizingly from the glowing vampire nature building up behind the colored contact lenses. lifting your hands with trembling fingers, you quickly peeled the painful lenses out of your eyes and threw them onto the marble counter.

before you could even turn around to catch your breath, jungkook was right behind you.

he stepped into the dimly lit bathroom, closing the door behind him. but as his eyes locked onto yours, his breath hitched completely in his throat.

there you stood in the shadowy room, your glowing red eyes cutting through the darkness, your sharp fangs glinting under the soft light, and your skin pale and freezing cold.

he didn't scream. he didn't run. he just stared at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with pure awe.

“what... what are you?” he whispered, taking a slow step toward you.

“i'm a monster, jungkook,” you growled softly, backing up until your lower back hit the counter “and i swear if you stay in this room for another second, i won't be able to stop myself from draining you dry,”

a dark, breathtaking smirk slowly spread across jungkook's lips.

what? a smile?

he walked right up to you, completely towering over your smaller frame. reaching out, he wrapped his burning warm hands around your freezing wrists and pulled you flush against his body, his breath hitching slightly in surprise at the intoxicating contrast between your frozen skin and his burning skin.

“then don't stop,” he whispered, tilting his head back to expose his warm, beating pulse right in front of your lips “bite me y/n,”

“w-what? but jungkook...” you stuttered, completely caught off guard by his insane reaction.

“bite me y/n make yourself a feast out of me, do it,” he said pushing you on the marble counter, your ass pressed against it.

and you didn't need to be told twice.

the agony of your aching stomach and the sweet, intoxicating scent of his pulse drove you over the edge. with a low, desperate sound in your throat, you gripped his hair, tilted his head to the side, and buried your fangs deep into his neck.

jungkook let out a low, breathy groan, his entire body shuddering violently against yours. his hands dug into your waist, fingers tightening against the fabric of your white top, pulling you flush against him until not even air could pass between you.

and then… his blood hit your tongue.

it was pure fire, sweet and rich, clearing the fog in your head in an instant. you drank hungrily, completely helpless to the taste of him.

jungkook’s head fell back, his chest heaving as he gasped right against your ear “f-fuck... y/n...” he panted, his pulse hammering wildly.

your vampire strength pushed him back until his knees hit the edge of the bath counter, and in one fluid motion, you both tumbled onto the soft bench next to it, jungkook flat on his back with you pinned right on top of him.

you didn't break the connection for a second. your hands slid into his dark hair, holding him still as you drank.

“y/n...” he whimpered, his dark eyes opening slightly, hazy with pure surrender.

through the haze of your hunger, you felt his heart beating faster, his pulse softening just a tiny bit. pulling on every drop of willpower you had left, you painstakingly dragged your fangs out of his neck.

a thin red trail ran down toward his collarbone. driven by pure instinct, you leaned down and gently licked it clean.

jungkook arched his back off the wall with a ragged gasp, his fingers knotting tightly in your hair.

you sat up, straddling his waist, completely breathless. your lips were stained red, your fangs extended, and your crimson eyes glowing in the dark.

jungkook lay beneath you, his chest rising and falling heavily. he lifted a trembling hand, his warm thumb gently wiping a drop of blood from your bottom lip.

“see?” he whispered, a breathless smirk touching his lips as his other hand settled heavy on your hip “bite me again,”

“but i could have killed you, jungkook,” you whispered, your voice shaking “i almost didn't stop,”

“but you did,” he said softly, his thumb stroking your cheek. his gaze darkened, pressing you firmly down against him “and now that you've had a taste... you really think i'm going to let you run away from me again?”

lifting you up effortlessly, he sat you back down on the cold marble counter, never breaking eye contact as he reached back to lock the bathroom door. he stepped right between your parted legs, his warm hands greedily tracing every inch of exposed skin they could reach before slowly traveling under your skirt.

“god, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed against your skin, capturing your lips in a ferocious, bruising kiss. you kissed him back with equal desperation, completely helpless to how fiercely your body physically craved his touch.

your hands tangled wildly into his dark hair, pulling him closer. the moment you both broke away to catch your breath, you sank your fangs right into the other side of his neck. your teeth extended instantly, letting you taste the sweet, intoxicating rush of his hot blood all over again.

“hmm,” he hummed in pure delight, his large hands squeezing your hips and gripping your ass tightly to pull you right to the edge of the counter.

the feeling sent a shiver straight down your spine. pulling your fangs back, you dragged your lips back to his for a hungry, messy kiss, involuntarily grinding yourself flush against him.

he could feel himself slowly and painfully hardening, desperate for friction, practically burning with heat as he unbuttoned his black shirt. you gasped softly at the sight. beautiful black tattoos sprawled over his chest and shoulder, and you wondered how far down his arm they traveled.

his torso was dangerously toned, making your hands greedily touch every inch of smooth, hard skin they could reach, causing him to shiver at the stark contrast of your icy temperature.

“wanna fuck you real good, y/n,” he growled, his dark eyes searching for your glowing crimson ones.

“then do it,” you breathed, completely lost in the sensation, lifting your arms so he could pull your white shirt over your head.

he took his sweet time looking down at your pale, beautiful skin. his head dipped down, curiously reaching for your nipple, wrapping his lips around it and drawing wet circles with his tongue. your back arched off the counter, hands caressing his back and shoulders as a soft moan escaped your throat.

“hmm, fuck, jungkook...” you whispered, grabbing his hair once more to drag him back up for another taste.

you sank your fangs into the sensitive dip between his neck and collarbone, biting down and drinking him in. while you were distracted by the rush of his blood, he somehow managed to strip off your ridiculously short skirt. his fingers slid down your thigh, hovering dangerously close to your center. as much as you hated to admit it, you were leaking wet for him, and only for him.

you suddenly realized you had bitten down a little too hard. jungkook flinched, his body trying to pull back, and it took every ounce of your strength to break the bite. he offered you a strained smile, but his eyes gave him away.

pain.

“i’m sorry, i—” you tried to apologize, panic flickering in your chest.

“shhh, i’m okay,” he rasped, spreading your legs wide as he traced his long, hot fingers along your aching center.

you were clenching around nothing, practically throbbing for him.

how embarrassing, you thought.

“jungkook—” you moaned as two of his warm fingers slid straight inside you “hmm, yes...” you whimpered, rolling your hips back and forth, desperate for more intensity.

“fuck, y/n,” he growled, his free hand reaching up to wrap around your throat, lightly squeezing to choke you as your back hit the cool mirror “so fucking perfect”

the only sounds filling the dimly lit room were the low, heavy bass thumping through the floorboards and the loud, wet sound of his fingers fucking you out of your mind. you couldn't get enough, moving desperately against his hand with your head tilted back. jungkook gritted his teeth, adding a third finger and shifting his stance to drive deeper and faster into you.

“hmmm, fuck...” you were a moaning mess. “want more, jungkook... please.”

his brows furrowed with dark intent as he withdrew his fingers and licked them. then he unbuttoned his pants, kicking them aside, and pulled a condom from his pocket, quickly rolling it down his thick shaft. you let out a ragged breath at the sight of him, completely consumed by desire.

placing both hands on the edge of the counter beside your hips, he aligned his tip with your entrance. you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he slowly slid inside, the scorching warmth of him stretching you to the limit.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his jaw clenching “how long has it been since you’ve been fucked, beautiful?” he murmured mockingly, a dark smirk pulling at his lips.

“d-doesn’t matter,” you huffed.

annoyed by his teasing, your nails dug into his back and you sank your fangs straight into his shoulder, tasting his blood once more as he pounded into you.

you couldn’t seem to find the will to stop, craving more of him, more of his blood. but then you felt his heartbeat accelerating dangerously fast, the sudden surge alarming your instincts. with a gasp, you managed to pull your fangs back once more, genuinely surprised by your own restraint.

he reached up to gently caress your cheek with his thumb, his index and middle fingers dangerously tracing the curve of your lips, smearing your red lipstick into a messy blur.

you unconsciously parted your lips, your sharp fangs still extended from the bite, making him stare at you in pure awe. without a word, he slid his fingers right into your mouth.

“suck,” he demanded hoarsely.

you rolled your red eyes back, swirling your tongue around his fingers “ah, fuck,” he groaned as the sharp tip of your fang lightly pricked his skin, letting a tiny drop of his blood hit your tongue. but you didn't stop there. you pushed your head forward, letting his long fingers slide down to touch the back of your throat. you gagged softly, your eyes briefly fluttering back as your head tilted against the mirror.

“fuck, y/n, what a dirty mess you are,” he growled, his voice thick with lust.

you took his wet fingers back between your lips, sucking them hungrily, imagining they were his cock filling you so good. you let yourself choke a couple more times, looking up to meet his dark, dangerous smirk. you could see the dark bite marks scoring his neck, shoulder, and collarbone. he was completely gone for you, consumed by the madness.

pulling his fingers from your mouth, he hooked his thumb over your bottom teeth instead, tugging your face up close to his.

“bite me,” he rasped desperately, his dark eyes searching yours “drink from me babe,”

the words did something terrifying to your soul. as he drove deeper and faster inside you, you found a sweet, sensitive spot right between his ear and neck, sinking your fangs into his skin once more. you drank slowly this time, savoring every drop as his rhythm became wild, as if he wanted to break you apart right then and there.

you were becoming completely addicted to his blood, to the brutal way he was fucking you, and to the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, loved, and completely seen for what you were.

when you finally released his neck, he leaned down to leave a trail of wet, bruising kisses against your collarbone. pulling out of you with a low sigh, he guided you down off the marble counter, leading you toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror right beside the massive bathroom jacuzzi.

he turned you around, pressing your chest flat against the cold, reflective glass. looking at your reflection, you saw the beautiful mess you had become just for him.

he was your drug.

“look at yourself, baby. look how i make you feel,” he whispered darkly, gathering your hair in one hand like a makeshift ponytail while his other hand clamped firmly around your hip to guide himself back inside you.

with your lower back arched and your hips raised, the loud, wet sounds of his thrusts echoed through the spacious bathroom, mingling with the heavy bass thumping through the building. you loved it so much it made your head spin. your hands scrambled for purchase against the slick glass, your face pressing into the mirror with every hard push.

“harder, j-jungkook—” you begged, drool dripping from your mouth over your extended fangs.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, his grip tightening on your hip “such a fucking mess for me.”

he slammed into you with everything he had, driving you right over the edge. a violent wave of pleasure crashed through your entire body. your climax took over, quickly followed by jungkook spilling hot inside you with a breathless roar.

when it was over, you turned around, resting your back against the cool mirror to catch your breath. your glowing red eyes shone dimly in the shadowy light, your lips messy with a slick mixture of saliva and blood.

jungkook stepped up to you, gently helping you gather your strength. you used the sink faucet and a wet hand towel to clean yourself up, wiping away the blood and lipstick while he stood beside you, fixing his messy hair and examining the dark bite marks on his neck in the mirror.

“i’m so sorry, jungkook,” you murmured, sliding your skirt back into place and staring at the vivid marks scoring his skin.

“i like how they look,” he confessed, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face.

“are you crazy?” you asked, your voice a mix of utter disbelief and deep worry.

he closed the small distance between you, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your cheek.

“y/n...” he started quietly “i just... i can’t stay away from you anymore”

“jungkook—” you tried to speak, pulling your shirt back over your head as he gently helped you adjust the sleeves.

“i’m serious, y/n,” he insisted, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity “from now on, anytime you need to feed, anytime you need comfort, call me. i want to be the one for you”

“but jungkook, it’s dangerous—”

“i’m begging you, y/n,” he whispered, taking your hands in his. “let me be yours,”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[glossdebut]

.

[place-of-power]

[guiltfactory]

i like when both people in a relationship are scared of it