˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 18+ only!! Please do not interact with my page if you are underage because the majority of my works contains explicit content. If you follow me but have no age somewhere on your blog, you will be blocked!!
˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ this blog supports palestine, lgbtq+, and does not tolerate racism, bigotry, transphobia, homophobia, maga (if you voted for/support tr*mp fuck right off of this page), zionism, or AI
cowlick a min yoongi one-shot
pairing: idol!min yoongi x wife!f!reader
genre: pwp
rating: explicit content MDNI!!!
summary: you're the reason why your husband’s hair is a mess for the 'hooligan' mv.
warnings/tags: yoongi pov, quickie in a trailer, riding, unprotected sex, they're married and reader wants to get pregnant, his boys make fun of him lol
wc: 1.7k
notes: i say im burnt out from writing smut and then i go and write this. it's just bc yoongi makes me so insane 😩 this was inspired by a convo between myself and aqua (contents of which may or may not be based on real life events) so im dedicating this to her 🫶💜 thank u for betaing last minute!!
Yoongi’s supposed to be on set. But instead he’s sweating under his leather outfit with you spread out on his lap, bouncing on his cock.
It starts off with him just going to his trailer because he forgot his lucky bracelet (the one you gave him on his birthday the first year you celebrated together). The door almost hits him on the ass by the time you jump him, and he barely has time to be surprised before you grab his face and pull him down.
“How’d you sneak in here?” he chuckles between breathless kisses, hands going to your waist like clockwork.
“I’m your wife. Duh,” you snap, fingers ensnaring the heavy chains around his neck.
“I start filming in five minutes.”
“I’ll be quick.” He never argues with you. He lets you push him down on the couch, straddle him, kiss and lick at the base of his neck, knowing you don’t need the reminder not to make marks unless you want a hit put on you by his stylist, and you’re always careful not to touch his face for that same reason. It takes him a second to realize you’re wearing a skirt. He opens his mouth to scold you for coming to see him in clothes like that since it’s so cold out but then you reach under to dip into your bare, sopping pussy. Ah. Easy access. You came with a plan.
In all the years you’ve been together, it’s never taken much for you to get him hard. You walk into a room and bam - he has to adjust himself. And when you touch him - there goes his thoughts for a few minutes. It’s always been like this, and he knows it’ll never change. So when you figure out how to get into his boxers without pushing down too much leather, he’s already stiff and leaking at the tip.
You smear down his precum and he bites his lip when you grab his cock with the fingers you had between your legs, glistening with your slick, making him nice and wet for you.
“Damn, baby. Were you playing with yourself while you waited for me?”
“Mhmm,” you nod, whimpering as you finally let him penetrate your walls. You’re so wet and warm and tight when you sink down on him that he has to hold in a breath to keep himself together. But then he reminds himself that this is a quickie. He knows you could stay here and ride him until his balls are empty, but, unfortunately, he doesn’t have that kind of time. His phone - that he shouldn’t even have on him in the first place (he does though, just for you) - has been vibrating in his pocket for the past few minutes, but the more he’s distracted, the longer it’ll take him to make you both come, so he ignores it.
Your hands grip his shoulders as you wiggle your hips to adjust to his girth that he finds so fucking cute every single time, but he can hardly feel your touch through the thick leather of his jacket. He curses, because his fingerless gloves are preventing him from fully touching the skin on your hip, so he grips you hard enough to bruise. Usually, he’d let you bounce and ride him until you came on him and got too tired to carry on, but to speed things up, he bucks up into you, watching your parted lips spill out moans as he grinds against your spot, grunting as it makes you squeeze him and suck him deeper in. He kisses you, swallowing your sweet sounds, and his balls tighten when your fingers dig into the side of his head, tightly fisting his hair. Telltale sign that you’re close. You must've really worked yourself up while you were waiting for him.
“Come for me,” he whispers against your lips, fingers dropping and finding your clit to press and rub you over the edge. You loudly cry out his name, pulling at his hair so his head tips to the side as he continues fucking up into you and kissing the underside of your jaw. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so good.”
“Come inside," you warble, cheek lolling against his temple, fingers still entangled in his hair, cunt clenching him through your aftershocks.
“Mm.” Eyebrows pinched, his fingers return to flex on your hip, cock twitching at the mere thought of getting to fill you up. “Remember to take your pill.”
You whine, indignant. He sighs, shakes his head. You make that sound when he doesn’t give you what you want.
“I’ll give you a baby when we come back from tour, ‘kay?”
You whine again, louder and borderline disobedient, slamming down on him like it tells him something. Sucking in a hiss because damn that felt good, he slaps your ass and massages out the sting, a silent warning to stop being a brat. This is one thing he’s not going to let you win an argument about.
“Hey, that was the deal, right? I’m not leaving you at home alone and pregnant while I fly around the world for eight months.”
“Yeah, but by the time you’d get back, you’d have a baby. You wouldn’t have to deal with all my pregnancy bullshit,” you try to reason, hips still rolling, eyes glassy and pout pathetic. He frowns. You’ve both had this conversation multiple times before, but that’s the first time you’ve made this point. He doesn’t fucking like it.
Yoongi tugs down on your waist to get you to stop, pelvises pressed together, cock deep inside you. But you know better than to move.
“Look at me.” You refuse, and the leather of his fingerless gloves rubs your cheeks as he grabs them. “I want to deal with all your pregnancy bullshit. I married you, remember? I signed up to put up with all your bullshit for the rest of my life and I don’t plan on missing out on any of it.”
His eyes dart between both of yours, making sure what he said is sticking with you, and when you lean in to sloppily kiss him, he knows the message got through.
“Now, c’mon. You said you were gonna be quick.”
You sit up straighter, and you’re clearly weakened from your orgasm but you put in effort that he’ll worship you for later to bring him to his own peak. Slick sounds of your pussy and slams of your hips fill the trailer, and within seconds of you squeezing him, sucking on his earlobe, and toying with his chains, he’s muttering an incoherent string of curses and spilling deep inside you. His balls just keep pulsing and holyyy shit, he really could get you pregnant right now. (He would love nothing more, but later he’ll text you another reminder to take your pill).
“I love you so fucking much,” he pants into your neck, wishing he had the time to leave his mark. “Even though you’re gonna get me in so much fucking trouble.”
“Love you, too. Don’t forget you married trouble,” You grin, waggling his ring on your finger in his facr, and his hips jerk as you lift off of him. He tips his chin up when you start to lean in for another kiss but your mouth drops and your eyes go wide.
“Oh, fuck, your hair-“ You reach out to try and fix it, but just as you do, a loud pounding on the trailer door startles the both of you.
“Shit, gotta go,” Yoongi mutters, quickly stuffing himself back in this godforsaken leather as his manager starts yelling for him to come out. You try your best to smooth down his hair, but when you keep muttering curses under your breath, he knows it’s not working.
“It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” He kisses you, lingers a second longer than he has time for, and leaves you sitting on the couch, skirt halfway up your waist, fingers playing with his cum dripping out. Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him. He needs to shoot this music video first.
Yoongi’s manager chews him all the way out onto the set, and his stylist gives him the evilest eye when she catches sight of his hair. He just scurries towards his band because his manager already said there’s no time to fix it.
“Where were you?” Namjoon exclaims as Yoongi walks towards the center of the platform. He shrugs, like he’s not still perspiring and his dick isn’t still hard. Luckily, his leather pants are bulky enough to hide it.
“I had to grab something.”
“Look at his hair! That means his honey came to visit,” Hobi says, waggling his brows. Yoongi shoots him daggers.
“Shut up.”
The maknaes burst into raucous laughter and Taehyung and Jimin mime grabbing at each other, making overexaggerated kissing noises and mimicking the way you cry out Yoongi’s name. Yoongi turns his back on them to go to his spot, just missing Jeongguk thrusting in the air like he’s mid-Baepsae.
“You brought this on yourself,” Namjoon mutters, stepping up next to him, fixing his gloves. Yoongi pretends not to hear. “It’s been, what, four years? And y’all still act like newlyweds.”
“We’re making up for the time we missed while I was in the military.”
Namjoon’s face pulls back, disgusted. “Okay, well, can you not do that on our schedule?”
“Sorry, leader-nim,” Yoongi fake apologizes, pressing his hands together, smirk lopsided and shit-eating. “Maybe if you let her come on tour, she wouldn’t find any downtime I have now to, yknow, make up.”
Namjoon sighs, long and distressed. Yoongi only feels a little bad. You’re his wife. He needs you by his side, and not just to have little quickies whenever there’s minutes to spare. He was enough of a wreck being away from you during his service. He doesn’t want that to happen because of work.
“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
Yoongi smiles, lighting up inside and out. “Thanks, bro. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Namjoon waves him off, just in time for the director to call for action.
He doesn’t know how crazy his hair looks until they play the footage back to check for mistakes and potential position adjustments. His band members tease him, but it makes him smile that it’s there because you need to grab onto his hair when he makes you come. No one outside of this set will ever know his cowlick is thanks to his wife, and that makes him like it even more.
He still left his damn bracelet.
.
.
.
thank you for reading!!! ahhhh i cant believe this happened lmao pls let me know what you think with comments and reblogs!! 💜
hey! i have one imagine idea i just saw an instagram reel regarding wife drawing eyebrows with brow pencils on their toddlers and their husbands reaction to it i don't know why when i saw that my mind just went to jungkook x reader and yoongi x reader i like your detail writting style and thought you would write it in the best way a comedy mix with fluff P.s. it's my first time requesting something so i dont know how to give details hehe so plase make it long. https://www.instagram.com/reel/DVitSQjjMVr/?igsh=ZWlkcGZhaWh6bXg1
hey yeah so im not gonna do this. ive seen this same ask on multiple blogs and i feel icky that you’re going around requesting multiple authors to write out a drabble idea. like atp you should just write it yourself if you want it so bad.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: BTS fucks a lot!, except one (he’s kinda depressed), implied smut, angst, heavy make-out, mention of death :c, mention of mental health struggles, second-hand embarrassment, MC handles rejection not super well, drinking, Mean Yoongi, canon moments I manipulated for my own sick pleasure, the ending, that fucking Hannam scene, holding hands (it deserves a warning in this fic), angst i guess, and again Mean Yoongi, redemption arc when?, he’s an idiot but he has heart I promise, probably wrong ways to play LOL chess/teamfight tactics, foyer quote was inspired by something i randomly saw in my feed, watch out for the time skips (one flashback and a tiny flash forward)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10.3k whuuuut
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie; credits to Aqua for inspiring one of MC’s quotes (marked **)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie (my very first fic with an OST i'm sobbing, ty sweets)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: A whole ass year in the making and it took a trip to South Korea and experiencing Arirang in all its glory for me to finally bring this fic to life the way I envisioned it. After dropping two teasers I guess y’all really fw this plot, so I do hope you guys like it. Don’t forget to comment or reblog. I’d really appreciate it. I might take time to tag everyone that requested, so bear with me. Other than that, enjoy~ Thank you to the lovely and talented @risky-peaches for the banner. 💜
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
You tried to pay him back. He just looked at you, shrugged, and said, “If you really want to, just stay with us. Stay in the team.”
So you do.
The boys noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that. From MOTS to PTD Live On Stage to Arirang.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine as fuck. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous. Except for two of them, who you suspected had something non-platonic going on, but you don’t want to speculate further.
You’ve seen some of them try dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s…
You ended up becoming Yoongi’s.
…and it all begins with a very mature game of Spin the Bottle.
You and the rest of the crew had stayed back in the rehearsal studio to celebrate the birthday of Rei, assistant performance director, resident tyrant, and class president of your little dysfunctional sorority.
There’s food, balloons, and too many empty soju bottles. One of which is currently spinning… and lands on you.
“Shit,” you mutter, already reaching for your beer. “Truth.”
A chorus of groans.
“Boring!”
“Ask her something good!”
The birthday girl leans forward, eyes glassy, tipsy as hell. “Aight, gun to your head—which member you gonna fuck?”
You choke on your drink. “No way I’m answering that. Next question.”
“Nah,” Tiff tosses a handful of popcorn at you. “You know the rules.”
You groan, tilting your head back dramatically before swatting the kernels off your lap. “You guys…”
“Wuss!” Bina teases.
“C’mon, you’ve thought about it. Don’t even play,” Rei smirks.
All eyes are on you. The pressure is mounting so high that you almost want to hurl. You take another swig. Rei is right though, as she almost annoyingly always is. You’ve definitely checked the boys out. It’s not even a question of who (singular), because if you’re gonna be honest, you have biblical levels of greed and there’s two in particular you’d let rearrange your guts.
But ugh. You’ll play along.
Just one name to satiate these hoes.
“Fine,” you huff, wiping your lip with the back of your palm, readying to reveal your answer:
“Kim Seokjin.”
The room erupts.
“OHHHH—”
“I knew it!”
And even if you know you could stop at that, the alcohol kicks your courage into overdrive.
“I’d let him fuck me raw until the inside of my coochie moulds to the shape of his dick...”**
The rest spills out of you in a half-slurred, disgustingly specific ramble that has the girls screaming and Angel spilling her shot.
You’re laughing, face hot, still high off everyone’s reactions when you feel the heat of someone’s stare.
You glance up and holy shit. It’s the name you withheld.
Feline eyes piercing and lips curling at the corners, oh Yoongi looks hella amused. He’s right there and he heard it all.
Fucking hell. Your life is literally over.
⊙⊝⊜
It’s later, much later, when you run into him again.
The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass from the dance studio muffled into a distant thrum. Your head is a little light, steps a little uneven, but you’re mostly sober now. Okay, not really.
You push the door open and there he is, almost like he’s been waiting.
Yoongi’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, head tilted just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. He looks… loose. Drunk, then. Obviously. Just like everyone else in the party.
His gaze slides over you and that same almost-smile returns. “Seokjinnie-hyung, huh?”
You groan immediately, covering your face. “Oh my god, don’t.”
He huffs out a scratchy laugh and your fist collides against his arm.
He rubs the spot with his palm. “Didn’t know you had that much to say about him.”
“I didn’t know you were listening,” you shoot back.
“Right place at the right time,” he shrugs.
You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying my demise way too much.”
“Am I?” he says, pushing off the wall.
He steps closer. “I mean…” his gaze flicks down, then back up. “You were pretty detailed.”
This close, he smells like warm musk and whisky. It hits you all at once, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. You swallow it down, deflecting. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” He smiles sweetly, pretty teeth and pink gums on show. Then he circles back smoothly to the topic because he is a piece of shit. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
You scoff, folding your arms like that’ll save you. “Oh, there’s a lot of things you don’t know ‘bout me.”
His gaze dips, trailing down the exposed skin where your cardigan has conveniently fallen off your shoulder, towards your breasts hugged by your camisole. His eyes linger just a second too long before dragging back up to your face.
And there it is. He did the thing for you. That thing he does where his tongue presses into his cheek. Fucker.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
Alarm bells are ringing in your head because is Min fuckin’ Yoongi lowkey hitting on you right now?
“Well…” his head tilts, voice dropping just enough to feel it. “Was that just talk?”
He is! Fuck. Why? No, shut up. It doesn’t matter right now. Say something.
You swallow, then tilt your chin up, meeting him head-on as liquid courage pushes you to say the next words. “What?” You shrug, forcing a smirk. “You wanna stand-in for your hyung?”
His lips curve, slow and amused. “Maybe.”
“I… could be open,” you say almost lazily.
And then he moves.
Rough hands find your wrist, tugging you down the hall before you can think too hard about it. You let him and the next thing you know you’re pressed behind his studio door.
Just the two of you.
Too close that you feel the heat emanating from his body.
“Jin’s got a girl,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel his hot breath grazing your cheek.
That makes you pause, because you didn’t know Jin was steady with someone. Else you wouldn’t have said what you said.
“And y’all won’t fuck nasty like that.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in, just enough that your lips brush his when you speak.
“No?” You lick between his parted mouth, pulling back with a smirk. “And… we would?”
“Like animals.”
And then he cups the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours.
⊙⊝⊜
Monday comes faster than you’d like.
You don’t know what you were expecting from Yoongi exactly. A text, maybe? Something more than the thumbs up he sent after you told him you got home safe. Friday night feels like it happened in a vacuum, sealed off like crime scene evidence the second he booked you that Uber.
You’ve spent the weekend turning it over in your head, wondering if things are supposed to be different now that you’ve had sex. Are you supposed to be different? Is it going to be awkward?
You’re about to find out.
You don’t usually hang around after hours unless there’s a reason.
Tonight, the reason is Jimin, who’d dragged you in with the promise of early access to the new tracks you’d be helping to choreograph. You felt a little strange when you entered the studio and found just two members of Bangtan and one of their producers, who nodded at you casually as you entered.
So here you are, curled up on the couch in the corner of the studio, laptop open but mostly forgotten, as the last bits of a track play through the speakers. You’re too deep in thought to notice the delivery guy come in, but you do notice when Yoongi picks up the coffee tray, wordlessly plucking a cup free and walking it over to you.
He holds it out, no expression, no explanation.
“Hyung,” Jimin calls lazily from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Where’s my coffee?”
Yoongi doesn’t even glance up. “Just grab a Coke from the fridge.”
You stifle a laugh as Jimin groans dramatically, dragging himself up to rummage through the mini fridge.
A few minutes later, Yoongi slips out of the room, muttering something about finding Namjoon because he should have joined you all 30 minutes ago.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Jimin flops back down beside you, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to spill. “That’s him flirting, by the way.”
You blink at him. “What?”
Jimin points at the cup still in your hand. “Hyung doesn’t even order me coffee.”
“Why would he? You’re an annoying lil bitch.”
Jimin playfully slaps the visor of your baseball cap down so that it covers your eyes.
Which works out just fine because as you glance down at the cup again, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth seeping into your palms. You shake your head, trying to play it off, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging up into a smile you can’t quite hide.
You take a sip of your warm drink and pretend it doesn’t taste sweeter somehow.
Namjoon finally walks in ten minutes later, forehead sweaty, hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Yoongi follows behind him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Namjoon says, already reaching for the aux like he owns the place. He knocks over a cup of pens as he does so.
Then, his eyes land on you. “You ate?”
You nod, lifting your coffee, lipstick-stained spout and all.
“That’s not food,” Namjoon shakes his head, dimples deepening, as he reaches for something in his pocket. “This one’s better.”
A tiny Quaker Oats bar, a bit warm from pocket heat, lands on your lap.
“Thank you.”
The crinkle of the granola bar mixes with Jimin’s whines. “Why doesn’t anyone give me food?”
⊙⊝⊜
In the weeks that follow, when tour prep shifts into high gear, nothing else really happens—not in the way you thought it might, at least. Yoongi doesn’t seek you out. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t bring up that night, ever. You’re not really suprised, considering…
But you do notice he lingers in small ways. A bottle of water left by your things before you even realize you’re thirsty. A quiet “eat” when the catering after a shoot finally finishes setting up. The occasional glance. Maybe even a tiny smile here and there. You fall into an easy rhythm with him, familiar but not quite the same, and you catch yourself thinking, maybe something did shift.
Maybe this is just how it starts.
⊙⊝⊜
Rehearsals just wrapped up and your heart is reckless with exhaustion.
You’ve never asked anyone out before. Let alone a fuckin’ idol. But you’re young and dumb. Heavy on the dumb, actually. Anyway, you’ve already slept together. And you’re convinced the chemistry is off the charts. So, why not? And it’s just hanging out anyway. It’s not that deep.
You approach Yoongi as he’s wiping off his neck with a white terry cloth, still breathing heavily. It’s probably serendipity, how everyone else has already slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of you.
He lifts his eyes towards you, mouth slightly agape as he gulps oxygen back in.
Ugh.
Your earlier bravado is slowly evaporating.
This is stupid. So stupid. But wasn’t it him who said if you know you’re going to crash, accelerate harder?
“So there’s this café in Yeonnam,” you say, stopping in front of him as he ties his shoelaces.
“Apparently, the building it’s in has been standing since the Joseon dynasty. Crazy. Used to be an apothecary or a medical clinic and they restored it so well it looks so legit...”
You’re blabbing. His face is unreadable, but you press on, fumbling toward hope.
“You’re into historical shit… Daechwita vibes, right? Anyway, the place looks pretty cool. If you’re free sometime, we could—”
There’s an audible inhale as Yoongi stands, dusting off his jeans, slow and careful, before he lifts his head towards you.
“Look,” he says, and you already know how this ends just from the weight of that word. You wish the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
“I’m not really…” he tilts his head, like you should know. Like you shouldn’t even be having this conversation. “You get it, right?”
You force your face into something neutral, something that won’t betray you. Shrug like embarrassment is not a fire razing you from the inside.
“‘S all good.” You smile albeit tightly. You even pat his shoulder as you pass, casual, almost laughing. But inside you’re ash.
“Oh, get that shoulder pop on 2.0 sharper,” you toss on the way out. “I’ll tell Junho to run it with you again tomorrow.”
Behind you, his eyes slant with what you can only tell is pity.
You make it to the hallway before the first tear slips free, quick and traitorous and pathetic, falling soundless onto the worn carpet.
You’re already a few beats away when you hear it, “Hey Y/N!“ and then frantic steps.
You don’t stop walking. No. No fuckin’ way. You speed up.
He can’t see you like this.
You round the corner and run straight to the fire exit to extinguish the heat of shame before you’re burned to a crisp.
It’s sort of easy to get back into the normal swing of things, despite everything. You’re not friends. You probably never will be. And that’s okay.
You have your dignity.
You have the girls.
You have Rei.
…who proceeded to scream at you when you explained to her why your eyes were bloodshot the day after you made that reckless decision to ask a world-famous idol out.
She had to re-orient you how this goes. The boys are not off-limits per se, but they do have limits. Fuck, it’s not like you forgot, you just thought… it was different. You were different. Or you could be, given your history. You’ve been in the team for years now and you’d like to consider yourself not just a colleague, but maybe even a friend.
Because there was that one time in Hannam when he… fuck. It’s probably irrelevant. Unimportant. You’re just making it a thing.
And you know what, honestly, you’re fine with rejection. You’ve had practice.
Jongho, back in fifth grade, returned the paper heart you gave him because Bora sent him one first. Bigger, more glittery.
Baekhyun, in college, dumped you for that French exchange student with ginormous tits.
Even recently, word got to Seokjin about your little drunken speech, and he wasted no time reminding you exactly where you’ve always stood—firmly in the friend zone. He has a girl after all.
It was during the Swim choreo shoot. Jin flicked your forehead when he caught you staring too long during break. He was sweaty and his lips were really plump and pink, and…
“Focus,” he said. “I know I’m handsome, but you can’t do that. Next time, I’ll have to charge you.”
You flipped him off. And thank God he laughed like a windshield wiper, otherwise it would just be really unfair.
As always, you survive. You move on. You always do.
But the real problem? Life is dangling you the man of your dreams like a keychain and you can’t seem to catch it.
Yoongi’s haircut. Right before tour.
It’s almost cruel, because Yoongi’s long hair is most revered by society, widely beloved. Tiktoks and shrines were dedicated to that lionesque mane. ARMY yearned for it. Scissors were manifested to disappear within a 5-mile radius from him.
But you? You personally liked cleaner cuts on guys. When you joined the team circa-MOTS, he had that sharp, neat cut that you were very much into.
To add insult to injury, you’ve always liked Nerds. You consider yourself one, too.
And now Yoongi’s walking around with this new pair of specs—rimless frames, whenever he feels like wrecking your equilibrium. It sits low on his nose when he’s tired or playing League of Legends Chess during breaks or sipping on his coffee in between takes, and it’s…
Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
Comeback season officially starts and everything else falls away. Days blur into soundchecks and rehearsals, quick meals eaten standing, ears popping from cabin pressure.
There’s no time to think about anything else when you’re moving from the Netflix show in Gwanghwamun to New York for that Spotify event and then back home again. You’re running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, counting formations in your head even when you’re off-work. You don’t have time to breathe, but somehow it’s easier like this.
Once in a while during rehearsals, Yoongi still asks for your input on how to execute a move better. Of course you give it; it’s your job. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting when he, famously allergic to eye contact, suddenly makes an effort to meet your gaze.
Honestly, you don’t know why he bothers. He doesn’t owe you anything. No line was crossed without your consent. And whatever that was, it’s not happening again. You almost wish you could just hate him, because that would be easier than this neutral middle ground you’re stranded in.
But you can’t.
Because you see the quiet way he takes care of people, especially Jimin. He shows up, every time, steady and professional and so annoyingly good at what he does. There’s something about that you can’t ignore.
You respect it, because you respect him.
Maybe that’s the worst part. Because he didn’t string you along and didn’t blur the lines more than you let him. You gotta hand it to him, he shut it down clean.
So… you just gotta move on.
Right?
And you… You’ve built this life carefully, piece by piece. You didn’t fight this hard just to get distracted now. So you buckle up. You lock in.
It’s days before the World Tour kicks off and you’re knee-deep in rehearsals. Day in, day out, you’re in the dance studio, double-hatting as a dancer and an assistant choreographer. You’re exhausted–bone-deep, muscle-aching tired, but you’re focused on the grind, on making this show the best fucking tour in history. The boys deserve it. The whole team deserves it. So do you.
You used to rewind dance practice videos frame by frame, pausing just to study the angle of an arm, the timing of a step. Back then, it was just you, your reflection, and the stubborn belief that if you worked hard enough, you could belong in rooms like this. And now you do.
“Let’s start?” Seung Eun calls and everybody hops back into formation. You drop your strawberry lip balm back in your bag.
There’s this sequence in Hooligan.
You and the other dancers crowd Yoongi during his verse, closing in until there’s barely any space left between bodies. It’s choreographed, calculated chaos. You’re meant to get in his face, invade his space just enough to look dangerous, just enough to feel menacing for him. And he’s supposed to hold eye contact, like he’s unbothered.
For this run, you’re standing in for Kian, who pulled his calf muscle and needed to get iced real quick. Injuries are part of the game, but there’s always a medic on standby to ensure any impact is minimized.
The music starts and your bodies move to the choreography. You slide into position on the last count, stepping into Yoongi’s space. He recites his line.
“Hooligan, like hooligan, ttaeryeo buswo like hooligan…”
You tilt your chin up slightly, eyes on his—ready, steady, professional. But that’s when it shifts.
His gaze doesn’t land where it usually does with the others. It drops to your mouth.
Anyone else might miss it, but you don’t.
And suddenly you’re hyper-aware of the way you’re breathing, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your body feels a fraction too close to his.
“Sigan dwaesseuni jom bikyeo jom…”
His next line stumbles.
“Ah, fuck—”
The music cuts.
Yoongi lifts a hand, already half-turning away. “My bad.”
There’s a ripple of movement around you as everyone resets, but you’re still standing there as blood rushes up your neck, your cheeks warming before you can stop it.
You glance at him. He glances back.
And then, quieter—almost under his breath—he mumbles to you without meeting your eyes. “That‘s… distracting.”
You gulp.
When the next sequence starts, there’s a faint smudge of red staining the back of your sleeve. You don’t remember doing it. But you do remember how Yoongi doesn’t miss a single beat when Kian steps back in to take your place.
[Goyang, SK, April 2026]
“Stay safe out there!” Namjoon calls just before the curtains are drawn and the opening beat of Hooligan detonates through the speakers.
The crowd goes wild as the bassline rattles your ribs, syncs with your pulse, turns your body into music before you even think. On cue, you surge forward with the rest of the dancers, breaking through the curtain like a wave, energy ripping out of you in sharp bursts, boots slamming against the stage in perfect unison.
You’re gripping a red smoke stick, heat blooming in your palm as it spits thick plumes into the air, bleeding color into the stage until everything is drenched in crimson. It curls around your bodies, around the lights slicing down from above like blades, burning the stage with fire without flames.
Man. Goyang hits different.
Maybe it’s because it’s home. Maybe it’s because this is the first real show where everything finally clicks into place—not just in your head, not just in rehearsals, but out here, in front of thousands of people screaming like the world is ending.
The 360 stage feels massive under your feet, lights slicing through the dark in perfect sync, pyro exploding at just the right beat. Every cue lands. Every formation locks. Every transition you’ve drilled into muscle memory finally breathes.
It’s insane and you feel even more insane because you’re in it. On stage, moving with everyone, keeping up, matching energy, feeding off it. The crowd roars and it vibrates through your bones, through your chest, through everything.
As rain pours down from the sky like blessings from above, you feel genuinely alive. Even though you’re damp and drenched and soaked to your very core, there really is no place else you’d rather be.
⊙⊝⊜
When you hit backstage after the encore, everyone’s wet, loud, breathless, half-laughing, half-shouting over each other, still riding the high of the first show. You don’t even think; you’re just moving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin as you high five whoever’s in reach, grinning like an idiot.
“Good job!” someone yells.
“You killed it!” another voice.
You barely register who’s who.
Hoseok finds you in the middle of it all and just pulls you into the biggest hug, squeezing tight like he’s just as proud of you as you are of yourself.
“You did so good,” he says, bright and warm and Hobi, and you laugh into his shoulder, still catching your breath. He praises you like you’re the global superstar, not him.
When you pull back, everything’s still squishing about, still loud and electric.
Namjoon messes up your hair. Jungkook gives you a high five. Yoongi’s across the room, exchanging quick fist bumps with some of the dancers, head dipped, saying something you can’t quite catch. Then he looks up and sees you.
There’s a split-second of indecision. But, you smile. He nods. A tiny one. He looks a little tired. He’s never been one to hide when he’s exhausted, but just like you he’s glowing. Tired, but certainly happy.
And then someone grabs him from the side, pulling him into a quick hug, and the moment’s gone just as easily as it came, replaced by high-pitched screams, and too-tight hugs from your girls.
[Tokyo, JP, April 2026]
You find Hobi slumped against the wall of the green room, half-hidden behind a rack of wardrobe like he’s trying to make himself smaller than he is.
You’d heard. Everyone had, in that quiet, careful way news like that travels—soft voices, lowered eyes, staff moving around a little more gently than usual.
You hesitate for a second, unsure if it’s your place. When you think about it, Hoseok isn’t just one of them to you. He’s your mentor. The reason you’re even here. The first person who saw something in you and decided it was worth something. And more than that, he’s someone you really care about.
Before you can think yourself out of it, you move closer. He looks up and red-rimmed eyes meet yours. Then, something in his expression breaks the distance you were trying to keep. You’re kneeling in front of him the next second, and he’s leaning into you, folding into your arms like he’s been holding himself together for too long.
His sobs are quiet, restrained, but they shake through him all the same.
You wrap your arms around him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.
“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you murmur softly. “I know she meant everything to you.”
He lets out a shaky breath against your shoulder, voice breaking. “I hate this. I should be home. I should be there, but I…” his grip tightens slightly. “I fuckin’ can’t.”
Your chest caves at that.
“She knows,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. “She understands. She’s looking down on you right now, smiling, so proud of you. I promise.”
Hobi looks up at you then and for a second, beneath the stage makeup and styled hair and everything that makes him him to the world, he just looks like a little boy.
Small. Hurt. Lost.
As your heart breaks a little, a soft cough breaks the moment.
You glance over your shoulder. Yoongi stands a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, like he walked in on something he wasn’t meant to interrupt.
“I—um…” he shifts slightly. “They told me to come get you.” He means Hoseok, but for some reason, his eyes are fixed on you.
“Shit,” Hobi exhales, scrubbing at his face as he pulls away. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a second.”
Hobi stands, walking over to the makeup station, picking up a tissue and carefully blotting at his cheeks, trying to undo what he can.
It feels like your cue to leave. Rei’s probably already looking for you anyway because there’s a hole in the formation.
Hobi disappears into one of the changing rooms, pulling the curtain shut behind him as he gets ready.
You turn to go, but a hand catches your arm.
“Y/N,” Yoongi says quietly, before his fingers lose their grip.
There’s something in Yoongi’s expression that stops you for half a second. You don’t know what it is. But mostly you think, it’s gratitude sitting heavy in his gaze like he doesn’t know all the words for it.
You shrug lightly, because it doesn’t feel like something you should be thanked for. It’s the least you can do for someone who changed the trajectory of your life without ever asking for anything in return.
He just nods, still looking at you. You see his fingers reaching then drawing back.
It’s… a lot. More than you’re used to with him.
So you look away first, swallowing the tightness in your throat before the sting in your eyes turns into something else.
[Tampa, FL, April 2026]
Being in America is always exciting. Something about stepping onto U.S. soil flips a switch in the boys, like there’s something in the water, or maybe it’s just the distance from home loosening something in their bones.
Tae, for one, fully commits to the bit—gray sweats, tank tops, lewd little ad libs to the choreo. No one questions it. Angel is definitely going through it. Lucky bitch.
Jungkook is on his phone 24/7, liking everything in sight to send any and all users in a frenzy to fuel them until their next life. He also films these borderline menacing TikToks alone in his hotel room at ungodly hours, looking fucked out because well, he probably has done just that.
Jimin wakes up one day and decides he wants to have an even longer ponytail. And suddenly the internet is in shambles, ARMY collectively just losing their shit.
And that’s just the maknaes.
It’s fascinating to watch all of them, seeing different versions surface depending on where they are, like they’re all just slightly more themselves here. Or maybe just slightly less guarded.
After the last show in Tampa, the members decide to treat the crew to KBBQ at some nearby strip mall. You squeeze into a long table with some of the dancers and a couple of the boys, smoke from the grill curling into your hair, soju flowing a little too easily.
For one reason or another, as people made room for others, and chairs were moved left then right, you somehow end up in front of Yoongi like you just played musical chairs.
“How’s it going?” you say.
“Not bad. You?”
You shrug, “I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
The awkwardness is like a knot that loosens as drinks flow. Then, the easy back-and-forth comes like you do this on a daily basis instead of pretending you don’t think about him at all.
“You’re in a good mood,” you say, watching as he pours you another shot.
“Am I?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “You talk more when you are.”
He huffs softly, like he doesn’t agree but won’t argue it either. He looks pretty like this, barefaced and sleepy. Then you remember something and you decide to be a menace. “Give me a reason to not tattle.”
His brows meet in the middle. Confused. “What do you mean?”
“Oh you know full well.” You mimic a head turn and flail your arms.
Yoongi’s cheeks turn pink. He fumbled the Run choreo. AGAIN.
“I recovered faster this time.”
“Not the point,” you reply pointedly.
“I ate in Day 1.”
“You did,” you nod. “Not the point though.”
He gives a wary glance over at Hoseok who has half a rib inside his mouth at the moment, when he looks back at you and challenges. “Name your price.”
“RP gift card. Could use some new arena skins.” You smile sweetly, knowing he’s been obsessed with LoL Teamfight Tactics, too. You’ve seen it on his phone.
“Fine.” Yoongi laughs, actually laughs, because he didn’t expect the response. “We should play sometime.”
And it was your turn to not expect that response.
“Oh, alright. Sure.” You nod, a little flustered even as you recall the nugget you’ve seen from one of his interviews. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Yoongi smiles, so gummy and wide, like he has a praise kink that you just discovered. “Thank you. Diamond is very hard to achieve.” So you let him brag a bit, before you decide to knock him down a peg.
“Trust me, I get it.” You bring the spout of your beer to your mouth and before you take a swig, you quip. “I’m a grandmaster.”
His jaw hits the floor and you almost spit your beer out. “You are not.”
You tilt your head as if to say, try me. He is still waiting. And the smirk disappears from his mouth when swipes of your screen later you show him your profile and your level is as you disclosed.
“Wow.”
“I know. Wow.” You say, smug. “Anyway, do you think you’re gonna get away with it, or is there a fan cam already circulating?”
“You tell me. I don’t watch those things.”
“My phone probably heard us and is about to add it to my algorithm. I’ll let you know.”
“Taehyung-ie threw me off, honestly.” He leans back and exhales deeply.
A giggle slips out of you because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah, no, everyone was just feeling it. Kookie did the dougie to Life Goes On. Namjoon was fucking the air to Butter of all songs. Insane behavior from all of you, actually.”
“I’m innocent.”
Oho. “You’re not off the hook.” You wag your finger.
“Wae?”
“Baepsae.” You lean your chin on your palm, referring to the Army time surprise song.
“What?”
“You got real close to a camera and let ‘er rip.”
“Did no such thing,” His lips stretch into that infuriating bracket-like grin. He’s obviously lying.
“Don’t even play. I saw the smile you tried to hide when you turned around, you dog.”
“So you were really watching me, huh?”
“I was monitoring the performances from backstage. As it is my job.”
“Mhm,” he hums, biting his lip to hide a smile as he shakes his head.
“Shut up.”
“I’m not saying anything,” he chuckles, voice a little higher than usual.
“Silence is admission.” You point your chopsticks at him and smirk. “It’s fine. You were just feeling yourself.”
You thought you were gonna have the last laugh. But as always, Yoongi knows how to render you speechless.
“And if I am,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes straight to yours. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it?”
You have a comeback. You definitely do. It’s just stuck in your brain traffic, unable to come out.
He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose bridge and the single action almost makes you fall to your knees.
God, you hope he doesn’t notice.
But he does.
That’s the only explanation for the text that you get while you’re settling in your hotel room that night.
Rei is on her bed already semi-snoring, her phone still lit up as a TikTok live seller continues to peddle a hyaluronic acid sheet mask bundle. 3+1 event—you’d check it out if you didn’t have a booty call staring back at you.
You check it again. Still not sure if you’re reading the text correctly.
Yoongi: 2004
Yoongi: come over if ur feelin it
So you find yourself on his floor thirty minutes later, the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to your blouse as you walk down the hallway.
Room 2002 has a very loud and dramatic show playing inside. For sure it’s one of the members as they’re typically roomed in the same floor. You just don’t know who.
A few steps over is your destination. Room 2004.
Fuck. You’re doing this. (Again.)
Except… There’s a sound.
No. A moan.
Your knuckles are frozen, inches from the door.
Someone is definitely having a great time in there.
You check the text again, because maybe you got the room wrong.
The numbers match. And yet, the math is not mathing. If he invited you, then why—
Oh.
Oh shit.
You look at your messages again and realize, all at once, what happened.
Your reply sits there with a red exclamation point. Which only means one thing. It was Unsent.
You: yeah, i’ll come ❗
Well.
Now?
No, you won’t.
“Fucking shit,” your phone flies out of your hand when you trip on the carpet floor like a complete klutz. You can’t believe you’re risking injury and getting benched for the rest of the tour for this stupid cat man.
“Y/N?”
Noooooooooo
You straighten up immediately, thankful it wasn’t Yoongi’s door that flew open. “Namjoon, hi.”
“Is this yours?” he bends to pick up your phone, which is resting by his doorway.
“Yeah, umm. That’s mine.”
He studies you as you take the device from his hand. Your screen is still bright and open and your Kakao app is just there. Ain’t no way he didn’t see who’s on your thread.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m totally fine.” You pocket your device, forcing a light smile. But before you can say anything else, Namjoon is pulling his door wider.
You stay rooted in place, even as your eyes dart inside the plush suite. You realize he is wearing a black tank top and matching pajamas.
“I got food and a drama. Could use some company,” Namjoon says simply. No malice, no undertone. You’re sure Namjoon has no way of knowing you had a lacy thong underneath, so this is really just a simple invitation to hang out.
You consider it. At the same time, you think, huh, his dimples are really, really deep. Your reply came easy after that. “I–sure, yeah. I’m down.”
“Cool.” he tilts his head, gesturing you in.
The night settles into something softer in Room 2002, the noise in your brain fading into nothing thanks to room service, wine samplers from the mini bar, and Namjoon’s running commentary over a drama. He’s literally such a yapper. You lean back into the couch, listening to him more than watching the show, letting his voice fill the space instead of your thoughts.
It’s easy hanging with Namjoon. No guessing. No second-guessing. And you don’t realize until now how much you needed Namjoon’s friendship until now, but you’re glad he is offering it.
And maybe more than that, you’re glad he didn’t ask any questions you couldn't answer even if you tried.
⊙⊝⊜
The next day, rumors fly that Gwayoung from Digital was bragging about being on the receiving end of that tongue technology.
The same day, you also receive a 50,000 won gift card credited in your mobile game.
You know it’s from the same person. And you know which one you would’ve wanted more.
⊙⊝⊜
The tour goes on. It starts off like a high you can’t come down from. New cities, new crowds. You collect moments like souvenirs—late-night convenience store runs, inside jokes backstage, someone filming content here and there, drinking sessions inside someone’s hotel room. There’s always something happening, always someone around. You don’t have to think too much because everything moves too fast. It feels like living ten lives at once, and for a while, it’s enough.
But somewhere along the way, the novelty starts to thin out. The cities blur into one long stretch of airports, hotel hallways, empty highways, and backstage corridors that all feel vaguely the same. You wake up and sometimes it takes a second to remember where you are. Your suitcase never really gets unpacked—just opened, lived out of, closed again. Everyone’s tired in that bone-deep way that makes even laughter feel like effort. You’re surrounded by people all the time, and somehow, it still feels lonely.
You and the girls have a kind of unspoken understanding between all of you now, forged in cramped dressing rooms and shared mirrors, in the quiet rituals of getting ready before a show. Someone’s always borrowing someone else’s lip tint, someone’s fixing a crooked lash, someone’s complaining about a bruise they didn’t notice until they caught it under the harsh vanity lights.
“Why are we like this?” Angel groans one night, poking at a purple mark on her thigh.
“Occupational hazard,” Bina shrugs, already halfway through redoing her eyeliner for the third time.
“Is that the one that you banged on the clothing rack, or, ahem…”
Angel’s face heats. It was Tae. Rough Tae, as per usual.
Rei rolls her eyes. “Alright, we know you’re getting it good. No need to shove it in our faces.”
“You know who I wouldn’t mind shoving something in my face?” Lisa pipes in. She’s one of the newer dancers that joined the US leg.
“Who?” You ask, curious.
“Yoongi. Fuck. He looks so daddy these days. Literally need that.”
Rei shoves a protein bar into your hand, with a stern look to match. “Eat.”
You do, because if you don’t you might say something you’ll regret.
⊙⊝⊜
Since that late night hallway encounter several stops ago, you and Namjoon have somehow made hanging out into a thing. It just happens seamlessly. Over meals, passing conversations end up lasting longer than expected.
Off-handedly, he confides in you that he struggles to sleep. You piece together the rest on your own. Military life has altered his mental state in ways he is still struggling to undo and it’s been tough, but at least he’s a work in progress.
As far as you know, he’s the only member who doesn’t really… distract himself the way the others do on tour. Nobody waiting for a quick one backstage, no regular to help release all that adrenaline after long shows.
So instead, he watches dramas. It’s funny, really. But you guess, it works for him. He really likes those cheesy lovey dovey ones or those about heartache. Tells you it’s the closest he can feel something real and he lets them play until he passes out.
He invites you to join him sometimes.
At first, you’re suspicious. You wouldn’t have blamed him (or minded, to be honest) if there were other intentions. Everyone has needs, after all. And honestly, you would have been flattered to be considered by a catch like him. But after the third or fourth time of bingeing on drama and food, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want you like that. And you have to admit—he’s a fun time. So it’s cool.
When you hang out, he tells you about the books he’s reading, summarizing them in a way that makes you want to pick them up yourself. You tell him about choreography ideas, about how certain movements sit in your body, about how you think music should look when it’s danced.
“You think in shapes,” he says once, mimicking the way your hands move as you explain.
“You think in paragraphs,” you shoot back.
He laughs at that, dimples deep, eyes soft. “True.”
“Long-ass paragraphs, actually. Mr. Yapper.”
Sometimes, when the days feel too long and the nights stretch a little too quiet, you find yourself standing outside his door without really remembering how you got there.
No matter, Namjoon always lets you in.
[Las Vegas, NV, May 2026]
One night, you get a message from Hobi inviting you for drinks. You haven’t hung out with him in a while, so it was a no-brainer when you said yes. You don’t go out every night at every tour stop, but you made an exception this time.
You put on something cute. Not to impress Hobi particularly, but because you know he always dresses well, and you will not be caught dead looking shabby beside him. Lips a little glossy and cheeks a little rosy, you make your way to the hotel bar, heels clicking against the marble.
But instead of Hobi, you find someone else instead.
“Hey.”
“You stalkin’ me?” Yoongi smirks at his lowball.
“Yup, this is exactly what this is. Call Mr. Lee,” You deadpan, sitting on the bar stool beside him. “Where’s Hob-ah?”
He shrugs. “Not his keeper.”
“Is there another hotel bar?” You ask the bartender who was polishing off a wine glass.
“Yes, miss. There's another on the 31st.”
Realizing you might’ve gotten the venue wrong, you grab your clutch and start to slide off the stool. “I guess I’ll—”
“Stay.”
He says it so quietly, almost like he was hoping you don’t hear it.
You pause.
When you look at him, he’s not even looking at you—just staring into his drink like there’s something at the bottom of it worth pondering. You know you should leave, but you don’t.
“You look… a little worse for wear,” you say as you settle back into your seat.
“You can say I look like shit.”
You glance at him, then nod once. “Okay. You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
A beat.
“Everything okay?”
He shrugs. Noncommittal. Dismissive. Yoongi core.
You signal the bartender for a drink, letting the noise of the bar fill the space between you for a while as you wait for your cocktail.
It’s him who breaks first.
He slides a bowl of roasted edamame toward you, like a peace offering he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
“I dunno,” he mutters, more to the glass than to you.
You wait.
He exhales, long and slow, the amber liquid in his glass rippling with the movement.
“I keep listening to the album and it all just…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Trash.”
You blink, shock evident in your face. “What do you mean?”
“Like I should’ve done it differently.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Every track. Every arrangement. Feels like I missed out on changing something obvious.”
“That’s just—”
“I know,” he cuts in, already shaking his head. “I know it’s not real. I know it’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fatigue. Whatever.”
But it doesn’t sound like he believes that.
“I can’t turn it off,” he adds, quieter now. “Even when I see how fans enjoy the songs, the doubt just eats at me.”
There’s something raw in that. Something he doesn’t usually let slip. You watch him for a second, really look at him. And it pulls something up from the back of your mind:
Hannam-dong.
⊙⊝⊜
A random weeknight. You’d gone out alone, too proud to call anyone after your ex ended things over something stupid that somehow still shattered you. You were busy ugly-crying over your gin until someone slid into the seat beside you.
Him. Yoongi.
“What are you doing here, Yoongi?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You looked like you needed someone.”
“You heard me crying from across the room?”
“It was a bit loud, yeah.”
Your face crumples again and you let out a broken sound, covering your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing…”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, even. “No one’s looking.”
You sniff again. “I look disgusting.”
“You look like you’re crying.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.” He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to you.
You let out a weak huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob, before taking it.
He didn’t ask questions or make it a big thing. Just sat there with his black face mask, providing you with the comfort of company. He let you talk when you wanted. Let you cry when you couldn’t stop.
At some point, you’d leaned into him without thinking, and he’d just let you. Steady. Warm. He rubbed your back as you wrapped your arms around in his slight torso, sobbing slightly against his tee.
“Yoongi. Why are men pigs?” you sniff.
“I dunno. I’m a cat.” He shrugs. “...apparently.”
That makes you laugh, all wet and snotty. But it makes all the difference to lighten your mood.
“Look. I don’t know who the guy is. But I know he’s an idiot.”
“He is,” You nod immediately. “… but I am, too.”
A pause, before he chides. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“I just…” You trail off lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at the track lights hanging from the bar. “I just really love love, you know?”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I like the idea of it,” you continue, words coming slower now, more honest. “Falling for someone. Growing with them. Having… I dunno, fuck…” you laugh weakly, shaking your head. “Someone to hold your hand ‘til it’s all sweaty and gross, like… I love that shit.”
It sounds stupid out loud.
“So even if I knew he wasn’t it, I tried to hold on. Because I’m scared of being alone. And I’m scared I won’t find someone who’d want me again.”
Jeez, that was a lot to unpack. You expect him to say something dry. He’s good at that.
No words come.
Instead, his fingers brush against yours where your hand rests on the bartop.
You glance down.
He’s not looking at you. Just placing his palm on the back of yours, before turning it over. And slowly, his hand closes around yours, fingers interlacing between each digit.
You’re staring at your conjoined hands and then his stoic face. He doesn’t look back, but he squeezes your hand tighter as if to say: I’m here. Not forever. But at least you’re not alone for now.
And that was enough. That night, you had someone to hold your hand til it was all sweaty and gross. You swallow, something tight in your chest easing just a little.
He walks you out after, hands still clasped. Makes sure you get into a cab. Waits until the door shuts before stepping back. Your hand feels cold without the feel of his when the car drives off.
But after that… nothing. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. Life got complicated. You don’t know what happened during his enlistment. So now you both just act like it didn’t happen.
If you will be honest, you still think about Hannam-dong sometimes. More than you will ever admit.
You’re reminded of it every time you see that random quote hanging on your foyer.
“The most romantic thing in the world is being understood. It’s even deeper than love.”
Things with Yoongi never really took off. But you will always have Hannam-dong.
⊙⊝⊜
Yoongi looks at you now, the same way you looked at him then, a little lost, a little broken, trying to stay strong. So you don’t make it a big thing either. You just reach for an edamame, pop it into your mouth, pull the peel, and shrug lightly as you mash the beans with your teeth.
“Sounds like your brain needs to shut the fuck up for a bit.”
He huffs, something almost like a laugh slipping out. “Yeah,” he mutters. “If only.”
“For what it’s worth, Album of the year, in my opinion.”
Yoongi can’t stop his lips from curling.
Satisfied, you call for the server. “Let’s eat something first. Then we solve your existential crisis.”
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “I’m the best, right?”
He gives you a thumbs up. “Kkaepjjang.”
Ass.
You order food, which comes out quicker than expected, but what you really wanted to do to distract him comes in the form of a mobile game.
“You still play?” you ask, showing the app now loading in your phone.
Face instantly lighting up, he unlocks his phone and presses the same app sitting on the home screen. “One game.”
You grin. “Double Up?”
A small nod.
“Don’t drag me down,” he mutters as the queue pops.
“Tsss,” you shoot back. “I’ll carry.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it.
You fall into rhythm without needing to talk much—checking in here and there, nudging each other when it matters, covering where the other slips. Just quiet coordination, the kind that only happens when both people know what they’re doing.
At some point, you lose a round you shouldn’t have. You fumble a turn.
“I got you,” he says, and he does.
By the time the game ends—with a win you barely scrape—you’re both facing each other, knees touching, smiles plastered on your faces.
“Not bad,” you murmur, setting your phone down. “You did well.”
“But I always do well?” he replies.
You push him lightly. “Take a humble W for once.”
“No, cause I can’t remember ever doing poorly…”
“Oh my gooood, I’m tired of you.” You roll your eyes, attempting to swivel away from him, but his knees stop you.
He glances at you, something softer flickering through his expression. You look away first, because what’s with the face? You reach for your drink, swirling what’s left and sip.
“Thanks,” he says, and why are his fingers drumming on your knee? It’s kind of distracting, actually.
“Are you feeling a little better now?” You reply, forcing a neutral expression.
He pauses, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I just got tired of my own head.”
And maybe it’s the fact that you’re sipping the final dredges of your margarita that the next words carelessly tumble out. “Maybe you just need good head.”
The dining area is still loud around you, but somehow, between you and him, it has become z-z-z. His fingers cease tapping against your skin.
Panicking, you blab. “Just text Gwayoung. Or Haein… I’m sure they’re available. You don’t have to look too far, you know.”
His eyes bear a weight you didn’t anticipate.
“I’m not,” he says quietly.
And the way he’s looking at you makes it very clear he’s not looking far at all. He doesn’t need to.
⊙⊝⊜
You don’t remember deciding to leave or how he even paid. Just the deja vu of how his hand found your wrist and the way you let it. Of how a door opens and then your back is firmly against it.
The next thing you feel is Yoongi’s soft lips sliding against your own.
His hand drifts up the side of your neck, fingers settling at the base like he’s keeping you right where he wants you, and it does something weird to your breathing—shortens it, stutters it—without needing to press.
The strap of your dress sags against your shoulder, but you make no move to fix it.
Your fingers find his hair instead, threading through the longer strands at the nape. It’s softer than you remember, just enough length to catch between your fingers, and when you tug, he groans against your mouth, the sound going straight to your center.
Total brain fog.
Your heartbeat, faint but present, is somehow the one that warns you about the risks. Because you’ve been in this situation before with Yoongi. You’ve been vulnerable in Hannam, and in his studio, and in the rehearsal space, and in room 2004. There’s a host of reasons why you should run away.
But it’s only taking one slow, smooth swipe of his tongue against the roof of your mouth for you to run in.
Your mouths part at the same time, an accidental knock of teeth, before he catches your lower lip between his and sucks softly, almost sweetly.
God. Yoongi makes your head swim.
And all this kissing is making you feel like there’s something more, when there is none. You’d do well to remind yourself of that.
By some miracle you find the strength to pull away.
“Yoongi, if we’re doing this, just…” you place your palm gently against his chest, pushing him back. “Don’t confuse me.”
Yoongi frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I know what this is,” you say, still a little breathless. “And I’m down, but I just… let’s not…”
The words stall out, slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto them. You inhale sharply, trying to piece together something that makes sense, something that doesn’t sound as messy as it feels in your head.
Because if you’re being honest—really honest—you’re already in deeper than you should be.
You never quite bounced back from his rejections. It lingers, quieter now, but still there, still tender in places you don’t like to acknowledge. And that’s not something you can tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips are a soft, distracting pink. Not when he’s looking at you like this—like, for once, all of his attention is yours.
So you decide on something, albeit hastily. You shift your weight, looking him dead in the eye. “You can’t kiss me.”
He studies you curiously, too amused for your liking. His eyes are transfixed on your mouth, observing how they’re still shiny from his own spit. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”
“No, you can’t do it again. Not anymore.”
If he is confused, he doesn’t let it show. He scratches his nape. “Just your mouth, right? Anywhere else is fair game?”
His eyes dip, trailing your body like he’s already mentally undressing you. You feel heat building beneath your skin.
“Yes.”
“Sweet.” His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, dragging lightly across your lower lip to wipe away the trail he left behind. Then he turns, moving further into his hotel room, dropping the keycard into an empty fruit bowl. “Anything else?”
You follow him in, dragging your feet on the plush carpet, still deep in thought.
You exhale through your nose, trying to keep your tone even. “Don’t make me sign an NDA.”
“No need, your current NDA’s already airtight.”
That—
You blink, thrown for half a second. The reminder lands colder than you expected, like a bucket of reality dumped over something that was just starting to feel… not real.
“Right.” You nod slowly, arms tightening across your chest. “Way to make a girl feel special, Yoongi.”
“Legal contracts don’t turn you on?” Yoongi drops to the couch.
“Not particularly. My dad’s a lawyer.”
He makes a face.
You snort. “What? Talking about my old hairy lawyer dad doesn’t turn you on?”
“Pass.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, the tension cracking just enough to breathe again.
He watches you when you do, like he’s taking note of something. Almost like he’s fascinated with you.
Then his head tilts slightly, a small gesture, almost nothing. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, but step forward anyway, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, standing between his parted legs as he looks up at you.
His hand finds your wrist first, then your waist, guiding you down like it’s nothing. You end up on his lap, breath catching just a little as his hand slides under your dress, resting on your upper thigh.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, slower this time. “What does?”
The question sinks somewhere low, coiling tight, as he squeezes your soft flesh, so close to where you need him.
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already leaning in.
His lips brush your collarbone first, not really doing anything but press his mouth against your skin. It’s almost absent-minded, the way he does it, like he can ask a question and distract you at the same time.
You inhale sharply.
His mouth drifts lower, grazing the hollow between your chest, and your thoughts start slipping, unraveling faster than you can catch them.
“Yoongi…”
He hums against your skin, like he heard you, but doesn’t want to stop. Frankly you don’t want him to when you feel his lips latch on the top of your breast and your brain goes foggy, words dissolving before they can form.
And that’s exactly why you…
“Wait.” You feel the solidness of him under your palms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, as you lean back.
He stills, mouth swollen.
“Mm?” he hums, lifting his head but not moving far, like he’s willing to wait—but only just.
“Don’t you have your own rules?”
There’s a brief flicker of something, before his expression smooths back out.
He blinks once and huffs. “Don’t leave me on read.”
You almost react. Almost say something about that night, about the message that never sent, about the door you stood in front of, and the sounds that destroyed you before his friend picked up the pieces of you that shattered in front of room 2004.
But you swallow it down. He doesn’t need to know.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
You study him for a second longer, like you’re trying to find something deeper and coming up short.
“Okay.”
A beat.
It’s decided.
“So,” he says, voice lower, like it’s already done. “Are we gonna do this, or—”
“Fuck me, Yoongi.”
His mouth curves, just slightly one corner. “Gladly.”
Part 2
A/N: .....hi? :)
Please let me know what you think. Leave me a note, or a reblog with your review. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo
sidenotes: i just wanted to practice for some wips and i love this song. i thought it'd be fun to try and write something that felt like a dream. this is not a full story tho, just a scene, but i hope you enjoy it! tysm for reading if you do <3 // wc: 1.9k
warnings: dream-like everything, logic does not exist here, unexplained relationship dynamic, could potentially invoke feelings of derealization? so pls check in w yourself first before reading, sensory overwhelm but Horny Edition, kissing + grinding, attempted edging-esque tension bc that's what i like, ambiguous ending // @/strangergraphics ty for the divider!!
long strands of grass tickle the sides of your legs as you rush through them. or at least – you think they do. your hollowed body glides numbly, straight ahead and unwavering, with vision that's unnervingly clear. your brain tries it's best to connect the dots, between visual input and the soft brushing sounds that are trickling in from your open ears.
but, you can't feel any of it. you can't stop to think about it, can't slow down to observe. so, you keep charging ahead into dancing waves of cerulean blue. a shallow sea of swaying blades sprawls out before you, caged in by a dark dense forest that's but a speck in the distance. no matter how fast you run though, it never seems to get closer and, your arms keep pumping along your sides. a surrogate rhythm for the one that's missing from your chest.
none of this is real.
the once blank sky suddenly warps itself. twisting balloon-animal clouds out of nothing before they darken, shifting the deep sea-green field into a cold dark turquoise, and tiny pocket watches begin to fall all around you. the air fills with the sound of small sparks and splattering raindrops as glass starts crackling beneath your pounding feet and it must be cold – because each exhale blows steam that blurs the forest into a hazy shadow but – you can't feel any oxygen entering your lungs. no sweet relief of air graces you with its presence. and even still, you can't stop running.
how long have you been running for?
glass crackles. feet pound. grass brushes. the forest remains forever faraway. and the metronomic ticking of a clock surrounds you, showering down and filling your head with an absence that's pretending to be static. there's this antagonistic knowing of something missing, something that very much should be a feeling.
what isn't felt is quickly forgotten though, and all focus is honed into another crunching set of footsteps. one that offsets yours. they're quiet at first. but they soon grow closer. and quicker. and louder. until two warm arms wrap around you from behind and your body is launched sideways, onto the ground that's covered with shattered time. the earth slants downwards as you land, like it's releasing a heavy silent sigh, but you do nothing to resist the sudden momentum.
muscle memory speaks louder than the lack of feeling and you know who it is that's caught you without even seeing his face. you know from the way his warm hand presses against the back of your head, cradling you protectively against his chest. from the way his arm wraps around your waist, like it's taken root and has no intention to move. from the way he playfully murmurs, "gotcha" against the side of your head.
there's no struggle to fill in the gaps between what you see and what you cannot feel.
"jungkook." you whisper his name out loud, for yourself more than anything. just to make sure you can really hear it.
as your bodies finish rolling, you let yourself rest on top of him for a moment. trying to feel some sensation through gravity, hoping that it might work but...you remain deprived. and disappointment is the only thing weighing you in place before you push yourself up off of his chest. straddling his lap, you watch as he sits up, shaking out his damp bangs and leaning back against his hands.
"silly rabbit, tricks are for kids." the tip of your index finger ghosts against one of his shoulders.
"thought you liked that kinda thing, miss sunshine."
"what do you know about what i like?" you mumble the retort softly. and one of his palms, splayed flat against the blue-brown dirt, clutches in on itself, scraping against crushed pocket-watches at your words.
gasping, you tug at the white cloth that's hugging against his forearm.
"are you hurt?" you pull his hand close to your face, brushing away small bits of glass.
angling his palm against the dim lighting, you gently blow the small glimmering pieces away. each indent on his skin fills back out in an instant, like there was nothing even there in the first place.
"figures." you sigh and drop jungkook's hand back onto the ground.
tilting his head at you, round brown eyes search for your evasive ones. "what do you mean?"
snorting, you gesture vaguely with a wiggle of your arms, "this! none of this is real. not this world. not me. not –" a sudden warmth blooms against your upper thighs and the rest of your thought sucks back against your tongue.
"not even this?"
jungkook looks more than pleased by your response. with a raised eyebrow and slightly lazy grin his hands softly slide up and down your legs. leaning in close, his head tilts up. letting his nose barely glide against the skin of your neck. and you feel all of it. a small kiss at the base of your throat elicits a thigh clenching response, one that makes your muscles tremble.
tightening your jaw, you shake your head no. you can't feel any of this, not really. this isn't actually happening.
but that burning warmth from his hands travels slowly, unbearably slowly, until it firmly takes holds of your hips and presses you down against him. as you grip onto his forearms, the rhythm of his heart beats through his veins, carrying the beat into you as it enters your sensitive fingertips.
and that first pulse of life starts deep, tying your heart to the part of you that's closest to the lining of his zipper. electrified blood rushes to life throughout your entire body, thumping against his and begging you to cling to it.
but none of this is real.
"i can't feel anything," jungkook scoffs under his breath as you lie, maneuvering your hips with an almost bored expression, "that won't work jungkook. this isn't – ngghh." a denim covered hardness slides against your clit and the jolt forces you onto his chest for balance. a pulsating wave washes away the last of the numbness while you bite your lip to keep quiet.
leaning back against his elbows, jungkook clicks his tongue, "pfft. i was just adjusting my position," he tightens his hold to keep you locked in place, "you're sure acting pretty real, and..." his voice trails off as he looks up at you, gaze traveling from your face, down to the place where your bodies press together and something flips in the pit of your stomach, "you feel so real." the words come out of him deeper than before, somewhere between a whisper and a groan.
the sound of it unleashes internal rapids that drown out the tick-tocking downfall of endless clocks. or maybe it was always just rain. because each bounce of metal splashes cool wetness against your bodies, while warmth pools between your legs, slowly spreading until you find yourself breathless. with live-wire hands your grab hold of jungkook's face and he looks at you like – like what you're about to do is all that he believes in.
and that's all it takes for your head to dip down. soft lips press and catch the curvature of your own, molding themselves to ensure that they never have to part for too long. your inner thighs grip around his hips, while yours grind against him on their own accord.
it must have always been rain.
because you push back damp hair and press yourself against jungkook's upper body with a squelch. because he holds the back of your head and pulls you back slightly to suck water from your skin, kissing his way down to your chest. because as you lock your ankles beneath his thighs, you find that the blue-brown dirt has turned into shimmering mud. and it offers no resistance.
panting slightly, jungkook keeps his face pressed against your chest. he alternates between warm pepper kisses and lapping the wetness from your breasts as they heave. the rain from those balloon clouds thunders as it downpours. and as a sharp crack of lightening strikes that faraway forest, teeth sink into your skin with a sharp sting. you tighten your hold around jungkook's head. trying to stop yourself from crying out.
sopping dark hair shakes as he frees himself fromyour grip. with a cocky dimpled smile, hands rub along your spine like they're encouraging the blood-flow.
"if this isn't real," jungkook flips your bodies over so that he can grin down at you, "then...tell me you need me."
"what if this...is...real?" as you speak, jungkook slowly rocks his hips, brushing himself between your legs. the feeling makes you weak, and the steam from your intermingling breaths fills your head with a daze inducing fog.
jungkook snorts, "i told you before. i think it's really cute that you're needy," a sharp nip grazes your earlobe and his gentle voice turns commanding, "but only with me. so tell me you need me."
"i..."
"it's okay. this is real, we're alive, you can need me. just tell me that you need me."
jungkook lowers himself down, his strong arms caging around your head, and he brushes back wet strands of hair with his thumb before pinning your wrists above you with one hand. his other slides under your lower back to lift your hips and you stifle a moan but your body rolls against his.
"a needy little thing," jungkook murmurs and you blink as the sky above him bellows out into a sharp crystal blue, "i've always wanted to give you what you need but you have to say it."
his fingers take hold of your chin, forcing you to look at him, "use your words." he demands gently.
and as you fold, so does the earth beneath you. shimmering mud dips down into a landslide and although he tries to hold you, you quickly slip away from him.
"i need you!" you shout. twisting your body you turn to see his round eyes widened in surprise. the expression on his face stays burned into your mind as you're rapidly carried away towards the forest.
mud splatters against your face and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath until your body slams against something hard and solid like sturdy wood.
with a gasp you sit upright, fists clenching the hem of your shirt. the field where you came from is nowhere to be seen and all around you are massive old growth pine trees. wind blows thick cobwebs through some of the branches and you stand on shaky legs, drawn to the distant sound of rushing water.
you feel the hard compacted dirt beneath your feet as you run. the scent of sharp pine as it blows through the air. the chill of the wind as it raises the hairs on your arms.
you feel everything.
and you don't stop running until a small clearing appears through the trees, a hollowed out pathway that only could have been made from repeated journeys through it. and you have no doubt that it's real. ducking under spiky green needles, you push aside the thorny brambles. wincing at the small scratches that slap against your ankles.
a small cliffside greets you, overlooking a vast blue-green sea that dips down behind a forever faraway horizon. your heart thumps wildly as you step out of the clearing, knowing that something real is waiting for you. a seagull cries faintly beneath the sound of moving water that rushes through your body like something alive – a lovely blood-flow.
Genre: Oneshot, smut, pwp, established relationship
Summary: After a small fight, Yoongi wants to make it up to you. He'll do the thing for you, he's on his knees and, of course, he also says please.
Warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, very loosely based on the lyrics of 'Please', oral (f receiving), fingering, face sitting, PiV, unprotected sex (they're together and I imagined MC on some form of contraceptive), dirty talk, Yoongi is cocky in the beginning and whiny towards the end, this isn't a dom/sub setting at all but if it was he'd be a switch, he's pussy whipped and begs for it hehe
Wordcount: 3.4k
Masterlist
The argument you had with Yoongi earlier wasn't even supposed to be one, seriously. You were just playing, but he took it the wrong way and now you're sitting on the couch sulking.
You were driving home together when it happened. Yoongi was parking the car, had put it in reverse, looking out the rear window with his arm slung around the back of your seat while backing into the open spot. You’d told him something about - what even was it...? Some random post you’d seen online about sourdough. And he didn’t listen because he was busy concentrating on parking. He’d asked you to come again once he turned off the car and you said something along the lines of it’s alright, you never listen to me anyway.
It was supposed to be a joke. Obviously! You’d even grinned while saying it but had turned your head away from him to look out the window in a dramatic display of feigned offense. Yoongi didn’t catch the sarcasm. And he huffed. Then shook his head and got out of the car without another word. That’s when you started to get pissed. He really thought you were that much of a bitch, huh? Okay then.
Neither of you were in the mood to address it, busy seething with a subtle broil of pent up irritation as you entered your shared apartment. He tried to ease the tension by pushing your shoulder with a playful nudge of his while you slipped out of your shoes. You scoffed though, still griping about him believing you’d be upset over something so trivial. And yes, the irony was lost on you. He let you be then, knowing you’d come around after a while and needing a minute to clear his head himself.
Some hours have passed since, the cool down phase in full effect and you drop on the couch after a long shower that brought some sense of balance to your brain. This ‘fight’ was so stupid, it almost makes you laugh. You shake your head, pulling your bath robe tighter as you swipe on your phone when he walks past you, then stops. He’s testing the waters, you can tell from the way he monitors your body language; how you will or won’t react to his presence. You raise a brow while looking up at him, the corner of your lip pulling upwards. A truce. One he decides to accept, judging by the way he trudges closer.
“You feel better?” he asks and you know he worded it that way on purpose, so as not to ask you if you’ve finally calmed down.
You huff out a breath, laughter mixed with a hint of reluctance, because that question still suggests that you’ve been overreacting. You don’t pin him down on it, though. Not yet at least. Rather, you return it. “And you?”
“Mhm.” He bends his knees until he’s crouching before you, his eyes now level with yours, one hand resting on your knee for support. “We were both being stupid, huh?”
Yeah, he’s right. Still, you don’t have to admit it right away. “I was just joking, you know? When I said you never listen to me.”
“Yeah, I figured,” he sighs. “An hour too late, I guess.”
The honesty makes you laugh and you drop your phone somewhere in the cracks of the couch cushions.
Yoongi takes it as an invitation - an unspoken extension of the truce that, if handled correctly, could even lead to peace. “I’m sorry baby,” he says before he leans in. “Let me make it up to you.”
You’re closing in as well, meeting his lips for a single kiss. Smiling now, you might have an idea on how he could fulfill that proposition. “And how would you do that?”
Yoongi cocks his head to the side with a smirk, eyelids narrowing as he thinks about it. He moves from crouching to resting on his knees on the floor before you, hand on the back of your head pulling you forward, so you’re still face to face even though he’s positioned lower than before. He kisses your cheek, lips wandering along your jaw and down the side of your throat where he sucks lightly, making your breath hitch. When his nose traces your earlobe he detaches from you but stays close, whispering, “I’ll do the thing for you.”
“The thing?” Oh, you know exactly which thing.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your neck while his right hand reaches for the lapel of your robe. He rubs the soft material between his fingers before gently pushing it aside and slipping them under. “The thing you like so much, you know.”
With the back of his hand now resting on the supple skin of your chest he pulls his head back to look at you.
“Hm, I don’t know what you mean,” you lie as you move closer for another kiss. He leans in harder now, sighing against your lips and pushes his tongue into your mouth. He flicks it against yours lightly, barely grazing you with its tip and it makes you chuckle how he’s subtly trying to help you remember. You pull back but keep him near by cupping his cheek. “Ah, that thing.”
His hand under your robe inches down, knuckles brushing over your nipple and the sensation makes it harden instantly. He finds the belt around your waist with his other hand and unties the knot with his thumb. His eyes widen slightly as the fabric falls open and drops loosely around your sides. It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you a million times before. Still, his lids show the tiniest of flutters every single time, the dilation of his pupils barely detectable.
Yoongi leans in, not taking his gaze off your tits and latches onto your chest. With his lips around one nipple and his hand on the other, he sucks with a slight graze of his teeth and simultaneously rolls his fingers, pulling a gasp from you.
The smirk on his face is dangerous, bordering on vicious, when he looks up at you. “You know, sometimes I think you’re only provoking those small fights for the make-up sex.”
He straightens his back when you don't respond, his knees still on the floor and leans backwards as he snakes his hands beneath your legs. With a firm pull, he drags you down the cushion, so your ass rests at the edge of the sofa, your back now flat against the seat. His hands run up the skin of your thighs, grabbing them gently by the backs of your knees and pushing your legs up against your belly while spreading them. “Keep them like this for me, alright?”
You do what he asked and hold your legs up with your hands, anticipation coiling tightly in your abdomen as you watch him with bated breath.
“So pretty,” he muses quietly when he looks down at you, nodding to himself as if he’s confirming his own remark while his eyes stay glued to your core. “Gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod even though he doesn't wait for your answer anyway, already tilting his head down again but not closing in. He purses his lips a good few inches above your pussy and releases a dense wad of spit, letting it drop slowly so it stretches into a thick string, before it lands directly on your clit. You suck in a breath of surprise at the feeling, your hip jerking as hot slick that’s cooling down quickly trickles down your folds and Yoongi grins as he watches how it coats you.
When he finally comes closer, his lips trace down the inside of your thigh, kissing and sucking the skin on his way. “Gonna eat you out so good baby,” he mumbles while his thumbs draw lazy circles around the outer edges of your labia. “You want that?”
“Yes,” you whine, mouth agape as you watch him descend. If you weren’t wet before, you certainly are now. “Want it so bad.”
Yoongi chuckles against your skin, hot breath fanning over the slick across your core. His lips are soft when he brushes them from where his thumbs work, up to your mound and his eyes snap to yours just before he closes the last bit of distance to place a kiss on your clit. You shudder at the contact, brows furrowed into a needy frown, to which he only grins.
His tongue glides across you in calculated motions and - oh - when he flicks it, he’s really doing the thing that always makes your eyes roll back into your head.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, removing your hand from your shin and bringing it down to stroke through his hair. Yoongi’s lids fall shut when your fingers catch hold of a thick strand to pull him even closer and he releases a muffled groan against you.
He runs his tongue up and down your pussy in unhurried strokes, lapping at your entrance and tracing its outline before coming back up. His finger pushes into you right when his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly and kissing it softly as he applies pressure to his hand, entering you with one single, slow thrust. Your head falls back into the couch cushion when he pumps it in and out, curling it just right, so he hits the spot you need him to.
“Right there,” you moan, fingers tightening around the hair close to his scalp. He knows, of course he does, that you like it right there and doesn't relent, his tongue still working its wonders while he adds a second finger, pushing and pulling and curling on their way out, making you feel like you’re going to explode.
Fuck, the muscles in your abdomen are straining, breaths turning shallow and your legs begin to shake already. You're about to come, pulling him even closer and he groans against your pussy again.
When you tear your eyes open to look at him, you notice him shuffling around a bit and wonder what he's doing. The coil in your belly relaxes at the slight distraction, eyes wandering over his hunched figure. Ah, he moved his free hand down into his pants. You twist your torso a bit to get a better view and take another peak to confirm. Yes, he pushed down his sweats and is jerking himself off while eating you out.
You giggle, feeling yourself getting even wetter at the thought of him enjoying this so much he has to touch himself, but Yoongi looks up at you at the sound.
“What's so funny?” he asks, a bit out of breath.
“Nothing,” you answer as your fingers run across his scalp. “Just didn't expect you to multitask.”
His gaze drops down to his dick, a slight flush on his cheeks before he pulls up his pants.
“No, don't stop. I like it.”
“Not planning on stopping,” he says as he stands up from the floor and offers you his hand. “Just changing the setting.”
You let him pull you up and guide you into the bedroom, where he pushes the bath robe from your shoulders and takes off his shirt. He pulls you to sit at the edge of the bed, tips of his fingers ghosting up your arms before he tangles them in your hair to pull you in. Your lips meet for a hungry kiss, Yoongi’s nonchalance slowly but surely dissipating. His hands roam your whole body and end up on your tits for a harsh squeeze while you sigh against his lips, desperately wanting to touch him too. You reach out for him, palming him over his sweats and earn a sharp exhale from him. He doesn't grant you access for long though as he pulls back, eager eyes now dark and almost impatient, taking in your figure before he slips away.
You watch him moving up the mattress where he throws the pillows down to the floor and lays down flat on his back, his head right where the pillows were a second ago.
“Come here and sit on my face,” he says as his hand already snakes down into his pants again.
No need to ask you twice, of course you’re going to, you’re already on your way actually. You climb onto the bed and swing a leg over him, straddling his face between your thighs. Yoongi smiles up at you before pulling you closer by your hip.
“Now let me finish this.” His words slur against your skin as you grab the headboard for support in hopes that it'll help you to come out of this alive.
His strokes are quick now, diligently lapping at your dripping heat, making you throw your head back, nails digging into the wood in front of you.
“God, fuck,” you sigh, wanting to tell him how good it feels but alas, you're lost for words, thoughts currently swimming somewhere too far away for your brain to catch up and form a coherent sentence.
You're afraid of suffocating him between your legs, thighs flexing absentmindedly to hold most of your weight up even though his left arm on your hip keeps pulling, pulling, pulling you down and you finally give in and relax. Now that you're really sitting down, he breathes out a groan so content, it vibrates through your whole body.
Without a doubt he’s giving his all to make it up to you, kissing, tongue swirling, slurping you up until you see stars. Your hips start rocking on him on their own, needily grinding over his face as you chase your release and he seems to like that, judging by the way he hums against you at the constant back and forth.
“Shit, I’m so close,” you gasp as he’s guiding your movements across his face, tongue rolling over your clit every time you glide over his lips. The coil in your belly tightens as you feel him stir and you turn your head only to see that he’s pushed his sweats down again, hand closed around his dick and stroking himself. The image propels you across the edge, fingers on the headboard digging harder into the wood while your other hand finds his hair to hold on to. With your head spinning and ears ringing, you shudder above him, riding out your high in quick motions, pussy clenching around nothing while he eats you out like you're his favorite meal.
He’s not stopping his feast, still licking your throbbing clit until you have to pull off of him with a moan that ends up sounding more like a cry. Your body betrays you as you move and you practically fold, falling down on the mattress right next to him and landing on your back with a thump.
Yoongi gets up on his knees while you gasp for air, towering over your figure with his sweats shoved down his thighs and he immediately presses himself against you, hand on his hard dick, rubbing it up and down your sensitive core.
“Shit baby,” he grits out with his eyes closed, mouth glistening with your essence as he leans in for another kiss. “Wanna fuck you so bad.”
“Yeah?” you ask, buying yourself a bit more time to calm down. You reach for him and replace his hand with yours, fingers wrapping tightly around his erection. “I’m still so sensitive though.”
His tip is halfway inside of you and his head falls back when you start pumping him slowly, dragging out the moment before he can push in further. “Please baby, you feel so good.”
It makes you chuckle when he begs and he knows you like it, so you can't help yourself from playing that game, still pumping him lazily while he holds himself back from sinking in fully. “Are you sure you've made it up to me properly? You were really mean earlier.”
“Shit, don't do this to me,” he almost whines. “I was so, so good to you, wasn't I? Made you come so hard.”
“Yeah, you did,” you tell him, gripping him a bit tighter as you roll your wrist on him and drawing another sharp breath from his lips while you kiss him. “So you’d say you’ve earned it, huh?”
“Yes!” He nods like you asked him if you should gift him a million dollars right now. “Yes, I’ve earned it. Please baby. Please.”
Can't deny him his wishes, not when he begs so nicely, can you?
“Alright, yeah,” you whisper while changing the angle of your hold to line him up perfectly. “Go on and fuck me, baby.”
He thrusts in fully without any warning, pushing a moan from your lungs at the sudden intrusion and his lids scrunch together when he does. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters as he stills. “That wasn't… Couldn't help it. Did I hurt you?”
Your hands intertwine behind his neck as you shake your head and relax, getting used to the stretch. “No, it's alright.”
He leans in for a kiss, tongue twisting against yours as he pulls his hip back before he thrusts into you again. He sighs with each move, groaning when your lips part. Gripping your hips as he leans back, he holds you in place, fucking into you with force now and his eyes roll back like he’s losing himself in the feeling. “Always so fucking tight for me.”
The noise of your combined moans, your high pitched whines and his low grunts fill the room, accompanied by the quieter sound of his groin snapping against yours, quite like a beat to the carnal melody that the two of you are creating.
Yoongi slides his hands down your legs and moves them to drop your ankles upon his shoulders, creating an angle that allows him to go even deeper than before. You're gasping for air from how he plows into you, the roll of his hips making his cock drag across your g-spot with every thrust.
He grows frantic, spitting out curse words here and there before he takes your hand and guides it between your legs. “Make yourself come on my cock,” he directs with his head falling back between his shoulders. “That’s it baby, I can feel how close you are. Fucking squeezing me.”
He’s right, you are close again, now rubbing yourself in tight circles like he asked and it's like there's no air left in your lungs to exhale. Your muscles tense all over and you bite your tongue to relieve the pressure, watching him pump in and out of you over and over, a vein on his neck straining against his skin like it's about to burst.
“Come for me,” he groans, voice breaking to a tone so wrecked, you both know that no one will ever hear him sound like that but you.
You follow his command, it’s not like you have a choice, another orgasm crashing all over you and draining your mind from everything that isn't him inside of you. Limbs convulse and sweat drips down your temple as the shuddering waves ripple from your core throughout your whole body.
Your pussy clenches around him frantically and pulls him over the edge as well, so he can't help the moan from slipping out as his hips stutter with every spurt of cum that he fills you with. His head falls into the crook of your neck, breathing heavily against your sticky skin, still moving, still pressing himself in as deep as he can, like he wants to bury himself inside of you.
“Shit,” he curses, muffled and drawn out, panting and revelling in the feeling of your cunt still wrapped around him so tightly. “I’m never pulling out of you, just so you know.”
You chuckle as you bring your arms around his back, fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “You sure about that?”
He’s still breathing heavily and you feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin as he nods. “No doubt about it.” He lifts his head to look into your eyes. “Still mad at me?”
“Never was.”
Masterlist
A/N: Thank you so much for reading :] Please consider reblogging or commenting if you enjoyed, or if you're shy, feel free to send us an anonymous ask! <3
happy birthday, baby (a take a bite drabble) | myg
✧ PAIRING !! yoongi x fem!reader
✧ SUMMARY !! You know your husband hates surprises. And parties. And anything involving the words "surprise" or "party." Still, after a remarkable year for his career and as the father of your child, you're determined to do something special for his thirty-third birthday. Even if it's a week late.
✧ TAGS/WARNINGS !! NSFW, MDNI (18+), return of tab!couple a.k.a. my favorite milf and dilf duo, return of tab!seokjin as well because i missed him (he's an uncle!), yoongi is wearing glasses and a leather jacket and it's a Problem, basically the video hobi posted on his ig story if it took place a week after yoongi's birthday, aqua glossdebut pushes the girl dad!yoongi agenda once again, min penny is THREE YEARS OLD!!!, and the tannies are her babysitters, genius lab shenanigans, spanking as punishment, dirty talk, slight D/s dynamics, oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, talk of pregnancy both past and future???, unprotected sex, lmk if i missed anything
✧ WORDCOUNT !! 9.3k
✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE !! uhhh... happy belated birthday yoongi 💀 i know this couple is OLD NEWS but i've been working on this since hobi posted this fucking video on ig because it just screeeeamed tab!yoongi to me. so enjoy approx. 3k words of cuteness followed by approx. 6k words of pure filth as an arirang week/late yoongi day treat from me! if you haven't read take a bite and all of its extras, you may be a little lost so i encourage you to do so before proceeding!
p.s. i rushed to finish this to have it posted by tonight so although @yoonmetogether was kind enough to beta read for me, there may still be mistakes <3 if you see any, no you don't
Yoongi is going to hate this.
You know your husband very well—he’s an introvert, through and through. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he planned his out-of-country trip last week specifically to avoid this kind of thing. But his friends are persistent, his coworkers are always down for a party, and his wife? Well, you’re considering this an act of revenge.
You let it pass then, on the actual day—Yoongi did video call at midnight your time, just like he promised he would. His eyes crinkled fondly on your phone screen as you pointed the camera at his daughter, conked out in her brand new big-girl bed he had put together only days prior. Once you quietly shut the door to Penny’s room and slipped into yours, he updated you on how his trip was going, promising souvenirs for “both of my girls.” He even humored you while you whined about how big the bed felt without him, all the great birthday sex he was missing out on.
But, still—out of town on his own birthday? He had this shit coming.
Besides, he’ll pretend he hates it—again, you know your husband—but he deserves to be celebrated. He’s had a great year, after all. Both of you have.
You were officially promoted to music section editor of Look Here in the fall—a job that you were essentially already doing, but now you have the title (and the pay!) to go along with it.
After years of kicking the idea around in his brain, Yoongi finally pulled the trigger and released an album of his very own. It was hard, of course. There were nights where he sat at the piano long after midnight, fingers hovering over the keys like they were strangers. Where he muttered about being too old to start something new, about people expecting one thing from him and nothing else. Where he told you, quietly, that maybe the album would just live on his laptop forever.
When awards season came around, you made good use of your press pass—both for work and to proudly (tearfully) watch your husband win in every single category he was nominated in.
He thought it would amount to nothing, and now the damn thing has awards. And a tour proposal. And a rolodex of industry people blowing up his phone every five minutes, while Yoongi sends them to voicemail so he can finish cutting up an apple for his daughter.
Because on top of all the great strides you’ve both made in your professional lives, Penny’s wellbeing has never fallen by the wayside.
It was something you both worried about in the beginning. With such demanding jobs, how could either of you raise a child without giving something up? And yes, of course there have been sacrifices. Yoongi’s eomma has come in clutch more than once, whisking Penny away for a weekend with halmeoni and halabeoji when work gets too crazy. But you’ve made an effort to write from home when it’s possible. Yoongi has said no to projects that would put him on the other side of the world for the better part of a year. Both of you have done your very best to be there, to ensure Penny grows up in a loving home with two present parents.
You still remember the first time Penny toddled across the living room on unsteady legs, arms outstretched like a tiny drunk person trying to maintain balance. Yoongi had frozen where he sat on the floor, eyes wide, like he was afraid any sudden movement might throw her off. When she crashed into his chest with a quiet ‘oof,’ he looked over at you with that same stunned expression he gets when a song finally clicks into place.
“Did you see that?” he’d asked, amazed.
As if you could have missed it.
There are dozens of moments like that tucked into the corners of your memory. Penny’s first birthday cake smeared across Yoongi’s black shirt. The time she insisted on sitting in his lap while he worked in the studio, smacking random piano keys with chubby little fingers. The way she now insists that appa gives the best bedtime stories because he does all the silly voices.
It’s a good life. A busy one, chaotic, occasionally exhausting—but so, so good.
Which is exactly why this party matters.
Yoongi’s flight landed late last night. So late that you didn’t get a chance to welcome him home properly. You barely stirred when he finally slipped into bed beside you, although you have a groggy memory—the faint smell of travel clinging to his clothes as he shed them, the dip of your mattress, and then the warmth of his body next to yours.
When your alarm went off a few hours later, Yoongi looked just as tired as you felt. His hair was flattened on one side, the crease of the pillow still faintly pressed into his cheek. You leaned down to kiss him.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured against his mouth.
He made a soft, sleepy noise, hand lifting to cup the back of your neck as he kissed you back. You hadn’t seen each other in a week, so despite how tired you both were, it was the kind of kiss that made it very tempting to call in sick.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. “You’re leaving already?”
“Mhm. Early start,” you sighed, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. “You’re on Penny duty today. Is that cool?”
“Mmm. I’ll just bring her to the studio with me.”
You laughed. “Good luck with that.”
He pouted as you pulled away to slip out of bed. “She likes the studio!”
You snorted, opening up the closet doors and rifling through the hangers. “She likes the studio because you let her press buttons she shouldn’t.”
“I’ve gotta get her started young, baby,” he teased, reaching for you. “Come back here so I can love on you a little before you go.”
This fucking guy, you thought. “You’re going to make me late,” you said, making a shooing motion with your hands. But you were unable to mask your smile as you gathered your chosen garments. “Go back to bed.”
By the time you finished getting dressed, you could hear Penny’s bedroom door creaking open down the hall, followed by Yoongi’s sleepy voice greeting her with a soft, “morning, baby.”
Now, hours later, you’re leaning against the mirrored wall of the company’s spacious practice room, arms folded loosely as you watch the chaos that you (partially!) orchestrated unfold.
You’ve been here for over an hour helping set everything up.
“Casual” was the goal, but when a room full of musicians and producers decides to throw a birthday party—even a belated one—casual apparently includes a mountain of food, two cakes, an ill-advised amount of alcohol for a weekday evening, and more people crammed into a rehearsal space than fire safety regulations probably allow. Although most of that may be the fault of six men who have become something of a second family to you over the years.
Speaking of Yoongi’s friends, Namjoon gave the five-minute warning before he slipped out to retrieve the birthday boy, and that was already four minutes ago. Any minute now, Yoongi will walk in. Taehyung and Jeongguk hurriedly straighten the banner taped to the mirror. Seokjin crouches next to the cake, trying to relight two stubborn candles, while Jimin dims the overhead lights a little more. Hoseok readies his phone camera. You push off the wall just enough to see the door better.
Right on cue, the handle turns.
The door slides open and as soon as Yoongi steps in, Penny perched comfortably in his arms, the room erupts.
“SAENG IL CHUKHA HAMNIDA!”
Voices overlap, loud and off-key, clapping echoing as the entire room launches into song. Nearly every phone in the room records him from every possible angle, flashes turning on one by one until the whole room is dotted with bright white lights. The mirrored walls bounce the glow everywhere, multiplying it so Yoongi looks like he’s standing in the center of a tiny paparazzi storm.
You watch, painfully charmed by how cute your husband is.
Not to mention unfairly hot. Black beanie pulled over his hair, thin silver glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. A leather jacket layered over a simple white tee that makes him look effortlessly cool—and somehow deeply, painfully shy at the same time.
All of that, with your baby girl in his arms—it should honestly be illegal. You’re a lucky woman.
Hoseok runs around him in circles, cackling as Yoongi adjusts the delighted, squealing toddler on his hip.
“Ah—” Yoongi bows his head over and over in thanks, looking mildly pained as two of his coworkers bring forward a huge cake, little doodles piped on top in black icing: music notes, a black cat, a crown—like someone tried to summarize Yoongi in dessert form. “I’m not good at these things!”
You swear your heart does the same ridiculous little flutter it did when you first met him.
Everyone ignores his protests, and Yoongi sighs like a man accepting his fate, shifting Penny higher on his hip so she can see the candles flickering on top of the cake. Penny leans forward with serious concentration, puffing her cheeks as if preparing for the most important task of her life.
“Ready?” Yoongi murmurs to her. She nods vigorously, and together they blow, Penny’s enthusiastic little puff doing absolutely nothing while Yoongi takes care of the rest. The flames flicker and disappear into smoke, the room erupting into cheers all over again.
Right as Yoongi straightens, Hoseok gleefully swoops in to get a close-up of the birthday boy.
“Yah—hajima! Hajimaaa!” Yoongi whines, cheeks flushed, while Penny giggles at the chaos.
The song collapses into laughter and chatter, and the room finally loosens its grip on him. Phones lower and someone cranks the lights back up a notch. The crowd splinters into smaller clusters, half of them swarming the table for plates and plastic forks, the other half making a beeline for the alcohol.
You see the exact moment Yoongi realizes you’re here. His entire expression changes, the embarrassment melting away to be replaced by a knowing, suspicious squint. You lift your brows, and he huffs through his nose, shaking his head.
You push yourself off the wall and walk toward him through the crowd, smiling with zero guilt or fucks given. When you reach him, you lean in to kiss his cheek.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you say sweetly. He smells so good. Has he always smelled so good?
Yoongi glances at you sideways, lips upturned slightly. “You.”
You point at yourself, feigning innocence. “Me?”
Before he can say anything else, Penny suddenly twists in his arms with a sharp little whine. “Appa, cake!”
Yoongi looks down at her. “Hold on, baby—”
“Cake,” she repeats, more firmly this time, pointing with intense determination toward the table where people are already cutting slices.
“You’ve gotta wait your turn,” he tells her patiently.
“Caaaaaake!” The whine stretches, her little legs kicking slightly against his hip, and like a pastry-fueled Beetlejuice, Seokjin appears out of nowhere.
“I heard cake!” he announces cheerfully.
Penny immediately reaches for him, stars in her eyes. “Uncle Jinnie!”
Seokjin clutches his chest like he’s been struck by pure love. “My favorite niece! Look at you! You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.”
“Two weeks ago,” Yoongi says flatly.
“Kids grow fast, Yoongi-yah. Even I know that,” Seokjin scoffs, then beams at Penny. “Do you want Uncle Jinnie to acquire cake for you? Because I am very powerful. I have connections.”
Penny nods with grave intensity. “Cake.”
Seokjin leans in, stage-whispering like he’s sharing state secrets. “What kind of cake? Extra frosting? Just frosting? Tell me. Tell me your dreams.”
“Fros-ting,” Penny says, drawing it out as best as her little mouth can manage.
Yoongi’s head tilts back a fraction, blinking at the ceiling for patience. “No.”
“No,” Yoongi repeats, looking between them. Poor guy. He might as well be defusing a bomb. “She can have cake. She cannot just have frosting.”
Penny’s lower lip begins to wobble on cue, eyes going shiny with practiced accuracy.
“Oh my god,” you murmur, delighted. “Seokjin’s been teaching her shit.”
“I do not—” Yoongi starts, then cuts himself off when Penny’s wobble escalates into a tiny, furious whimper. His jaw tightens. “Okay, okay. Penny.”
Seokjin drops to her eye level, voice syrupy. “Penny, sweetie. Don’t cry. Uncle Jinnie will protect you.”
Yoongi points at him without looking away from Penny. “Do not start.”
“I’m just saying,” Seokjin says innocently, “if a child requests frosting on her appa’s birthday, who are we to deny—”
“We are her parents,” Yoongi deadpans. “We deny things all the time.”
Penny jabs a finger at the cake table again, supremely pissed off. “Cake now.”
Seokjin gasps. “Did you hear that? She said now. She’s showing such promising signs of leadership, Yoongi-yah!”
Yoongi stares at him. “It’s impatience.”
“You say potato, I say po-tah-to,” Seokjin says, and then he turns his bright smile back to Penny. “Okay. Uncle Jinnie will get you cake, but we have to be polite.”
Penny blinks.
Yoongi huffs. “Say please, baby.”
“Peas,” Penny supplies promptly.
Seokjin looks like he might cry. “She said peas. I’m ruined.”
Yoongi looks between the two of them, clearly weighing his options. “You’re not giving her half the cake,” he warns.
Seokjin gasps in mock offense. “What kind of uncle do you think I am?”
“The exact kind that would do that.”
“Wow. No trust.”
“PEAS JINNIE CAKE!” Penny shouts.
Yoongi exhales through his nose and carefully transfers her over. “Small piece.”
“Of course.”
Yoongi squints at him, but before he can add anything else, Seokjin grins innocently and immediately carries Penny off toward the cake table while she chants “cake cake cake!”
You watch them go, shaking your head. “That’s a mistake.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi sighs, watching them retreat. “She’s going to be bouncing off the walls tonight.”
For the first time since he walked in, his arms are empty. Suddenly, it’s just the two of you standing there in the middle of the noisy room.
You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head at him. “Y’know, you can pretend to be annoyed all you want,” you say.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “But?”
“But,” you continue smugly, “I know you. You’re a softie.”
He snorts. “A softie.”
“Yes,” you confirm.
Yoongi studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Then he smirks. “You want to test that theory?”
Your brows lift. “And how exactly would I do that?”
“Keep pushing me and see what happens,” he says evenly. “I’ll put you over my knee later if you’re not careful.”
You gasp, one hand flying to your chest like a scandalized Victorian woman. “Min Yoongi!”
“That,” Yoongi says as he points towards Seokjin and your daughter, whose mouth is already smeared with frosting, “is your fault, for the record.”
“How!” you say, offended.
He stares at you, thoroughly unimpressed. “Seriously? We’re seriously going to do this?”
“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,” you huff. “What exactly are you accusing me of, huh?”
He raises his eyebrows and looks around, as if just that is answer enough. Which it is.
“I did not plan this party,” you insist.
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t!”
“Y’know, liars get worse punishments than a spanking.”
You sputter, indignant—if not a little dizzy from the implication. “You realize we’re in a room full of colleagues, right?” you hiss, eyes bouncing in every direction. “Both yours and mine?”
Yoongi tsks. “Should’ve thought about that before you ambushed me.”
“You are such a fucking drama queen. Nobody ambushed you—”
“You wanna try that again?” he asks, head angling to the side.
Oh, he’s serious. He’s seriously thinking about spanking you over this—or worse.
God, you missed him.
You swallow thickly. “I… may have…”
“Mhmmmmm,” he hums, not even trying to mask his amusement at the look on your face.
“...facilitated,” you continue. “Just a little bit!”
“Say more.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” you whine, lips pulled into a pout. “But you’ve had such an amazing year! I wanted you to feel celebrated, and loved—and okay, yeah! Maybe I was a little pissed you decided to fly to fucking Tokyo on your actual birthday—”
Suddenly there are hands on your waist, effectively putting a stop to your rant and coaxing you closer.
“Jagiya,” Yoongi purrs, and oh. Yep. You’re swooning a little. Your body pathetically, instinctually gravitates towards his, like it always does when he speaks in that tone.
“Yeah?” you breathe, tirade forgotten as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.
“If it wasn’t your idea,” he murmurs, gently tucking your hair behind your ear so he can kiss your jaw next, “then whose was it?”
PURE! EVIL!
You pull back, scandalized all over again. “You wanna turn your wife into a rat?”
“You wanna be able to walk tomorrow?”
Ha.
“No, not really,” you say immediately, completely unashamed.
Yoongi laughs, delighted by you. “Tell me anyway.”
You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. Whatever. It was bound to come out, anyway, and you’d really like the interrogation part of this exchange to end so you can get to the spanking part. And the fucking part.
“Hoseok,” you sigh.
“Of course. I should’ve known.”
“You really didn’t like it?” you ask, frowning.
“Nah, I’m just fucking around,” Yoongi says, soothing your worries with a third kiss, this time on the crease between your brows. “You’re absolutely right. I’m a softie. It was embarrassing, yeah, but sweet.”
The little line of worry smooths immediately, and you sigh in relief. “Okay, good.”
“If Hoseok asks, though, I’m furious.”
“Oh, obviously,” you agree. “And if he asks you, I didn’t say a word.”
“Your secret is safe with me, rat.”
You shove his shoulder, but it’s weak. Mostly because he’s still holding your waist, thumbs slowly brushing the sides of your ribs through the fabric of your blouse like he’s rediscovering a favorite instrument after time away.
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.
“Mm,” Yoongi hums, leaning closer so his nose grazes the line of your neck. “Missed you too.”
Your stomach does an embarrassing little flip.
It’s stupid, honestly. You’ve been together long enough that you should be immune to this—the warmth of his breath against your ear, the casual way his body crowds yours like he has every right to occupy your space.
Which he does. But still.
You nudge his chest with your knuckles. “You’ve been home for less than twelve hours and you’re already threatening me with corporal punishment.”
Yoongi lifts his head and looks down at you over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed.
“Threatening?” His mouth curves slowly. “Baby, that was a promise. One I intend to make good on in about five minutes.”
You were hoping that was the case, but still—you gulp. Comically.
“Oh,” you say dumbly. “But the party…”
He scoffs. “I’ve stayed long enough.”
“Less than half an hour?”
“Yup,” he replies, popping the p. You roll your eyes.
“And the baby?” you murmur, glancing over his shoulder toward the cake table.
Across the room, Penny sits on Seokjin’s hip with a paper plate the size of her face, one small fist buried in a mound of icing while the other clutches a plastic fork she has absolutely no intention of using. Jeongguk and Hoseok coo at her like she’s the cutest thing they’ve ever seen, snapping photo after photo that you’re sure will be blowing up your phone later.
“The baby,” Yoongi says, “has six uncles in the room who are perfectly capable of keeping her out of harm’s way for a bit.”
Wow. He must really want to fuck you. He’d never say that about his friends otherwise.
“Besides,” he continues, squeezing your waist to draw your attention back to him, “I have another baby that needs tending to. Don’t I?”
Godddddddd.
Your eyes flutter shut without your permission. “Mhm,” you hum, nodding pathetically. “Please.”
Yoongi chuckles. “Don’t worry, jagi,” he coos. “I’ll take care of you. C’mon.”
He gives your waist one last squeeze before he steers you through the room, guiding you with an easy, proprietary pressure at the small of your back. Luckily, everyone is too busy drinking, laughing, or fawning over Penny to notice the two of you slipping out of the room. You’re sure the looks on your faces would hide zilch.
The music from the practice room dulls behind the door once Yoongi pushes into the corridor, and your pulse kicks up more and more with each step toward his studio.
A very tense elevator ride later, you reach the heavy door. Yoongi pulls a black keycard from the inside pocket of his jacket. The lock whirs, and he ushers you inside.
The door clicks shut, bathing you both in silence—the kind only studios seem to have, padded walls swallowing outside noise until the room feels like its own little universe.
Your heart kicks harder in your chest when he steps forward, closing the small distance between you. One hand lifts to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s confirming you’re real.
“You have any idea,” Yoongi says quietly, “how annoying it is to spend a week alone in a hotel room when I know what’s waiting for me at home?”
You laugh under your breath. “You were working.”
“Yeah.” His thumb drags over your lower lip. “Still annoying.”
You kiss him before he can keep talking, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to you. The kiss starts soft but turns hungry almost immediately, both of you making up for the time apart.
When your lips finally part, you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests against yours. You can practically feel the moment where your mind syncs up with his.
“Birthday sex,” you say breathlessly.
“Birthday sex,” Yoongi agrees.
Then he exhales through his nose and reluctantly lets you go, taking a step back like he’s forcing himself to slow down for half a second. He looks around the studio, eyes bouncing over the equipment and furniture like he’s mentally deciding exactly where he wants you.
He slips off his jacket, then his beanie, tossing both onto the console as he ruffles his hair, then slides his glasses off and sets them gently next to the pile. You silently mourn the loss, but you have bigger fish to fry, honestly.
“C’mere,” he says, lazily waving you over to his desk with two fingers.
You step closer, but before you can say anything, his hands land on your hips and turn you around in one smooth motion.
“Oh,” you say faintly, surprised when you really shouldn’t be.
“Yeah,” he murmurs behind you, almost mockingly. “Oh.”
His palm settles at the small of your back, guiding you forward until the edge of the desk presses lightly against your thighs.
“Do you need me to remind you why this is happening?”
You press your hands flat to the desk, pretending to think. You don’t particularly feel like making this easy on him, so you say, “because I threw my loving husband a surprise birthday party?”
Yoongi snorts. “Try again.”
“Celebrated his many accomplishments?”
“Mhm.”
“Rightfully called him out for being a drama queen?”
His hand slides up your spine and firmly pushes you down until your chest meets the desk. You squeak.
“You’re just racking them up, huh?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly. “I may have helped ambush you.”
“That’s better.”
His hands smooth over your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles through the fabric of your skirt before dragging it up entirely to expose your ass.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “most people would apologize right about now.”
You turn your head just enough to glance back at him over your shoulder.
“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, “I’m not that sorry.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You asked for it.”
There’s a pause, one heavy second where the room feels very, very quiet.
Then his hand lands on your ass with a sharp smack. You gasp, lurching forward.
Yoongi’s palm lingers where it landed, thumbing gently at the sudden sting blooming across your skin. The sensation radiates outward, sharp at first, then melting into a pleasant, humming heat.
“Still not sorry?” he asks mildly.
Your cheek presses against the desk beneath you, your hair spilling across the surface as you try to gather your composure. “Nope,” you manage, breath a little shaky. “Not really.”
He hums. “Too bad.”
Another smack lands, harder this time. You let out a surprised, pleased gasp that dissolves into a soft moan with each impact that follows. “Fuuuck, Yoongi—”
“You know,” he says conversationally behind you, like you’re discussing grocery lists instead of this, “I leave for one week.”
Smack!
“And suddenly my wife is conspiring with my friends.”
Smack!
“To publicly humiliate me.”
Smacksmacksmack!
You moan again, half laughing, half overwhelmed. “It was a loving humiliation!”
“Ah.” His thumb presses into a particularly tender spot he just hit and you hiss. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
You can’t take it anymore. You can’t. Your ass is raw, you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties, smearing on your inner thighs. If he doesn’t touch you soon, you might cry. He’s only been torturing you for a few minutes, but your body has felt his absence for seven impossibly long days.
Doesn’t he know a week without him feels like an eternity?
“Yoongiiiiiii,” you whine pathetically. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll never throw you a party again, just—please touch me.”
Yoongi goes very still behind you, the silence stretching just long enough to make you nervous before a quiet laugh leaves him, more breath than sound.
“Listen to you,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “You weren’t sorry at all just a minute ago.”
You squirm, shamelessly pushing your ass back against his crotch. “I’ve had a change of heart.”
“Clearly.”
You’re about to complain again, or beg—whichever comes first—when his palm finally slips slowly between your thighs, nudging them apart. The movement steals the protest right out of your mouth. You whimper instead, hips instinctively rolling back into the warmth of his hand.
“Already this worked up?” he teases as his fingers trace the damp line of your clothed cunt, feeling the heat that’s been building there since he bent you over his desk. “All I did was spank you.”
“You’ve been gone a week.”
“Mm.” He cups you properly now, the delicious pressure enough to make your eyes momentarily roll back. “Missed me that much?”
“Yes,” you admit immediately.
Yoongi exhales a quiet laugh against the back of your neck. “Cute.”
Clearly taking pity on you, he yanks your panties down in one quick motion, leaving them tangled around your thighs. The pads of his fingers slide through your slickness before finding purchase on your clit, rubbing exactly how you like it.
“God, yes,” you moan. Your forehead drops to the desk with a dull thud, earning an amused huff behind you.
“Yeah?” he murmurs near your ear. Your hips rock back helplessly against his hand. “That feel better?”
You nod. “Mhmmm.”
“Good,” he says softly. But then the bastard pulls his fingers away entirely.
You gasp in outrage. “Yoongi!”
He smacks your ass again, smearing your own arousal on your skin. “Up.”
There’s no point pretending you’re not going to listen, so you push yourself upright on shaky legs and hop onto the edge, hissing slightly when your tender flesh meets unyielding wood.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you assure him softly, yanking impatiently at the hem of his shirt to coax him closer. “I like it.”
Yoongi chuckles, allowing you to pull him between your thighs. He pushes them gently apart until you’re spread open for him, skirt tucked up and panties dangling uselessly from one ankle.
“I know you do,” he says, amused. “You’re dripping all over my desk.”
“Do something about it,” you goad, reaching for his belt. “C’mon.”
Your fingers barely brush the buckle before he catches your wrist. The look on his face makes your stomach flip—dark eyes half-lidded, attention fixed entirely on the slick mess between your thighs like he’s already imagining all the things he wants to do with it. “Not yet.”
You pout. “What do you mean not yet?”
Instead of answering, his thumb brushes over the inside of your thigh, collecting a little of the slick there before dragging it higher. He swears under his breath.
You shiver. “C’mon,” you repeat. You can hear yourself starting to get whiny again. “Want you to fuck me.”
Yoongi hums. “I will. Just…” He trails off, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he gazes at your pussy. “I wanna do something first.”
Your breath catches as he sinks down to his knees in front of you. Oh.
“Wait,” you protest weakly, looking down at him. “Shouldn’t I be doing something for you? It’s your birthday.”
“Trust me,” he rasps, guiding your legs over his shoulders, “this is absolutely for me.”
He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss right where you’re dripping—and then licks into you properly, a long, warm stroke from your opening up to your clit.
“Ohhhhh, shit, Yoongi,” you moan.
His eyes flick up to watch your reaction as his tongue slips between your folds and pushes inside just enough to make your hips jerk forward. You look down at him, already wrecked.
You’ve gotta hand it to him—your husband certainly knows how to play to his strengths. You’ve never met a guy so passionate about giving head. Eating pussy is one of the many things that he excels at, a level of skill that can only be achieved by clocking in lots and lots and lots of hours. Which Yoongi does. All the time. Happily.
It’s almost enough to make you forget how badly you need to be fucked.
“So good,” you manage, voice shaking.
“Mm-hmm,” he hums in response, the vibration pressed straight into your sensitive bud. His hands slide up to spread you open with his thumbs, exposing your clit more while he licks over it again and again until your head tips back.
Your toes curl inside your shoes as your hips start to move on their own, chasing his tongue while soft, helpless sounds keep slipping out of your throat. Your orgasm feels impossibly close already, especially when he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks.
“Mm, Yoongi,” you moan, grabbing at his hair to stop him, “wait.”
Yoongi lifts his head immediately, mouth and chin glistening. He wipes it with the back of his hand, looking up at you with a crooked smirk. “You don’t seriously want me to stop, do you?”
He looks so pleased with himself. The sight of him down there between your legs, lips swollen, hair mussed, erection straining enticingly against the crotch of his jeans.
As tempted as you may be to let him keep going…
“Up,” you pant, nudging his shoulder with your knee.
He stands, surprisingly without much protest, and you shakily lower yourself down from the desk. You pull him a few steps toward the big rolling chair in front of the console and press lightly at his chest.
Yoongi drops into it, his legs spreading naturally as he leans into the backrest. His arms drape lazily along the armrests, but his eyes stay locked on you, sharp and curious.
“You want something, jagiya?” he asks, tilting his head.
You step between his knees. “Yeah,” you say. Your hands go to his belt, the metal buckle giving a soft clink as you start working it loose. “Want this dick.”
Yoongi’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Well,” he murmurs, voice low with interest, “you better come and get it, then.”
Man, he does not have to tell you twice.
You pull the belt free and tug open the waistband of his jeans. The button pops open under your fingers, then the zipper slides down.
Yoongi inhales through his nose when your hand slips inside his briefs, closing around the thick length of him. “Yeah,” he grunts under his breath.
Your cunt clenches in anticipation. He’s already fully hard, thick and warm in your palm. Your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the bead of precum that’s already gathered there.
You bite your lip, watching the way his jaw tightens as you stroke him slowly, squeezing a little on the upstroke the way you know he likes.
His head tips back slightly against the chair, and you lean down slowly, dragging your lips along the line of his jaw until you reach his ear. “Missed you so much.”
“Did you.”
“Mhm.” Your fingers wrap a little firmer around him, enough that his stomach tightens under his shirt. “Thought about it in bed all week.” You press a soft kiss just below his ear, reveling in the way he shivers. “Tried taking care of it myself a couple times.”
“Yeah?” he rasps, and you try to stifle your glee from how affected he sounds.
“But it’s not the same,” you purr. “Never is.”
His fingers flex against the armrests of the chair like he’s trying not to grab you.
“I get so used to you,” you continue, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, “sliding inside me before I’m even fully awake.” Your thumb drags slowly over the head of his cock again, making him hiss. “Fucking me to sleep every night.”
Yoongi can only hum in acknowledgement, so tense he looks like he’s about to snap. Good. Fuck, you want him to snap. You want him to make good on his threat from earlier and fuck you until you can’t walk straight.
“I get so frustrated when you’re gone,” you whisper. “It’s miserable, baby. Nothing feels right. My fingers don’t feel like you. My toys don’t feel like you.” You nip at his earlobe, spurred on by the stuttered breath that escapes his lips. “Nothing fills me up like your cock.”
His tongue drags along the inside of his cheek. “Careful,” he mutters.
You smile sweetly and squeeze him again. “Why?” you murmur, watching the way his throat works when he swallows. “You’re the one who made me like this. Got me used to it. Got me spoiled. Now I can’t even fall asleep without you inside me.”
That seems to do the trick.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “Okay. That’s enough of that.”
Yesyesyes—
“Come here.” With a bruising grip on your hips, he hauls you roughly into his lap. The chair shifts under the added weight, and your skirt rides up as you settle there, knees planted on either side of the seat. “Wanna touch you, too,” he says, reaching beneath your skirt.
Wait.
Wait, no.
What is he doing? Whyyyyyyy are his pants still on?
“You’ve touched me plenty,” you whine, stubbornly trying to work his jeans down, made difficult now that you’re straddling him. “What’s with you? You don’t want me to ride you? Am I bad at it or something? You’ve had years to tell me, you know—”
Yoongi shuts you up with a sharp slap to your still-sensitive ass. “Will you give it a rest?” he huffs, cutting off your moan by stuffing two long fingers between your lips. “What I want is to make you feel good. But I could just fuck this mouth and not let you cum at all. You wanna go there?”
He’s so mean. And you know from experience he’s fully capable of following through on this particular threat, too, if you keep acting up. So as much as you want to talk back, you shake your head, sucking and licking at his fingers in what you hope comes off as some sort of apology.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, using his free hand to brush your hair out of your face. “I’ll fuck you, baby, I promise. Just be patient for me.”
He watches your mouth for another second, letting you suck his fingers slowly, before finally pulling them free with a wet sound. His hand drops between your bodies, and he curses quietly when his fingers find how soaked you still are.
He drags his fingers through the slickness, then lifts them briefly so you can see the shine of it between them. “All this,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction, “and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
Yeah, you’re well aware of that, you think. But you don’t dare say it aloud, determined to be good now.
His fingers move slowly at first, spreading your saliva and slick over your clit before beginning lazy circles that make your thighs tremble where they bracket his.
“Mmngh, Yoongi,” you whine, squirming for more. It’s so good, but it’s just not enough.
“Shh.” His other hand grips your hip, firmly keeping you steady as your body tries to chase the pressure. “Relax,” he says softly near your ear.
Suddenly, you feel the blunt press of one fingertip at your entrance before he pushes inside. Your eyes screw shut, the relief of having even just one part of him inside you overshadowed by it not being nearly enough.
“Fuck,” you sob.
He groans quietly at the way you immediately clamp down around him. “So goddamn tight.”
The single finger sinks the rest of the way in so fucking slowly, curling up against your inner wall as he goes like he’s reacquainting himself with the way your body feels around him. You whimper when he drags it back out and pushes it in again, even deeper this time.
“Yoongi, please,” you moan. “I need more, I need it.”
“I know,” he coos, slipping a second digit inside you beside the first, stretching you open before he starts moving them in steady strokes. “Greedy girl. Always need more of me.”
You do. You’re so keyed up it feels impossible to sit still, like you can’t get close enough to him. Your body chases the movement of his fingers, grinding down like you can somehow force more of him inside.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Just like that.”
You grab his shirt and pull him forward, kissing him hard. Yoongi makes a surprised sound into your mouth at your fervor, but it melts immediately into a low groan as he kisses you back just as hard. His free hand leaves your hip to grab the back of your neck, holding you in place while his mouth takes control of the kiss.
You can taste yourself on his lips from earlier, heady and sweet, the flavor dragged across your mouth every time his tongue slides over yours.
The chair beneath you starts to creak in protest. Each time your bodies grind together the wheels twitch slightly across the studio floor, the seat rocking with the rhythm of his hand driving into you. The sound mixes with the wet slide of your mouths and your uneven breathing.
Your lips part from his and move down to his jaw as you try to gasp for air, but Yoongi doesn’t let you, dragging you back into another kiss. He catches your tongue between his lips, sucking on it slow and filthy. It pulls a helpless, high sound from the back of your throat.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls against your lips. As if to prove his point, he slips in a third finger alongside the other two. It punches the breath out of your lungs. You feel so full you could cry, might cry if he keeps fucking bullying that sensitive spot inside you.
You break from the kiss with a shaky gasp, overwhelmed. “Too much—”
“No it’s not.” His thumb presses hard against your aching, oversensitive clit. Your body convulses at the sensation paired with his fingers fucking you closer and closer to orgasm. “C’mon, jagi. Give it to me.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders as the pressure in your belly tightens and tightens, coiling like a wire pulled too taut. Every thrust of his fingers drags it closer to snapping while your body stutters in his lap.
“Gonna cum,” you gasp, shuddering into the crook of his neck. Your cheeks feel wet, and you open your eyes to find the collar of his shirt damp with errant tears. “Baby, fuck—”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Cum. Right fucking now.”
You don’t have a choice.
Your orgasm slams through you, a strangled moan tearing out of your throat as your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers, delicious buzzing heat spreading through your limbs.
Yoongi doesn’t stop.
His fingers keep moving inside you, the overstimulation making your hips jerk. Only when your body finally starts to sag against him does he slow, then slip out of you entirely.
For a moment you just sit there, slumped in his lap and breathing hard into his shoulder, your entire body humming with leftover tremors.
But beneath you, Yoongi is already moving.
You lift your head at the soft rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans and briefs down properly and frees himself, thick and impossibly hard.
You watch, dazed, as he drags his fingers, still slick with you, slowly along his cock, spreading what you left behind over the head before working it down his length.
Your mouth waters.
Amused, Yoongi nudges your chin up with his free hand until you meet his dark gaze.
“You still want to ride me,” he asks, still stroking himself slowly, “or are you tapping out?”
Tapping out? You almost want to laugh. Hell no, you’re not tapping out.
You take a steadying breath and wipe your tear-stained cheeks with the back of your hand. Your entire body still feels too sensitive, nerves humming everywhere he touched you, but the sight of him like this makes a fresh wave of determination flood through you.
“A week,” you remind him. “You were gone a week.”
Yoongi’s mouth tilts faintly. “A week isn’t that long, you know.”
“I disagree, Min Yoongi. A week is way too fucking long.”
Something in his expression softens at that. “C’mere then.”
Your hands slide to his shoulders as you lift yourself, batting his hand out of your way as you reach for his cock. You guide it carefully, adjusting your position until the thick head presses against your entrance.
You try to move quickly, not wanting to waste any time. But the first inch makes your breath hitch, cruelly reminding you of how sensitive you are. Your forehead dips toward his shoulder as you whimper softly.
“Too much?”
You shake your head quickly. “No,” you pant. “Just give me a second.”
You stay there for a moment, breathing through the stretch, your fingers tightening in his shirt. Then you start to lower yourself again.
Every inch feels intense after everything he already gave you, nerves sparking as his length presses deeper inside. Your lips part with a shaky exhale as you take more of him, the stretch familiar but still so overwhelming.
“Easy,” Yoongi says, hands hovering at your hips like he wants to steady you.
You nod against his shoulder, and after what feels like way too long, you sink down the rest of the way.
Yoongi immediately moves to cradle your face, warm palms bracketing your cheeks as he pulls you into a slow, grounding kiss. His thumbs brush gently under your eyes as if to soothe you, his mouth warm and unhurried while your body relaxes around him, reacquainting itself with the familiar fullness.
Once you’ve adjusted enough, you lift up so his cock drags almost all the way out before you drop back down again.
Yoongi breaks apart from your lips to groan under his breath. “Shit, yeah. Do that again.”
You do.
This time the movement feels a little easier, your hips finding a rhythm as you rise and sink again, over and over.
Yoongi’s head falls back against the chair again, throat exposed as he exhales hard. His grip on your hips flexes every time you drop down on him, like he’s resisting the urge to take control and bounce you on his dick himself.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters hoarsely. “God, look at you.”
Your cheeks heat at the praise, but you don’t stop. Little breathy sounds keep slipping out of you every time your pelvis meets his.
His palms glide along your sides, pushing your shirt up along the way. Once your bra is exposed, he gathers your breasts in both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric.
“These tits,” he says. “Fuck, baby.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You act like you’ve never seen them before.”
“Because every time I see them I’m convinced they got even better somehow. You got so fucking stacked after Penny.”
You roll your eyes with a weak snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, thumbs brushing slowly over the sensitive peaks again. “You were already perfect, but then you gave me our daughter and somehow came back even sexier.”
It’s funny, you used to think the opposite.
It was hard, adjusting to all the changes in yourself after you gave birth. It took a long time to gain back all of your confidence. But since then, you’ve learned to love your body the way it is, because it made Penny. It gave her to you, happy and healthy.
You wouldn’t trade that for anything.
And hearing Yoongi talk like this, like he’s hungry for you—not despite the changes that pregnancy made but because of them…
That familiar train of thought is momentarily derailed when Yoongi nudges upward from below. Your breath breaks into a soft gasp as his cock hits deeper than before, reminding you of where you are and what you’re supposed to be doing.
“Shit,” he says. “You feel insane right now.”
“You say that every time,” you shoot back breathlessly, though the compliment clearly fuels you to keep going. “I think it’s just because you don’t have to do any of the work.”
Yoongi chuckles. “No, baby,” he says, groping your tits again. “I’m saying it because you’re squeezing the fuck out of me.”
Shit. You know exactly why, too.
Your face feels warm suddenly, but the idea has already taken root, spreading through you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. The thought starts to slip out before you can stop it.
“You know,” you murmur, rocking down on him again. “What if…”
He studies your face carefully, brows drawn together. “What if what?”
“What if we made another one?”
Yoongi goes completely still beneath you, hands still on your tits. “What?”
Shit, you’re so stupid. Why would you say that out loud?
“Nothing, nevermind,” you say quickly, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the color of the ceiling. “Forget I said anything.”
His hands drop. “Hey,” he says quietly.
You avoid his eyes, shifting slightly in his lap like you might start moving again just to avoid the subject. But Yoongi doesn’t let you. His grip firms, holding you right where you are, dick still buried deep inside you.
“Don’t do that,” he chides.
“Do what?”
“You know what.” Yoongi huffs softly through his nose. “You think I don’t know you by now?” he asks. “You don’t just say stuff like that for no reason.”
You do your best to tamp down your embarrassment, reminding yourself who you’re with. Your husband. Your husband who you’ve already had a baby with, who has never given you any indication that it was a one-and-done thing.
And Penny is three now. Maybe it could be time.
“I mean… we’ve talked about it before. Kind of,” you say carefully. “Another baby, eventually.”
“Uh-huh.” He watches your face for another second before asking quietly, “Is that what you were thinking about just now? Is that what had you squeezing me like that?”
Your heart is beating faster now. “Maybe… But I’ve been thinking about it for a while!” you admit. “This isn’t me just being horny and saying shit, I promise. I just… we’re in a good place, right? A great place. And I know we haven’t had, like, a proper conversation about it, but…” You trail off, nervous. “Do you think I’m insane?”
“No.” He shifts underneath you then, rolling his hips upward once. The sudden thrust makes you gasp.
“Ah—!”
“But if you’re gonna say shit like that while you’re sitting on my cock,” he continues, voice rougher now, “you can’t expect me not to start thinking about things.”
Your pulse spikes. “A-about what?”
He looks down between your bodies, at the way you’re split open on him. “About how fucking deep I am in you right now, for one.”
Your breath stutters. He rolls his hips again, slower this time.
“And how easy it would be.”
Oh.
The words send a brand new wave of heat flooding through your stomach, and there’s no hiding the way your cunt clenches around him this time.
Yoongi hisses, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Shit, you really want this.”
“Mhm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he gropes you. You can’t believe this conversation is happening, even if you were the one who brought it up. “Only if you do,” you add belatedly.
“Are you kidding?” Yoongi asks. You force yourself to re-open your eyes, your heart skipping a beat at how happy he looks when you do. He’s smiling so big, gummy smile in full force. “Jagiya, I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Of course I want to have another baby with you.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded.
Yoongi stares back, studying your expression. “What?”
Like there’s no reason for you to be surprised by that!
“Yoongi,” you say, voice quieter now, hands sliding up his shoulders until they rest loosely behind his neck. “What did I do to get so lucky, seriously?”
“Married me,” he says simply.
You snort. “Idiot,” you say, but the affection in your voice is obvious.
Your thumbs brush along the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. “I mean it,” you continue. “You’re such a good dad. You’re good to me. You work your ass off and somehow still come home and build furniture for our kid and make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. You make me feel like I won the lottery or something.”
Yoongi’s ears turn faintly pink, like they always do when you praise him like this.
“Alright,” he mutters. “You’re getting sappy on me.”
You grin. “You deserve it.”
He puffs up his cheeks for a second, adorably embarrassed. “You work just as hard.” A pause. “Also,” he adds, “you’re saying all of this while you’re sitting on my dick.”
You laugh helplessly. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, then he rolls his hips up into you again. The sudden movement knocks the breath out of you.
“Oh—!”
“Just don’t stop moving,” he finishes.
Your brain takes a second to catch up.
Right.
If this is really happening, if you’re really talking about making another baby…
You start rocking over him with more intention now, lifting yourself almost completely off his cock before sinking down again.
Yoongi’s head tips back immediately. “Oh fuck,” he groans.
Your rhythm gets steadier, your body leaning forward slightly as you ride him deeper and deeper.
“If we’re doing this,” you pant, “I should probably make it count.”
Yoongi looks up at you sharply. “What do you mean?”
You rock down hard again. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“You said it yourself. You’re deep.”
His eyes darken instantly. “Yeah…”
“So if we’re making a baby,” you tease, rocking your hips slowly, making sure he can feel every twitch of your pussy around his length, “I should probably take all of it.”
Yoongi groans low in his chest. “Fuck.”
Your pace picks up instantly, the idea feeding the heat already burning through your body.
“All your cum,” you continue, breath shaky. “Right where it’s supposed to go.”
His hands suddenly slide under your ass. Before you can react, he lifts you slightly and drives his hips up hard.
“Yoongi—!”
“Take it, then,” he says roughly.
The chair creaks loudly beneath you as he starts meeting your movements now, thrusting up into you while you ride him. Your thighs tighten around him as you obey without hesitation, bouncing harder now.
“Yoongi—fuck—”
“Keep going,” he mutters, jaw tight.
Your fingers curl into his hair as you ride him faster now, the earlier embarrassment completely gone. All you can think about is how good he feels inside you—how perfectly he fills you.
“Another baby,” you gasp, delirious.
“Another baby,” he repeats.
Your pace starts slipping as your pleasure creeps higher again. Yoongi notices instantly.
“Wait,” he says.
He suddenly stands again, quicker than you can question him. You yelp in surprise as he lifts you off the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Yoongi—!”
“Hold on.”
Two quick steps later your back meets his desk.
The impact makes a dull thud. Yoongi pushes you back further until you’re lying fully across the surface. Your skirt bunches higher around your waist as he grabs your legs again.
Then he hooks your legs up over his shoulders. The stretch folds you almost completely in half, your hips tilted upward perfectly toward him.
Without any warning, he slides back inside you in one deep thrust.
“Fuck, Yoongi!” you wail.
“Yeah,” he groans. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
The angle makes everything feel deeper immediately. Your fingers scramble against the desk as he starts thrusting again, so hard you see stars. The desk knocks against the wall behind it with every push, surely chipping paint.
“Too deep,” you whine. “Toooooo deep, holy fuck—”
“Nah, you can take it,” he says. “Gotta make it count, remember?”
His hands grip under your thighs to keep you there, holding you open while he drives into you again and again.
“Look at this,” he groans, glancing down where your bodies meet. You can barely follow his gaze through the haze of pleasure. “Split open on me,” he continues hoarsely. “Taking all of it.”
“Yoongi, please!” you cry.
“Please what?”
Another deep thrust knocks the air out of you.
“Please—fuck—”
“You want it?”
You nod frantically.
“Say it,” he presses.
Your nails scrape uselessly at the smooth surface of the desk as he drives into you.
“Want your cum,” you manage. “Inside.”
“Fuck,” Yoongi growls. His pace picks up. “You’re gonna get it.”
“Yes—yes—!”
Yoongi leans forward, forcing your thighs tighter against your chest, folding you even further. The angle change has you reeling, crying out for him.
“Cum first. You’re gonna cum all over my cock like a good girl,” he grits out. Your back arches off the desk, as much as it can with the way he’s pressing you into it. “Then I’m filling you up.”
The promise snaps the last thread holding you together.
Your orgasm finally crashes through you, your whole body shaking as you clamp down around him.
Yoongi groans loudly. “Fuuuuuuck.”
One last deep thrust and he buries himself fully inside you. You feel it when he comes, heat flooding deep inside as he groans your name under his breath.
Your chest rises and falls rapidly against his where he stays leaned over you, still holding your legs over his shoulders.
“Well,” he pants after a minute, slowly releasing your legs to avoid straining them, “fuck.”
Your head tips back against the desk, a weak laugh escaping you.
Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look down at you. A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face.
“Happy birthday to me.”
a/n 2: ok i promise i'll let this couple rest peacefully now 😭
i know many of you are waiting for price of fame chapter 9 and/or the first taste chapter three! i promise i'm working to have them out ASAP, but arirang week may cause a bit of a delay. please be patient with me as we all collectively shake in our mf boots for the comeback!
please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts! if you’d like to be added to my taglist, you can go ahead and fill out my form here (no need to do so if you’re already on my permanent taglist)
୨ৎ SUMMARY !! You’re fresh off another breakup, furious at your own body for never responding the way it’s “supposed” to—and even more furious at the sinking fear that something might be wrong with you. When late-night research leads you toward fantasies you’ve never dared to voice, you turn to the one person you trust most: your best friend.
୨ৎ TAGS/WARNINGS !! NSFW, MDNI (18+), Bisexual Paralegal Kim Namjoon, MC is avoidant as hell, more references to secretary (2002) so lmk if you catch them, incompetent lawyers, lots and lots of tension, dirty talk, some light exhibitionism, kissing, nipple play, orgasm denial as punishment (everybody cheered), humiliation & degradation, praise, spanking, light bondage/restraints, a.k.a yoongi uses a tie for nefarious activities, finger sucking, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), D/s dynamics (duh), implied aftercare, i promise we'll get a real aftercare scene at some point but not yet, lmk if i missed anything
୨ৎ WORDCOUNT !! 14.4k
୨ৎ AUTHOR'S NOTE !! SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG! i know a lot of you have been waiting. hopefully after my bts concert (tampa april 26) i'll be able to get back to some semblance of a posting schedule lol. thank you to @yoonmetogether for beta reading in a pinch! hope y'all enjoy <3
p.s. if i missed some typos or formatting things or repeated phrases, no i didn’t. it’s like 2 a.m. as i’m uploading this and i’m only doing it because i love you 🫵
chapter 3: do it again, and i'll see you tomorrow (♬)
Against your will, you’ve suddenly become The Incredible Disappearing Roommate this week.
The partners at the firm are in the final stretch of closing a massive case, which means tension is high and patience is nonexistent. Emails pile in faster than you can properly read them. Your phone rings before you’ve finished the last call. Every document seems to need revising, formatting, printing, signing, and to be sent out yesterday. You’ve been moving nonstop, a one-person relay between departments, clients, and lawyers who all seem convinced their request is the only one that matters.
And because the universe apparently enjoys piling it on, the firm’s annual gala is this weekend.
So on top of everything else, you’ve also been coordinating RSVPs, seating charts, last-minute changes from people who absolutely should know better, and fielding passive aggressive emails about floral arrangements like they matter even a fraction as much as the deal that’s about to close.
By the time you get home every night, you barely even have enough time to shower and collapse into bed, let alone knock on Yoongi’s door and…
Well, you actually don’t know what the hell is supposed to come next.
After… what happened last week, you didn’t really discuss a next time. You didn’t discuss anything at all, really.
Yoongi held you until your tears dried, helped you get ready for bed, laid with you until you fell asleep, and that was it. It was nice, and it was definitely what you needed in the moment, but it was also almost entirely nonverbal.
When you woke up the next morning, it was like nothing had happened at all. You spent the rest of the weekend together doing completely PG things, and then you went to work Monday morning glowing and blissfully unaware of the shitstorm of paperwork you were about to walk into.
Since then, your interactions with Yoongi have been limited to texts. Extremely normal, short-and-to-the-point texts about groceries and bills and cancelling plans so you can spend more time in the office.
Texts that are remarkably unsexy, even though sex is practically all you’ve been thinking about during the rare moments that your mind can actually wander.
As a result, you’ve been keyed up and irritable, every minor inconvenience scraping against nerves already fried by the overwhelming arousal you can’t seem to shake. More than once, you catch yourself staring off mid-task, thoughts slipping somewhere filthy and consuming—the memory of Yoongi’s hands, his voice in your ear, the press of his clothed erection beneath you.
It’s constant, intrusive, and maddening, and underneath the frustration is that insistent want to taste that kind of pleasure again—to squeeze out every delicious drop you can, maybe until someone, like… passes out or something.
And it doesn’t help that every night, when you finally drag yourself into bed exhausted and determined to take the edge off, the same thought always stops you cold.
You probably shouldn’t, right?
Yoongi never said you couldn’t take matters into your own hands, but the idea has rooted itself deep anyway, completely out of nowhere. As if by touching yourself, you’d be stepping out of line. Like you’re meant to wait, to ask, to hear it from him first.
Because he’s your dom now.
The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and nerve-wracking, and suddenly the idea of giving yourself relief feels cheap compared to what he could do to you.
So, needless to say, you want to talk to him about it. You just don’t have time, and, more importantly, you don’t know how.
This kind of arrangement requires a lot of talking shit to death. He warned you. So maybe that’s what’s making you hesitate now—the fact that the talking hasn’t happened yet, because the ball is in your court.
Historically, neither of you have ever been very big on feelings talk. Oddly enough, that’s part of what’s made you work so well as best friends. You both know how to read between the lines. The conversation you had at the restaurant was, by far, the longest you’ve ever spent talking about anything emotional. Even coming out to each other required fewer words to be exchanged.
But if talking is suddenly a prerequisite to sex, then you’re going to have to catch up with what Yoongi has apparently had years to learn. And this week, your lesson is making you realize just how bad you are at asking for what you want out loud.
Out of the two of you, Yoongi has always been the direct one. The one who goes for what he wants—fuck the fear, fuck the embarrassment, fuck the consequences. Which, you guess, is probably why he’s so well-suited for this sort of thing—and why you, up until last week, had never had an orgasm that wasn’t self-made.
And likely never will again, if you keep chickening out.
Come Friday evening, the case everyone has been killing themselves over is finally done, and you should be relieved.
Nothing is stopping you from getting home at a reasonable time tonight. You can shower, maybe get a full night of sleep before the gala tomorrow night…
Or finally grow a spine.
You think about it seriously while you shut down your computer. Nothing is standing in your way anymore.
Maybe you’re being silly. Yoongi has known you your entire life. Plus, he’s the one who propositioned you in the first place! You have no reason to feel embarrassed by the idea of asking him to… take care of you again, when it was his idea from the start. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t even make a big deal out of it. He’d just pull you into his lap and—
“Drinks?”
You shake away the remnants of your dirty thoughts and look up to find Namjoon The Paralegal leaning against the edge of your desk, tie already loosened, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting all day to stop pretending he cares about professionalism.
You glance at the clock. It’s barely thirty seconds past five.
“That was fast,” you remark dryly.
“Wouldn’t you rather be drunk than be here?” he quips back with a dimpled smile. “C’mon. We deserve to celebrate making it through this week alive.”
He makes a good point.
The bar is within walking distance, close enough that you don’t have time to analyze why you folded so quickly. (You know why. Chicken.) It’s one of those places that caters to the after-work crowd, the clientele almost solely dressed in rumpled business casual and ordering soju by the bucketful.
You slide into a booth across from Namjoon, shrugging off your coat, already feeling some of the week’s tension begin to loosen in your shoulders.
By the time you’re one shot in (you don’t want to overdo it) and halfway through your first drink, you’re starting to feel less like a cog in the machine and more like a human again. An indignant, overworked human.
“God,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face, “I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours a night all week.”
Namjoon blows a raspberry at you, unmoved. “Four is light work. Try two.”
“This isn’t a competition, Kim Namjoon,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I’m just the secretary! I understand why you had to lose sleep all week, but me?”
“You’re the only reason any of us made it through this without committing a felony! Do you know how many times you saved my ass today alone?”
“At least five,” you shoot back.
“Exactly. Minimum five.” He tips his glass toward you in acknowledgment. “You run that office more than any of us do.”
You snort despite yourself. “You’re lucky those were easy saves, by the way,” you say. “I was happy when I had to clean up after you, because everyone else was so much worse. Is not being able to spell a prerequisite for law school? Eddie had me ready to commit a crime every single time he had me proofread for him.”
“I’ll testify in your defense,” Namjoon offers, putting on his best lawyer voice to say, “your honor, wouldn’t anyone be driven to violence when faced with stupidity of this caliber?”
Namjoon has always been your favorite coworker.
He’s sharp as hell, with the kind of intelligence that honestly kind of intimidated you at first—until you found out how hopelessly clumsy he can be, constantly knocking into things or misplacing something important right after he sets it down.
Plus, he’s easy to talk to, and, objectively speaking, looking at his face for extended periods of time is hardly a hardship.
As you knock back your drinks, you both pick apart the week together, trading horror stories. The impossible turnaround times, the partners who changed their minds every ten minutes, the client who suddenly proposed “urgent revisions” at 11:58 p.m.—it all spills out in a steady stream of complaints that feel lighter the more you say them out loud.
“And the stupid gala! The flowers!” you add, incredulous even now. “The flowers, Namjoon! I got three separate emails about the shade of white.”
“Ah, they’re not just flowers, though,” he teases, “and not just white, remember?”
“Vendela roses,” you both say at the same time, breaking into giggles at the absurdity of it.
The laughter peters out, and you swirl your drink idly, watching the ice shift.
“I hate this job,” you add after a moment.
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “If money wasn’t a factor, I would quit tomorrow.”
“What would you do instead?” you ask. You’ve never hung out with him like this, outside of the office, and the longer you sit across from him the more interesting he becomes.
“Honestly?”
You nod.
“I’d still do law,” he says. “Just… not like this.”
“That could mean a lot of things,” you point out. “Enlighten me.”
Namjoon hesitates, clearly a bit self-conscious, but the genuine curiosity painting your features is enough to keep him talking.
“I’d want to work with musicians,” he says. “Contracts, rights, negotiations, all of it. But actually on their side.”
You perk up, immediately hooked. “Oh?”
“The industry’s a mess,” he continues. “Labels take advantage of people all the time, especially younger artists who don’t know what they’re signing. They get locked into these contracts that strip them of ownership, control, sometimes even their own work. It’s legal, technically, but it’s… It’s fucked. It isn’t fair.”
“It’s not,” you agree.
“I’d want to help with that,” he says. “Make sure they actually understand what they’re agreeing to. Protect them from getting screwed over before they even have a chance to build something.”
It’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while, and the way he talks about it is so familiar. Not just the words, but the conviction behind them. The frustration.
It reminds you of Yoongi.
He gets like that too when the topic comes up. You’ve only heard it in passing over the years—stories here and there, the occasional late-night tangent when he’s had a drink or two too many—but it’s the same core sentiment.
Except Yoongi’s been on the receiving end of the shit deals Namjoon is talking about.
It’s a big part of why he does what he does now—why he stays behind the scenes, producing instead of performing, writing songs only to hand them off and move on to the next. He used to want more than that, but somewhere along the way, that ambition dulled into something more practical.
He seems happy now. You’d be able to tell if he wasn’t. But maybe if there were more people like Namjoon in the world, he could be even happier.
“That’s really cool, Joonie,” you offer. “You should do that.”
Namjoon scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe in another life.”
“Why not this one?”
“Because this one comes with student loans and rent, and this job pays enough to make that manageable.”
You grin despite yourself because yeah, Namjoon and Yoongi would really get along. Lips loosened from the alcohol, you tell him that.
“You know, I really should introduce you to my roommate.”
“Oh? Planning on setting me up?” Namjoon asks, raising a brow. “Is she hot?”
“He’s a dude,” you say with a smirk.
He shrugs. “Is he hot?”
You blink, surprised. Of course you’ve unknowingly befriended the one other queer person in the office.
“You tell me,” you say, resting your chin on the heel of your hand. “You’ve definitely seen him before. He’s met me for lunch a couple of times.”
You watch in real time as realization dawns over Namjoon’s face, and his eyes get so big you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh.
“That guy is your roommate?” he asks, whistling lowly. “Shit. He is hot.”
You hum, preferring not to comment. Like “that guy” didn’t set an insanely high standard for all your future orgasms just nights ago.
“So, you aren’t setting me up?” Namjoon asks, pouting a little. “Because if he’s single and into men, I wouldn’t say no, you know.”
Hm. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that.
“He’s…”
He is technically single, isn’t he? You’re certainly not dating Yoongi, although the fact that you’ve spent the past week trying to figure out the best way to get him to make you cum without outright asking could pose an issue, re: his dating life. What if Namjoon is his soulmate, written in the stars and shit? Are you really willing to stand in the way of that to secure more orgasms for yourself?
“It’s complicated,” you settle on. Selfishly.
“Bummer.”
“Sorry.”
Namjoon waves a hand. “I was just fucking around, anyway. Honestly, up until two minutes ago, I thought you were dating him.”
You freeze, nervous laughter bubbling up your throat. “What?!”
“Meeting you for lunch is a very boyfriend-like activity!”
“No it isn’t!” you protest, cheeks hot. “Yoongi and I are friends. We’ve known each other since we were still in diapers. Dating him would be like…”
“Dating your brother?” Namjoon supplies, extremely unhelpful.
You grimace. “No,” you say firmly. “Definitely not that.”
“Jeez, touchy.”
“Sorry,” you huff, rubbing at your temples. “It’s just weird to think about, is what I mean. We’re close, but it’s always been platonic, you know?”
Up until about a week ago, you think. But Namjoon doesn’t need to know that.
“I get it,” Namjoon says. “Forget I said anything.”
You let out a relieved breath. You’re the one who brought Yoongi up in the first place, but this is definitely not where you thought it would go, so you take the out thankfully.
You’ve never been so eager to keep talking about work.
You and Namjoon spend the next hour sipping on waters as you complain about the gala. By the time you walk back to the office parking lot, you’re definitely sober enough to make it home safely, but the weirdness from before still lingers.
There’s no shot in hell that you’re going through with talking to Yoongi tonight, that much is clear. Not with the idea that people automatically think you’re dating him when you walk down the street together fresh in your brain.
When you begged the universe for a solution to your rampant horniness, this is not what you had in mind at all.
Instead, when you finally make it back to the apartment, you make a point to tiptoe past Yoongi’s door so you don’t wake him. You peel off your work clothes, put on your comfiest pajamas, and slip into bed just to lay wide awake as anxiety chews at your insides.
You’ll talk to him soon. You will. You have to, you realize, your heart skipping in your chest.
Fuck. This is probably the only time in history that Yoongi being your permanent plus-one has bitten you in the ass.
He’s your date tomorrow night.
୨ৎ
You stare at yourself in the mirror, hands braced on the edge of your dresser like you’re about to throw up.
This is stupid.
You’ve been to this thing every year since you started at the firm, and you’ve never felt this nervous about it before. It usually consists of overpriced alcohol, stiff conversations, and a handful of coworkers you actually like enough to make the night tolerable—certainly nothing to lose your lunch over.
You press your lips together, irritated with yourself.
Yoongi has always been your date to shit like this. That’s not new, either. It’s just easier to bring him than field questions about why you showed up alone, and he’s always been more than willing to go anywhere that involves free food and an open bar. For you, at least.
Nothing has changed.
Except, of course, everything.
You take a deep breath and stand up straight, glancing over at the dress draped over the edge of your bed.
Maybe that’s why you feel sick.
You don’t normally buy things like this. You’re a clearance rack, “good enough is good enough” kind of person. Every single pair of tights you own has a run in the thigh. In fact, 99% of your closet is made up of things you’ve owned for years, pieces that have been worn soft at the seams from use.
This is brand new, and probably the most expensive item of clothing you’ve ever owned by a mile. You justified the purchase because again, this gala happens every fucking year, and you were starting to get sick of showing up underdressed compared to everyone else.
You slip it on and gaze at your reflection as you hold it to your chest.
For a second, you don’t recognize yourself. Not because you look wildly different, or unlike you, but because you look…
The black fabric hugs your body like it knows exactly where to linger, cinched at your waist just enough to make the curve of it obvious, gliding over your hips before falling clean down your legs. The neckline dips lower than anything you’d usually dare, a little indulgent, a little out of your comfort zone, but not in a bad way.
You don’t think you’ve ever worn something that felt like it was made with you in mind, instead of something you had to make work.
You really like it.
But as soon as you reach back to grab the zipper, you run into a problem.
Fuck! No, no, no, you were doing so well!
“Come on,” you mutter under your breath, craning your arm at an angle that’s definitely going to hurt later. You twist, fingers grappling uselessly for leverage.
You can get it halfway up, maybe a little more if you strain, but definitely not all the way.
You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long, stubborn second.
Your options are clear. You could wrestle with it for the next ten minutes and risk injuring yourself. Or worse, risk breaking it entirely, effectively wasting all the hard-earned money you spent on it. Or…
You close your eyes.
“Yoongi?” you call, raising your voice just enough to carry through the apartment.
Through the wall, you immediately hear his muffled “yeah?” in response.
“Can you… help me with something?”
“Yeah,” he calls back. “One sec.”
You open your eyes and stare at your reflection again, resisting the urge to immediately start fixing things that don’t need fixing.Your makeup turned out better than usual. Not perfect, but good enough that you didn’t immediately wash it off and give up. Your hair is behaving. Why do you suddenly have the urge to preen?
Get it together, you think. It’s just Yoongi.
The door clicks open behind you, and you whirl around to face the door instantly, pretending like you weren’t being the most vain person on the planet, and—
Oh.
Oh, that’s… not fucking fair.
You’ve seen Yoongi dressed up before, plenty of times. High school graduation, college graduation, his first interview for a job that actually mattered to him. Just months ago you went to the wedding of a mutual friend with him, stayed for the ceremony and dipped before the cake was cut.
But he was wearing a t-shirt beneath a blazer that time, and even so, you hadn’t been paying attention yet.
You’re certainly paying attention now.
His hair is styled, pushed mostly out of his face save for a few strands that hang to artfully frame his forehead. The button-up he’s wearing is crisp white, fitted just enough through his shoulders and chest to hint at what’s underneath without trying too hard about it. And the slacks—fuck—the slacks are almost worse, tailored close through his thighs without looking restrictive. His undone tie, a delicate houndstooth print, hangs loose around his neck.
Even unfinished, he just… inexplicably looks like he belongs in a room full of people with money and power and things to prove. Like he can command any room he walks into, including your bedroom.
You catch yourself and force your focus back to his face, but once you get there, whatever words you were trying to come up with die pitifully in your throat.
Because he’s looking right back.
His gaze drags from your face down the line of your body, slow enough that you feel it like a touch. Like he’s mapping out all the places he wants to explore, if you’ll let him. It’s pathetic how desperately you want to let him.
He seems to catch himself. When he looks back up, you both freeze, and then, almost in sync, you look away.
“Um,” you say, eloquent as ever, twisting a little and gesturing behind you. “Can you—I can’t—the zipper.”
Smooth. Really smooth.
He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath and steps closer. “Yeah. Turn around.”
You do, grateful for the excuse to face away from him. Right then, your stupid horny brain decides it’s the perfect time to remind you that if you leaned back even slightly, you’d be pressed right up against him. His chest to your back, his crotch against your ass.
You don’t move a fucking inch.
His knuckles graze as he drags the zipper up slowly, brushing against bare skin inch by inch, each small touch sending a sharp, electric ripple up your spine. By the time the zipper reaches the top, your shoulders are tight, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears.
“Done,” he says softly.
You swallow thickly. “Thanks.”
For some reason, neither of you moves. It almost feels like something is about to happen. Like if you turned your head just a little, if you leaned back even an inch, he’d meet you there. Like his hand might slide from the zipper to your waist, pull you in. Like you could ask, actually get the words out this time, and he wouldn’t hesitate to—
Your phone blares to life from your dresser, the alarm you set earlier cutting through the room like a knife. The moment snaps instantly.
“Oh, shit,” you squeak, scrambling to grab your phone and silencing it. “That’s—we should probably—”
“Go,” Yoongi finishes for you, significantly less frazzled.
“Yeah.”
You hurriedly set your phone back down and reach for your shoes. The heels are new, too, and a little higher than what you usually go for. You sit on the edge of your bed, slipping one on, then the other, adjusting the straps at your ankles carefully.
You push yourself to stand, wobble for half a second as you find your balance, and then straighten. When you finally glance up, Yoongi is in the middle of tying his tie.
You watch his ring-clad fingers move with rapt attention, the way they skillfully loop and pull the fabric through until the knot is at his throat.
Don’t, you think to yourself. Do! Not! Go! There!
You turn to grab your clutch off the dresser, suddenly very interested in making sure you have everything you need. Lip gloss. Keys. Cash, just in case.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, forcing something light into your voice. “As I’ll ever be.”
୨ৎ
The hotel ballroom is already full by the time you and Yoongi step inside. Everything gleams—polished marble floors, golden light spilling from chandeliers, tables dressed in pristine linens with those stupidly specific Vendela roses arranged just so. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays balanced expertly, offering drinks and bite-sized appetizers that no one seems to actually eat.
Yoongi’s hand settles at the small of your back as he guides you further in, a subtle touch that does absolutely nothing to calm your buzzing nerves. If anything, it makes it worse—heightens your awareness of him at your side.
“Fancy,” he says, waggling his brows.
“Expensive,” you correct under your breath.
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes sweeping over the crowd until he clocks the open bar. “You want?” he asks, tilting his head toward the sea of people lining up for free alcohol.
You nod gratefully. “Please.”
“I’ll be back.”
You watch as he disappears into the cluster of bodies, leaving you to fend for yourself for a few minutes.
Not that it matters. No one is sparing you a passing glance, anyway. Partners, associates, people you’ve spent the past week running yourself ragged for. A few of them glance your way, but it’s polite recognition, nothing more. Because you’re the secretary.
Which is fine. You’re only here because you have to be. You don’t want to talk to anyone you work with except—
“Hey!”
You turn your head at the sound of your name, spotting Namjoon weaving his way toward you with a drink already in hand. Relief floods through you at the sight of him and his predictably crooked tie.
“You made it! I was starting to think you were going to bail.”
“Tempting,” you admit. “But I did all the work for this thing. I deserve to at least drink on the company’s dime.”
Namjoon grins, raising his glass in agreement. “Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m here, honestly. Free alcohol and the chance to judge everyone in expensive clothing.”
“You’ve been doing that all night?”
“Religiously,” he says. “You clean up nice, by the way,” he adds, giving you a once-over that’s appreciative but not invasive. “Almost didn’t recognize you without a stack of files in your hands.”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you,” you say. “Are you here with anyone?”
“Nah,” he says. “Didn’t feel right to drag anyone into this. Figured I’d just float around, make sure I’m seen, then disappear before anyone important notices me.”
“Smart.”
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “What about you?” he asks. “You here alone?”
As if on cue, Yoongi appears at your side and hands you your drink.
You take it with a quiet thanks, watching his throat work as he takes a sip of his whiskey sour.
Ugh, focus!
“Yoongi,” you say, clearing your throat and forcing yourself into something that resembles composure. “This is Namjoon, one of the paralegals at the firm.”
“Kim Namjoon,” he says, straightening and offering his hand.
Yoongi takes it without hesitation. “Min Yoongi.”
“Nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Namjoon says, his eyes flicking conspiratorially to yours for half a second. You have to resist the urge to reach out and strangle him with his crooked tie.
“Oh?” Yoongi asks, turning to you with a raised brow. “Good things?”
You’re in hell. Kim Namjoon is a traitorous bastard who thinks he knows everything, when really he knows nothing.
“Horrible things,” you reply flatly. “I was actually just asking him if he’s in the market for a roommate.”
Yoongi laughs. “Good luck,” he says, eyeing Namjoon. “Can you cook?”
“If instant ramyeon counts.”
Yoongi sighs, deeply offended. “You’ll both be dead within a week,” he says matter-of-factly.
You take a long sip of your drink, because clearly you’re going to need it.
“Yeah, yeah, we get it, I’d be lost without you,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Are we gonna find somewhere to people-watch, or do you wanna swing your dick around a little more?”
“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, sucking his teeth. “This dick swinging business is pretty fun, if you ask me.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” you shoot back.
Namjoon laughs, clearly amused by the back-and-forth that’s become second nature to you and Yoongi over the years.
“I know a spot,” he cuts in. “I’ve been dodging people all night. C’mon. You’re welcome to keep swinging dick when we get there.”
Namjoon leads you both toward the far side of the room, where the lighting dips just a little lower and the noise softens. There’s a stretch of floor tucked beside a structural column, dotted with a few small cocktail tables that no one seems particularly interested in claiming.
From here, you get a clear view of the room without actually being in it—like watching a performance from backstage.
Perfect.
“Oh, this is good,” you murmur approvingly, already claiming a spot and setting your clutch down on one of the tables.
“Told you,” Namjoon says as he and Yoongi sit on either side of you, pleased with himself.
Yoongi hums in agreement beside you, posture noticeably loosening now that you’re out of the main current of people.
“What do you do, Yoongi?” Namjoon asks, breaking the ice.
“I work in music,” Yoongi answers.
Namjoon’s eyes light up with recognition. “Ah, so that’s why you were saying we’d get along last night,” he says to you.
“Uh-huh.” Yoongi immediately looks confused, so you explain. “Joonie is going to defend musicians to keep them from getting taken advantage of.”
“Ah,” Namjoon says sheepishly, waving his free hand so he doesn’t slosh his drink. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘going to.’ I want to, one day.”
Yoongi straightens in your periphery, eyes lighting up on Namjoon with interest that hadn’t been there before.
“Yeah?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “What kind of stuff? Contracts? Ownership rights?”
“Yeah, exactly,” Namjoon says. “Artist contracts, licensing, making sure they actually understand what they’re signing before they get locked into something awful.”
Yoongi lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “I wish more people cared about that shit. Kids are way too excited by the idea of a record deal these days, they don’t think to stop and read the fine print.”
Namjoon perks up. “That’s what I’m saying! Half the time it’s not even that the deals are hidden, it’s that people don’t have anyone on their side explaining what they mean. They just trust the wrong people and—boom. They’re stuck.”
“Mm,” Yoongi hums, his gaze dropping briefly. “Happens more than it should.”
“That’s exactly why I want to get into it,” Namjoon says. “People shouldn’t have to learn the hard way.”
Yoongi’s mouth quirks faintly. “If you actually do it, I think the whole industry would collapse.” He meets Namjoon’s eyes again. “Which, for the record, I’m all for.”
Namjoon grins, dimples at full force. “Gotta burn it down to build something better, right?”
“Damn straight.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yoongi take to someone this quickly.
There’s something easy about the way they fall into it—no awkward posturing, no one trying to one-up the other. Just two people who have very clearly spent a long time thinking about the same broken system from opposite sides, meeting somewhere in the middle and immediately finding common ground.
Yoongi’s a little more blunt about it, a little rougher around the edges, but Namjoon matches him point for point, thoughtful where Yoongi is sharp, filling in the gaps without smoothing anything over.
You called it, but still, it’s… kind of fascinating to watch.
You grin into your drink, warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Look at you two,” you coo, glancing between them. “Bonding over your shared hatred of capitalism. It’s beautiful.”
“Not just capitalism,” Namjoon corrects, lifting a finger. “Corruption. Exploitation. Systems designed to benefit the few at the expense of the many—”
“You sound like you’re about to start a podcast,” you cut in, amused.
Namjoon takes it in stride. “I know you mean that as an insult,” he starts, waggling his brows as he gestures between Yoongi and himself, “but tell me you wouldn’t listen to an hour and a half of these dulcet tones.”
“Can I leave hate comments?” you ask sweetly.
The three of you lapse into a comfortable rhythm after that—pointing out people, making up stories, occasionally dipping into real ones when you actually know something about whoever you’re watching.
At some point, Yoongi gets up to freshen all of your drinks, and when he gets back, Namjoon points subtly toward a man across the room, currently holding court with a group of very serious-looking clients.
“That’s the ‘pls fix’ guy,” he murmurs to you, taking the glass Yoongi offers him with a grateful nod.
“No way,” you say, leaning slightly to get a better look.
“The one and only.”
Yoongi follows your line of sight as he sits back down, his arm stretching over the back of your chair. “The what guy?”
“He sent Namjoon a draft earlier this week for the huge merger that just wrapped up,” you explain, lowering your voice. “And it was full of errors. Like, really bad. Plus, he was supposed to have it done for our client, like, days prior. He was single-handedly holding up the whole thing. So, he asked Joon to…”
“‘pls fix,’” Namjoon finishes, pained.
Yoongi huffs into his drink. “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart.”
“I wish,” Namjoon says. “I have no idea how he made it through law school, honestly. Dude’s an idiot. I fantasize about punching him at least once a day, but I’d definitely get fired, and anyway, I’m a pacifist.”
“Pacifist, smash-a-fist,” you say, delighted by your accidental pun. “I can’t wait for the day you finally snap. He’s begging for it, Joon.”
Yoongi hums, visibly sizing the guy up. “I could probably take him,” he says simply.
“In a fight?” Namjoon asks.
“In a spelling bee.”
You laugh, delighted. “A fight, too! Yoongi can be your backup, for sure! He’s a member at some fancy boxing gym in Gangnam.”
“Hot,” Namjoon says.
“He also does pilates,” you add with a snort.
“Hey, don’t knock the pilates,” Yoongi says, nudging your shoulder.
“No, no, I’m not. It’s a big step up from what you used to do, which was absolutely nothing,” you tease. “I’m very proud of your fitness journey.”
“If it makes him strong enough to take down our gym rat coworkers, I’m not judging,” Namjoon says, discreetly pointing into the crowd again, this time to someone different. “After you’re done with ‘pls fix,’ I vote that he’s next.”
You follow the invisible line drawn by his finger and immediately groan. “Oh my god, not him.”
The guy in question is impossible to miss, broad shoulders straining against a suit that looks a size too tight. He’s just like all your other coworkers—an egotistical, hot-headed law bro. Except he’s particularly annoying, because he’s also obsessed with fitness.
“You know, he cornered me in the break room once. Tried to explain protein macros to me while I was heating up a Lean Cuisine.”
Namjoon snorts. “Did you learn anything?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I learned I should start eating lunch in my car.”
“Jesus,” Yoongi mutters, eyes scanning the room again. “How do you deal with these people every day?”
“I don’t,” you say. “I dissociate and wait for five o’clock.”
Namjoon nods solemnly. “Same.”
“Kim!”
The voice cuts through the pocket of peace the three of you have built like a whip crack, and Namjoon’s spine instantly goes rigid.
“Uh-ooooh,” you sing-song. “Dissociation time is over.”
“No,” he mutters under his breath. “No, no, no—”
You follow his gaze just in time to see one of the senior partners making a beeline straight toward him, expression already locked into something expectant.
“Found you,” the partner says, clapping a hand onto Namjoon’s shoulder like he’s just been rescued instead of captured. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Namjoon pastes on a polite smile so fast it’s almost impressive. “You found me!”
“We need you,” the partner continues, already steering him away. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Namjoon looks back at you over his shoulder, eyes wide and pleading.
“Damn,” you murmur into your glass, watching him go with zero intent to save him. “Thought he was gonna make it.”
“Poor bastard,” Yoongi agrees.
“Moment of silence,” you say, lifting your drink slightly.
“Moment of silence.”
You both take a sip, watching as Namjoon disappears into the crowd.
“He’s cool,” Yoongi says after the moment ends, turning to you. “I’m glad I got to meet him.”
“Yeah,” you say, lips upturned. “I knew you would like him.”
As soon as you say it, though, your mind drifts back to the memory of the bar last night.
“You know,” you add, the words slipping out before you can properly filter them, “when I told him that, he assumed I was trying to set the two of you up.”
Yoongi’s brows lift slightly, more thoughtful than surprised. “Huh.”
You don’t know what you were expecting.
A scoff, maybe. Immediate dismissal. Something definitive you could grab onto and file away neatly.
Not that, though. Not something so open-ended. Huh? That’s all he has to say?
You turn your head toward him fully now.
“What,” you press, studying his face for any hint of something you don’t want to find, “is he your type or something?”
“I told you, I don’t really have a type,” Yoongi says into his glass.
Hm. You remember.
It would be a satisfying answer, if you didn’t also remember all of the men he’s brought home over the years.
“You say that,” you counter, stubbornly picking at the thread even though some part of you is whispering to drop it, “but all of the guys you’ve dated kinda look like him, now that I think about it.”
Tall, jacked, masculine. Varying in personality, sure, but all the more reason for Namjoon to fall into the category. He contains multitudes.
Yoongi finally turns his head to you, raising an amused eyebrow. “You jealous or something?”
Shit!
You successfully suppress your immediate urge to sputter, forcing your features to remain in what you hope is a calm expression.
“No,” you say, steady. “Why would I be jealous?”
You lift your glass, using the motion as cover, taking a longer sip than necessary just to buy yourself a second.
“I’m just wondering,” you continue, setting the glass down carefully, “if I should’ve set you up, since he’s so obviously your type and all.”
There.
That sounds reasonable, right?
Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, you’re jealous as hell,” he says. “Being really cute about it, too.”
Your cheeks go hot, and you scowl. “Fuck off.”
Yoongi’s posture changes—not bigger, not aggressive, just… more present. Like something in him just clicked into place, attention sharpening entirely on you.
“Ooh, less cute,” he murmurs, interest flickering in his eyes as he turns fully toward you now. Then, softer, like it’s just for you, “watch yourself.”
Oh.
It’s not a joke. You can tell it isn’t.
The warning settles low in your stomach, sending a strange mix of heat and defiance curling through you.
You should probably back off and remember where you are. Remember that this isn’t the time or the place. Remember that Yoongi is not above teaching you a lesson right here if he has to, especially since you personally ticked literal boxes that gave him express permission to do so.
But you don’t.
You want to poke. To test. To see where the edges are. After a week of nothing, of silence and restraint and too much thinking, you want to see what happens if you push.
“Or what?” you challenge, lifting your chin just slightly.
Yoongi holds your gaze. “You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
”I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you lie.
“Really,” he says flatly.
“Really.”
“So you’re not giving me shit on purpose just to see what I’ll do about it?”
As always, he sees right through you.
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, the fight leaking out of you as quickly as it flared up. You’re not good at this, and you don’t know why you’re pretending to be.
“I just want your attention,” you admit, embarrassed at how easily he called you out.
“You have it, baby.”
Your breath catches at the pet name, a ripple of sensation running down your spine and settling heavy between your thighs.
“You could’ve had it days ago, too,” he adds pointedly. “It’s not like I live far.”
If he only knew how many times you paused outside of his door on your way to your own, weighing the pros and cons of knocking until your cowardice won out.
“I was busy,” you say, lips pushing into a small pout, clinging to the safest excuse you have.
“I know,” he says. There’s something soft threaded through it, something that wraps around the words instead of sharpening them. “My girl’s been working so hard, huh?”
His girl. Your thighs press together under the table. Is that what you are now? It must be, if you’re this attuned to just a simple change in his voice.
“Mhm,” you say, because anything more coherent feels out of reach.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Been thinking about me?”
You have. Constantly.
At work, at home, in the shower, lying in bed staring at the ceiling with your mind running in circles you couldn’t shut off.
You wish you had the strength not to give him the satisfaction so easily. To deflect, tease, give him something less than the truth so you can keep even a shred of control.
“Yes,” you breathe instead. “When I had time.”
“What about me?”
Motherfucker.
You huff and cross your arms, coming back to yourself momentarily. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
It’s weak. You know it is.
He knows it, too.
“S’why I asked,” he says, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “You gonna tell me or what?”
“Or what,” you shoot back. “We’re literally surrounded by everyone I work with right now.”
“So?” Yoongi says. “Nobody’s paying attention to us.” He leans in just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the subtle encroachment into your space. “And even if they were, you like that shit, don’t you?”
Your jaw might as well be on the floor.
Yoongi grins.
“Relax,” he says. “It’s not like I’m gonna stick my hand up your dress right here. As much as I may want to.”
You inhale sharply, your entire body lighting up at the image before you can stop it.
“I just wanna know what you thought about.”
“A lot of things,” you deflect weakly. “I don’t know.”
He clicks his tongue. “Not good enough,” he admonishes. “C’mon, I know you can do better than that.”
Fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, isn’t he?
You take a deep breath, searching your brain for something you can say that will satisfy him without completely exposing how desperate you’ve been.
“I thought about last time,” you admit shakily. “The way it felt.”
“Yeah?” he prompts.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“What else?”
You make a frustrated sound, his name slipping out like a plea before you can stop it. He doesn’t budge.
“Nuh-uh. You wanna cum tonight?”
The words hit like a switch flipping. Everything in your body reacts—heat flaring, tension snapping tight, that aching, insistent want roaring.
Suddenly, the stakes feel very clear. You’re in it now.
You can keep dodging, or you can be honest. And the thought of walking away from this—of going home still wound up, still aching, still stuck in your own head—
Yeah, fuck that.
“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, darting a quick glance around you even though he’s right—no one’s paying attention. “Okay, fine. You win.”
Yoongi hums and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as if to say, ‘I’m waiting.’
The words start spilling out faster than you can filter them, like once the dam breaks, there’s no stopping it.
“I thought about you fingering me without anything in the way,” you rush out. “I thought about you making me cum so many times I lose count. I thought about you putting me on my knees and using my mouth and then not letting me cum at all, but for the record, I think I’d kill you if you did that tonight. I thought about pretty much everything I said yes to on your list,” you finish, words tumbling over each other now, frustration bleeding through. “And I’m fucking pissed that we’re sitting here talking about it—that you’re making me talk about it—instead of actually doing it.”
Yoongi lets the silence linger long enough to make you squirm, and then lets out a low whistle.
“Damn.”
Your face burns instantly. “Don’t,” you mutter, mortified.
“Don’t what?” he asks innocently.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not.”
You shoot him a look.
“I’m not!” he insists, a grin tugging at his mouth. “That was hot as fuck. You’re better at this than you think.”
You scoff. “Okay, now you’re really making fun of me.”
He leans in close enough that his breath ghosts over your skin. “Baby,” he tells you, voice rough, “I’m so fucking hard right now.”
Oh shit!
Your entire body reacts. A sharp inhale, your stomach tightening, heat pooling low and immediate.
“O-oh…”
The tip of his nose brushes your neck, light, deliberate, and you don’t even move to stop him. “Did you touch yourself?”
You barely register the question. You make a small, confused sound, your eyes fluttering shut as his proximity overwhelms your senses.
“I’m asking,” he rasps, lips just barely grazing your skin, “if you played with that wet cunt while you were thinking about all of that.”
Fuck.
“N-no,” you stammer. “I didn’t, uh… I haven’t…”
“No?” he murmurs, lips pressing more firmly to your neck now, slow, distracting. “Why not? Knew it wouldn’t feel as good without me?”
“That, ah—” Your breath catches, a soft, traitorous sound slipping out of you. Jesus. Get it together. “That, and I didn’t… know if I was allowed.”
Your words hang in the air, mortifying in how revealing they are, and suddenly everything stops. Yoongi stills completely.
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, brows drawing together.
“You didn’t touch yourself…” he repeats slowly, like he’s making sure he heard you right, “…because you thought you needed my permission?”
“…Yeah?” you say hesitantly. You feel a little silly, now that you’ve said it out loud.
He huffs a laugh, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests against your bare shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales a quiet “fuck.”
Oh god. He’s laughing at you?
“Look, I know,” you rush, face so hot now you’re worried it’s going to explode. “It was stupid, okay?”
You feel the movement of his head as he shakes it against your shoulder, and then he lifts it again, eyes locking onto yours. “We need to go home.”
You blink.
“Huh?”
“We need to go home,” he repeats, clearer this time, each word deliberate, “before I stop pretending to care we’re surrounded by your coworkers and fuck you right here.”
Your breath catches.
“Understand?”
Oh.
Oh.
You swallow hard. “Right now?”
“Is that a problem?”
You shake your head quickly
“Good. Then yeah, right now. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice.
୨ৎ
It’s a miracle that either of you make it into the building.
The door to your shared apartment barely has a chance to shut before he has you pressed against it, the solid wood thudding at your back as his mouth crashes into yours. It’s messy and breathless, the kind of kiss that steals the air right out of your lungs, and far from the first you’ve shared since you left the stupid gala.
You fumble blindly at the wall for balance as your heel catches on the rug, and with a frustrated little sound you kick both shoes off, letting them scatter somewhere behind you.
You don’t care.
You don’t care about anything except the way his hands slide down to your ass, gripping, pulling you flush against him.
“You’re such a good girl, fuck,” he breathes against your lips, voice rough. “Can’t believe you waited. So fuckin’ sweet.”
A soft, helpless sound slips out of you, your body reacting instantly, arching into him without permission.
“Can’t wait anymore,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth breaks away from yours and moves to your neck. His teeth scrape lightly over your skin and you shudder. “Please don’t make me wait.”
He chuckles lowly against your neck, and you just barely register that you’re being guided now, maneuvered through the apartment.
You follow without thinking, your body already tuned to him, responding automatically.
By the time you hit his bedroom door, you’re dizzy from the way he’s been kissing you. His hand fumbles behind you for the knob, twisting it open while his mouth never leaves your skin, like he can’t stand the idea of even a second of distance.
The door swings open, and you stumble inside.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
God, can he get on with it already?
“I don’t know what I want,” you whine, the frustration bleeding through.
Every thought you’ve had this week, every half-finished fantasy, every what-if you didn’t let yourself follow through on—they’re all crashing together now, stacking and overlapping until you can’t separate one from the other.
You want his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear. You want to be taken apart slowly and all at once. You want to cum until you can’t think.
How the fuck are you meant to narrow that down into something coherent?
Yoongi hums and untangles his body from yours. You whine at the sudden distance, the loss of his hands on you, but watch as he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide like a king.
Fuck.
With a crooked finger he beckons you forward, and you go without a second thought, fitting yourself to stand between his thighs.
Now that you’re pressed against him again, he takes the opportunity to let his hands roam over your body, starting from your breasts and sliding all the way down to your hips. You can see how hard he is through his slacks.
“This fucking dress,” he mutters, almost to himself.
You bite your lip. “You like it?”
“You look beautiful,” he says, meeting your eyes. You aren’t expecting the honesty of it, to believe him so easily.
Your lips part. Damn.
“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.
Yoongi gazes up at you still, his expression devastatingly open. “Will you let me take it off of you?” he asks.
There’s something so hot about him asking permission like that, even though he’s the one with all the power here.
“Yes,” you breathe, earning a gentle squeeze at your hip.
“Turn around, baby.”
You do, your pulse jumping as you present your back to him. His fingers find your zipper just like they did earlier in the night, but this time he’s dragging it down, unwrapping you. The dress loosens, then slips, fabric gliding over your skin until it pools at your feet in a dark heap. Cool air kisses your bare back, making you shiver.
Behind you, Yoongi groans under his breath. “Fuck…”
The sound alone makes your stomach flip.
His hands come to your ass immediately, big and warm, squeezing like he’s been waiting all night to get his hands on you like this, properly, skin to skin. You gasp, instinctively pushing back into his touch.
And then—
Smack!
The sting blooms instantly, heat radiating across your ass as a startled gasp tears from your throat.
“Oh!”
“Come back,” he orders, audibly less patient now.
You spin around obediently, and he pats his thigh.
“Sit.”
You step forward, positioning yourself carefully into his lap. You’re keenly aware of how similar this is to last time, but the second you settle over him, it also feels so different.
Because this time, you’re damn near naked.
Meanwhile, he’s still fully dressed, crisp and controlled. His clothes are rough against your bare skin, and there’s an unmistakable hardness pressed right between your thighs. Straddling him like this leaves you completely vulnerable, your bare tits level with his face.
You wonder if it’s intentional.
His tongue drags over his lower lip. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss between your breasts. “You remember your safewords?”
You force yourself to focus, to pull the words from memory even as your body keeps trying to drag you back under.
“Green means I want more,” you recite, voice a little shaky. “Yellow means slow down. Red means stop.”
“That’s my good girl,” he says, big palms sliding up your ribs and settling just beneath your chest, thumbs brushing appreciatively over the undersides of your breasts. “I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. Gonna make you cum so hard you cry for me again, yeah?”
You whine. “Please. Need it.”
He seems to enjoy how shameless you’re being, if his responding growl is anything to go by. “You’ll get it,” he says, palming your tits fully now. “But not yet. You’re gonna wait.”
Not yet? You immediately snap out of your daze.
“What the fuck? Why not?” you demand.
He chuckles, eyes glinting as he tongues the inside of his cheek. “That’s why,” he says, pinching your nipples hard enough that you cry out. “Your bratty fucking mouth. Think I forgot?”
Your protest slips out of you before you can stop it, our brows pulling together as you look at him. “But you just said I was good!”
“And you are,” he says easily. “But you’ve also been testing the fuck out of me all night, and I can’t let that slide.”
You pout, because of course you do, your body still buzzing, still needy, still unwilling to accept anything that isn’t immediate gratification.
“Can’t you, just this once?” you try, tilting your head just slightly, softening your voice without even realizing it, like that might work on him.
It doesn’t.
“It’s cute that you think this is negotiable,” he says with a smirk.
Maybe that should be the end of it. He’s the one in control here. But you can’t accept it.
You don’t think.
You just act.
“But I thought you wanted to fuck me,” you say, your hand snaking between your bodies to squeeze his length through his slacks. “I want it, too.”
He hisses through his teeth, indulging you for a moment, almost like he can’t help it. “Fuck…”
“You’re so big,” you breathe, leaning forward to suck at his jaw. “Definitely gonna make me cry.”
You can tell he didn’t expect this from you, and his responding groan makes you feel powerful, like maybe you do have more control here than you originally thought.
But then he grabs your wrist and pins it behind your back, the motion so fast your breath catches. And then the other wrist follows, as if for good measure.
“Do I need to tie you down?” he growls, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “Because I will. I’m being fucking nice, letting you cum after all the shit you gave me tonight, but I can stop being nice real quick. I’ll tie you down and spank your ass raw, and then I’ll leave you like that. You want that?”
Your cunt clenches at the image, but you shake your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Say it.”
“N-no! I don’t want that.”
“What do you want, then?”
You swallow hard. “I want to cum.”
“Then shut up and take your punishment like a good girl,” he says. “Look at me.” You open your eyes. “We clear?”
Something in his gaze makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason than before.
You nod, quick and obedient. You don’t trust your voice, and besides—he told you to shut up.
That seems to satisfy him. He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as his grip on your wrists loosens.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. His hands gentle as they move to cradle your jaw. “Come here.”
You lean in obediently, he meets you halfway, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s slower than before but no less intense. It’s deep and consuming, his tongue sliding against yours possessively. You whimper into it, the sound swallowed by his mouth, your body melting right back into him despite everything.
When you finally pull apart, a thin string of saliva stretches between your mouths for a brief second before snapping.
“If you get close, tell me,” he says.
Your brain lags behind.
Close?
Close to what—?
You don’t get the chance to ask, because the next second, he’s leaning down to pull one of your nipples into the heat of his mouth. You arch into it with a broken sound, your head falling back as your fingers tangle in his hair.
“Oooh, fuck,” you moan.
Yoongi hums around the bud and sucks harder, pulling another louder, more desperate sound from your throat. He pulls back with a soft pop, just long enough to look up at you, eyes dark and knowing.
“Sensitive?” he asks with a smirk.
“Y-yeah…”
“Thought you would be.”
His mouth moves to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment—tongue, teeth, suction—while his hand takes over where his mouth just was, fingers pinching and rolling roughly.
You don’t even realize your hips have begun rocking against his lap until his free hand comes down hard on your ass, shocking you into stillness.
“Ah!”
“Don’t fucking move,” he admonishes against your skin, not letting up for a second.
Your breath stutters as his teeth graze your hardened peak before biting. It’s that mix of pleasure-pain that makes you suddenly realize—holy shit!!! You’re about to cum!
Right now. When he hasn’t even touched your pussy.
“Y-yoongi, I—” you gasp out, trembling from your impending release. “I think I—”
He hums in question, and the buzz of it around your nipple only makes matters a million times worse.
“‘M close—!”
He pulls back so fast it makes your head spin.
One second you’re right there, your entire body drawn tight like a wire—and the next, it’s just… gone.
You’re left shaking in his lap, chest heaving, nipples slick and oversensitive where his mouth had been, the ghost of it still there but not enough. The orgasm that had been building recedes just as fast, slipping through your fingers before you can grab onto it.
Your body feels confused, like it doesn’t understand why it was stopped, why it was denied something it had already started to take.
You suck in a shaky breath, blinking down at him, dazed.
You’d be pissed—you should be pissed—but all you can think about is the fact that he just almost made you cum by sucking on your tits.
Unbidden, your brain supplies the memory of last week, when he asked if you were still okay with him touching you. “How else are you supposed to make me cum?” you’d asked, to which he’d smirked and responded, “you'd be surprised.”
Is that what he meant?
“Color?” he asks now, snapping you out of it.
“Green,” you manage through shuddering breaths.
“Didn’t know you could do that, huh?” he asks, flicking lazily at one of your puffy nipples. Your whole body twitches in response.
You shake your head. Of course you didn’t know. How could you?
“Don’t worry,” he continues smugly, clearly enjoying himself, “we’ll get some proper use out of it at some point.”
Fucking bastard.
Suddenly, your mounting desperation becomes unbearable.
You can’t believe you’re letting him toy with you like this, letting him dangle the promise of an orgasm right in front of your face, after he so cruelly snatched it away.
“Please,” you whimper. You don’t even know what you’re asking for at this point, not exactly. Just something. Anything.
“Poor thing,” Yoongi coos, prodding your bottom lip with his thumb. “You’re drooling, baby.”
You are?
The realization hits a second too late, heat rushing to your face—but before you can even react, his thumb slips into your mouth.
You suck without thinking, your tongue curling around it, your body responding on instinct more than anything else. You’re still frustrated, but it feels good having something to do, something to focus on.
At the same time, Yoongi’s free hand snakes between your legs. His fingers slide over your clothed slit, pressing just enough to make you gasp around his thumb, your grip tightening on his shoulders as a muffled whimper escapes you.
“From both ends, too,” he muses, watching you with mild interest. You’d be lying if you said the way he’s speaking to you doesn’t turn you on even more—like you’re a toy for him to inspect instead of his best friend. “You wanted my cock, right?”
You nod immediately, eager, the movement a little clumsy with his thumb still in your mouth.
Yoongi hums. “Wonder which hole wants it more.”
His words simultaneously send a pang right to your pussy and cause you to salivate, and you realize you don’t know the answer, either.
You want to cum so badly you feel like you’ll die, but the thought of him using your mouth…
“Not that it matters what you want,” he continues. Fuck, why is that so hot? “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson. Besides, you made a fucking mess.”
A mess?
Your jaw goes slack, lips stilling around his thumb because what?
He glances pointedly down at his lap. You follow his eyes and, oh. You did make a mess. There’s a huge wet patch on the front of his slacks from where you’d been grinding on him.
He lifts his head, his dark eyes meeting your wide ones. Dextrous fingers move to loosen his tie, yanking it harshly.
“Get up.”
The command snaps you back into motion. You scramble off his lap, legs a little unsteady as you stand, your body still buzzing, still off-balance from everything that’s happened.
Yoongi immediately spins you around to face away from him. He grabs your arms, hanging limply at your sides, and pulls them until your wrists meet behind your back. You only realize why he’s taken off his tie when you feel the silken material looping around them.
“Since I can’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself,” he mumbles, securing the knot until your arms are bound. He slips a finger beneath the fabric to test the give. “Too tight?”
You wiggle your wrists and flex your fingers, making sure your circulation isn’t cut off. “No,” you breathe.
“Color?” he asks, petting your side soothingly from behind.
“Green.” So fucking green.
“Good. Turn around.”
You do as he says, waiting expectantly for your next instruction, which comes as soon as you finish the first.
“On your knees.”
You lower yourself carefully, mindful of your balance without your hands to steady you, and then you’re right there. Eye level with him.
The outline of his cock beneath his slacks is impossible to ignore from this close, the fabric pulled taut, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Fuck.
Slowly, your gaze lifts. Up his thighs, over the line of his hips, the slight disarray of his shirt where he’s undone a few buttons, the open collar revealing just a hint of skin at his throat.
And then his face, where he’s already looking at you.
Not just looking—taking you in. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s committing the sight to memory.
“Pretty slut,” he murmurs, the words forcing the breath from your lungs in a ragged exhale. “Look so good on your knees for me.”
The words tumble from your mouth automatically. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, what?”
Oh.
Uh.
Fuck, you haven’t talked about this. You blink up at him, unsure what he wants you to say.
“Should I, um… Do you want me to call you something different?”
Yoongi’s expression softens just a fraction, something almost fond flickering there as he leans down, brushing his knuckles against your cheek.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he says gently. “Including my name.”
You lean into it without thinking, chasing the contact. “Is there one that you like the most?” you ask quietly.
“Not really.”
You hum, considering your options.
“Thank you, sir?” you try, glancing up at him through your lashes.
Yoongi gives no reaction beyond his carding his fingers through your hair.
You try again. “...Thank you, daddy?”
Pause.
The second it leaves your mouth, heat floods your face so fast it’s almost dizzying.
You can’t even look at him. Your gaze drops immediately, a nervous huff of breath slipping out as you shake your head, half-embarrassed, half-overwhelmed by yourself.
“I think I’ll stick with Yoongi for now, actually,” you blurt out, staring intently at the floor. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, baby,” he says easily. His fingers tilt your chin up just enough that you have to meet his eyes again. “I like the way you say my name.”
“Are you sure?”
“Fuck yes,” he assures you. “You good?”
“Uh-huh. Green. Please keep going.”
Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. His fingers immediately tighten at your scalp, and you moan softly at the way he uses it to force you forward until your cheek rests against the front of his slacks.
“Messy girl,” he tuts mockingly. “Feel what you did to me?”
You know he’s not just talking about the wet patch—not when you can feel the solid weight of him beneath it, responsive, reactive.
Because of you.
“Mhm,” you manage, the sound shaky, barely there.
With a hum of approval, he drags your face across the wet spot. It’s humiliating. Dehumanizing, even. You probably shouldn’t like it. But your brain feels distant, fuzzy, your reactions stripped down to something simpler, more instinctive.
Your lips part before you can think better of it, and your tongue follows.
You taste yourself through the fabric, dragging it along the length of him, and his entire body reacts, cock jumping beneath your mouth, straining harder.
“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so fucking dirty, baby.” Your pulse spikes. “You want my dick that bad?”
You nod as best as you can, already turning your head to press your mouth against him more deliberately, your lips working over the outline through his slacks. You do want it. So much more than you expected. More than makes sense. Last time, you didn’t even let him take your clothes off—and now you’re here, on your knees, bound, wanting this. Needing it.
“Fuck,” he groans, grip tightening as he pulls you back. “Okay, okay. You’ll get it, then.”
Relief hits you in a rush.
You watch, barely breathing, as his hands move to his belt, fingers working quickly now, less composed than before. The buckle clinks softly as he undoes it, then his fly, pushing his slacks and underwear down just enough to free himself—
Oh.
Fuck.
Your mouth waters instantly.
He’s big.
Certainly bigger than anything you’ve taken before, thick and hard and flushed, the tip already slick, a bead of precum catching the light. Your jaw aches just looking at him, a phantom stretch already settling in.
He gives himself a few placating tugs while his free hand slides into your hair again.
“Go on,” he says, roughly yanking you forward. The pleasurable sting in your scalp makes you gasp. “Show me how good you can be.”
He guides you closer until the tip of him is pressed to your parted lips, and your tongue instantly flicks out to taste. You’ve done this before—in fact, it’s probably the only part of this you feel you excel at.
But it’s different this time.
You’re not doing this out of guilt, or to fluff anyone’s ego. You just want to. You want to make him feel as good as he made you feel last week.
You sit up on your knees a little to take him deeper, pride swelling in your gut at the way he groans in response to you suckling his tip. It’s a little trickier than you’re used to with your hands tied like this, so much so that your fingers flex behind your back, itching to touch—but if anything, it just encourages you to work harder to earn more sounds like that from him.
Your lips stretch around him, saliva building quickly, slicking him as you move, your head bobbing in a slow rhythm that picks up the more comfortable you get.
You glance up at him, and—
Fuck.
The sight hits you harder than anything else so far. Yoongi looks wrecked.
His head is tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat, his lips parted as a breathy “fuuuck” spills out of him. His ringed fingers drag through his hair roughly, messing it up further, his eyes squeezed shut like he can’t even look at you right now.
Like it’s too much.
Encouraged, your mouth opens wider, your jaw stretching as you push past what feels natural, drool spilling freely now, slicking every inch of him as you work him deeper and deeper. It drips down, messy, uncontrolled, pooling at the base, your breathing uneven around him.
You feel it when you hit your limit—that point where your throat tightens, where your body hesitates.
And then you push anyway.
Your throat spasms as you gag around him, the sound muffled, your eyes watering instantly—
“Fuck,” he chokes, your name slipping from his lips in a broken, breathless whimper that sends a jolt straight to your pussy.
You pull back with a wet pop, gasping for air, your chest heaving as you try to recover, and Yoongi lets you for a second. Just long enough for both of you to catch your breath.
“Shit, baby,” he rasps, eyeing you. “Can you take more?”
“I-I think so,” you say.
He pushes your hair out of your face. “Wanna fuck your throat a little.”
You nod eagerly. It’s been a while, but you don’t want to disappoint him when you’ve been doing so good.
“Good girl,” he says, letting you breathe for another moment while he thinks. “There isn’t really any way for you to tap out with your hands tied. I won’t be too rough, but you need to tell me now if you don’t want it.”
You didn’t even think of that. He’s so fucking responsible, and somehow, that makes this even sexier.
“I want it,” you say. You don’t think you’ve ever meant anything more.
Yoongi’s hand tightens slightly in your hair as he eases you forward, guiding you to swallow him down again.
“Relax your throat,” he murmurs, voice rough, breath uneven.
You’re trying.
You’re really fucking trying.
Your jaw is already aching, stretched wider than it’s used to, lips pulled tight around him as he presses deeper. The blunt head nudges past what feels natural, what feels easy, and your body reacts instantly—your eyes sting, tears spilling over before you can stop them as your gag reflex kicks hard.
Your first instinct is to pull back. To resist. But his voice cuts through it.
“Shh,” he soothes, softer now, his thumb briefly brushing beneath your eye, catching at the tears before returning to your hair. “You’re okay. Breathe through your nose. Don’t fight it.”
You focus on that. On him. On the sound of his voice instead of the way your throat tightens around him.
Your breaths come shallow at first, uneven and panicked, but you force yourself to keep going, to listen. To let your body adjust instead of locking up against it.
And suddenly, the tension eases, just a little. Enough.
“Shit,” he groans, the sound dragged out, wrecked. “There you go. Knew you could take it.”
The praise hits you immediately, your choked moan muffled around his cock, and Yoongi takes that as his cue to start moving.
He’s careful, pulling you back just enough before pushing you forward again even further, gauging every reaction your body gives him.
Your nose brushes against his skin. Then presses. Closer, and closer, and—
“Fuuuuuck.”
His grip tightens as he pushes you all the way down, your face pressed fully against him, breath stuttering as your throat constricts tight around his length. You gag hard, a broken, helpless sound forcing its way out around him, your eyes squeezing shut as tears spill freely down your cheeks.
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice shaking now. “That’s it.”
He pulls you back before it’s too much, giving you a second to breathe before pushing you down again, a little firmer this time.
The rhythm builds gradually, guided by his hand in your hair. Not rough, not careless—controlled. Intentional. Each thrust measured, watching the way your body reacts, the way your throat tightens and relaxes around him. Drool spills freely now, your chin slick, tears blurring your vision as you let him use you.
“Look at you,” he mutters, half to himself, voice thick with disbelief. “Taking me so well. Fuck, I could—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, hips stuttering. “Fuckfuckfuck—”
Suddenly, his grip tightens sharply, pulling you off him just as fast as he’d pushed you down.
The loss is disorienting. You’re left gasping, lungs dragging in air like you’ve been underwater too long, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to recover, your throat aching, your lips swollen and wet.
For a second, you don’t understand.
Why—?
Yoongi lets out a breathy laugh, almost to himself, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching in his hair.
“Was about to cum,” he explains, shaking his head slightly, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Too fuckin’ good.”
You blink up at him, still trying to catch your breath.
Isn’t that the point? He didn’t have to stop. You wanted him to.
But he doesn’t give you a chance to say that, carefully hauling you up to your feet. Fucking pilates strength.
He pulls you in to kiss you, and your confusion is quickly forgotten in favor of losing yourself in the intensity of it. His fingers skillfully undo the knot behind your back as he devours your lips, and once your hands are free, he maneuvers your bodies so you’re laying flat on your back on his bed.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs as he climbs over you. “I think you’ve been punished enough, hm?”
You moan eagerly, spreading your legs to accommodate his body between them.
“You wanna cum?”
“Please,” you sob, the word breaking out of you like it’s been sitting there all night, waiting. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing him, and the movement drags his bare cock against the thin fabric of your soaked panties.
The contact is electric, and both of you gasp at the same time.
“Yoongi, please…”
Yoongi’s eyes squeeze shut as he rocks his hips forward again, slower this time, like he’s letting himself indulge for just a second. His cock slides between your folds through the damp cotton, the friction dragging a broken sound from both of you.
You thought this would be weird.
You thought there’d be a moment—a hesitation, a line you couldn’t cross. That when it came down to it, something in you would panic, pull back, remind you this is Yoongi, your best friend, the person who’s been constant in your life for as long as you can remember.
But now? Now, with him between your legs, with your body reacting like this, that thought feels distant. Irrelevant. Or maybe—
Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it makes it better. More intense. More dangerous. More right in a way you can’t fully explain.
The sound of Yoongi’s strained voice slices through your thoughts.
“I’m not fucking you tonight.”
What?
Panic lances through you instantly, the idea of having another orgasm ripped away from you devastating at this point with how worked up you are.
“B-but—”
“Relax,” he soothes. “You’ve been so good for me. You’re gonna cum, baby. I promise.”
How, then?
Yoongi doesn’t give you time to dwell on it. His mouth finds you again—your lips, your jaw, your throat—but this time it doesn’t stop there. It keeps going.
His kisses trail down your neck, across your collarbone, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch before moving on. Lower. His hands follow, sliding over your sides, your waist, guiding you without forcing you, keeping you open beneath him as he works his way down your body.
His lips skim down your stomach, just barely there, enough to make your muscles tense, your hips twitch in anticipation.
“I wanna ruin you first,” he continues, voice steady. “Wanna show you how good it can feel, every way I can think of.”
Your pulse stutters.
“By the time I do fuck you,” he adds, thumb brushing your hip, “you’re not even gonna remember what it felt to be touched by anyone but me.”
Holy fuck.
Your cunt clenches with need, but he’s already a step ahead of you, pulling your panties down your legs and leaving you bare.
“Fuck,” he breathes softly, taking in the sight of you.
You’ve been here before. On your back, legs spread, someone between your thighs.
You know how it usually goes. A little too careful. A little too hesitant. Like they’re checking off boxes. Like they read somewhere what they’re supposed to do, and now they’re doing it.
God, you’ve faked it so many times you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like when it’s real. As if you haven’t learned not to underestimate him by now, your body instantly braces for that familiar routine. That polite, distant kind of pleasure you know how to perform around.
Yoongi ruins that expectation immediately. He doesn’t ease in. He doesn’t test the waters. He dives.
His mouth presses against your cunt, open and messy, not missing a single part of you.
“Oh—fuck!” It rips out of you before you can stop it.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight without thinking, and he groans into you like that’s exactly what he wanted. The sound vibrates straight through you, amplifying the sensation by a million. His hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you in place as his mouth works like he’s starving, almost like this isn’t something he’s doing for you, but something he needs.
There’s no hesitation in it, no second-guessing. No awkward rhythm he’s trying to maintain. He’s devouring you like he can’t get enough. You’re so used to performing, but there’s no room for that. No space to fake anything. He's not even leaving you space to think!
His tongue flicks over your clit before his lips wrap around it and suck, and your whole body jerks.
“Oh my god—”
It’s already too much, and then he does it again. And again. Switching pressure, pace, angle like he’s learning you in real time, adjusting without asking, without needing direction.
Your back arches off the bed, your grip tightening in his hair. “Wait—wait—”
You don’t even know what you’re asking for, because you don’t actually want him to stop. Not when it feels like this.
His hand presses firmly into your hip, holding you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity.
“Stay,” he murmurs against you.
Your body responds instantly, freezing even as your thighs tremble around his head. In reward, he flattens his tongue again, dragging right where you’re most sensitive, and your vision blurs.
“Oh—fuck—” Your voice cracks.
That’s new, too. You don’t sound like this when you fake it.
Your body starts to climb before you’re ready, before you’ve even had time to catch up.
Are you already about to cum? It’s fast. Too fast.
“Yoongi, I—”
You’ve never had to warn someone before, never had to mean it. He groans softly against you, like he can feel it happening, like he knows.
And then he doubles down. His tongue moves faster, sharper, more focused, zeroing in on exactly what’s making you unravel. Your entire body locks up.
“Oh my god—oh my god—”
You’re already there, already tipping over. There’s no buildup you can track, no slow climb you can manage. You’re just gone.
Your orgasm hits hard. Harder than anything you’ve felt before.
Your thighs clamp around his head, your back arching, a broken sound tearing out of your throat as your body shakes. It’s not a pretty moan, not something you can control.
You’re crying before you even realize it, tears spilling over as the sensation crashes through you, overwhelming and bright and too much.
And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pull away like everyone else has when you’ve faked it, doesn’t pat your thigh and call it done.
He stays right there, working you through it, dragging it out until your eyes roll back. Your hands tug at his hair.
“Yoongi, fuck,” you cry out, “too much—!”
His tongue slows, easing you down instead of cutting you off, letting the aftershocks roll through you instead of shutting them down and leaving you cold.
Your heels dig into the mattress, then kick out uselessly. You squirm beneath him, hips jerking, back arching, your entire body caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
He doesn’t let you escape.
His grip on your thighs tightens just enough to keep you open, to keep you right where he wants you as he slowly works you through it. By the time he finally eases off, your legs are trembling uncontrollably as he gives one last slow drag of his tongue through you.
Your fingers loosen in his hair, your grip slipping as your strength drains out of you all at once. You collapse back against the bed fully now, limbs heavy, useless, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as your mind scrambles to catch up with what just happened.
You stare up at the ceiling, blinking through the blur of tears still clinging to your lashes, your vision unfocused.
Your body feels… light. Loose. Like you’re floating somewhere just above yourself, still drifting in the aftermath.
Your thoughts come back in pieces, slow and disjointed, until finally—
Holy shit.
Yoongi doesn’t move right away. For a few seconds, maybe longer, he just stays where he is—hands still on your thighs, his breathing heavy but starting to even out, like he’s giving you time to come back down before he does anything else.
Then, gently—so much gentler than anything he’s done so far—he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
“Hey,” he murmurs. One of his hands slides up your leg, slow and steady, a reassuring touch as he watches your face, your breathing, the way your body is still trembling faintly. “You with me?”
It takes you a second to answer.
Your brain feels like it’s still catching up, still floating somewhere just out of reach. You lift your head to blink at him, a little dazed, your lips parting before any sound comes out.
“Mhm.”
He doesn’t look entirely convinced.
His thumb brushes lightly over your knee, then higher, over your thigh, a soothing, repetitive motion as his gaze flicks over you.
“Color?” he asks.
“Green,” you breathe.
His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, catching the last traces of tears there.
“Hey,” he repeats, softer this time.
You lean into his hand without thinking, your body instinctively seeking the contact, the warmth.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, just in case he’s still wondering.
“I know,” he says quietly.
But he still doesn’t pull away. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another. It lingers, just enough to settle you further, to start to anchor you back into your body. When he pulls back, he reaches for your hands, thumbs rubbing where they’d been tied earlier.
“Too much?” he asks.
You shake your head.
“No,” you say, a little more certain this time. “It was… good. Really good.”
Something in his expression softens at that.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah.”
He exhales quietly, like he’d been holding that in. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks slightly.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
You blink at him, still a little out of it. “What?”
He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head as he shifts to sit beside you, one hand still resting lazily on your thigh.
“Walking around all week like that,” he says, glancing at you, something half-amused, half-exasperated in his tone. “And you didn’t think to come to me?”
Your face warms immediately.
“I was busy,” you mumble, echoing your earlier excuse, even though it sounds just as weak now as it did then.
“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly.
His fingers tap lightly against your thigh.
“If you need something, you say it,” he continues, more serious now, his gaze settling on you properly. “If you need me, you come get me. I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care what I’m doing.”
There’s no teasing in his tone anymore. No edge. Just… certainty. You can tell he means what he’s saying, that the thought of you still being scared scares him just as bad.
“I’ll take care of you,” he adds, quieter, but somehow more firm because of it. “That’s the whole point of this, yeah?”
Your chest tightens slightly, and you nod.
“Okay,” you say softly.
He studies your face for another second, like he’s making sure you actually mean it—like he’s committing that moment to memory the same way he did everything else tonight.
Then his expression eases again, something lighter returning.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, nudging your leg gently. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Rest for a bit, then I’ll clean you up.”
You huff a weak laugh, your body still heavy, still boneless as you shift slightly toward him without even thinking about it.
And when he pulls you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you don’t hesitate.
Not even a little.
a/n 2: please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts! if you’d like to be added to my taglist, you can go ahead and fill out my form here (no need to do so if you’re already on my permanent taglist)
I just stumbled across this agustd fanart by the Chinese artist Tunafish, and it immediately made me think of Angel and D! I thought you might enjoy seeing it too 😊
Here’s the link: http://xhslink.com/o/sHqCO5yPXs
im having the worst day but this made things so much better!!! i love that you saw fanart of yoongi as agust d and thought of nitc i am so touched! And the art is so good!!! thanks for sending it to me and thinking of my fic 🫶 i hope you’re having a wonderful weekend
swim back to me - a namgi twoshot
pairing: captain!namjoon x first mate!yoongi x hotel owner!reader
genre: historical au, strangers-to-lovers, polyamory
divider @/pixopix
You’re so lost in the feeling of his tongue swirling with yours that you barely hear the knock and subsequent creak of the door, but your attention whips behind you at the sound of boots scuffing on the floorboards.
“I see you’ve started without me.” You freeze at the handsome rumble of Yoongi’s voice.
“Couldn’t help it,” Namjoon smirks. He sits up, keeping his grip on your hips firm. “I thought you were at home.”
“I was,” Yoongi replies, pulling off his white sailor’s cap, closing and locking the door. “But I snuck out. I had to come see our girl.”
His eyes slide to you, warm smile brightening his face.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Tears spill over your waterline, the pounding in your heart making it hard to breathe.
Both of them are back. Home safe, with you. You’re alive again.
