ほしこ @zyoarchive - Tumblr Blog

like a tangerine - myg

↠ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | yoongi x reader

↠ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 18.5k

↠ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au, e2l if you squint, pwp

↠ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of alcohol (beer). dry humping, oral sex (m + f receiving), gagging, cum swallowing, throat fuck, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, hair-pulling, unprotected sex, (y/n has an iud, wrap it before u tap it!), rough sex, riding, doggy style, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie. yoongi has blonde hair and a filthy mouth.

↠ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | y/n’s a law student drowning in debt. yoongi's a brooding music major needing a place to crash. forced together in a freezing seoul apartment, will they be able make moving in together work?

--

You’re elbow-deep in the faded cushions of your thrift-store couch, fingers clawing at the seams for any hint of spare change. Dust puffs into the air, catching the dim light of the single bulb flickering overhead, but there’s nothing—no coins, no crumpled bills, not even a stray candy wrapper. Just lint and disappointment. You groan, slumping back onto the floor, the chill of cracked linoleum seeping through your threadbare sweatpants. Your breath fogs in front of you, a cruel reminder that the heater’s been dead for days and your electricity bill is overdue. It’s the brink of winter in Seoul, and the cold is a living thing—sharp, biting, sinking into your bones like a punishment. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow streets around Seoul national University, rattling your single-pane windows, while frost creeps up the glass like spiderwebs. Inside, it’s barely better; you’re wrapped in a hoodie and two pairs of socks, but your fingers are still numb, your nose stinging with every inhale.

This isn’t how you pictured your senior year. You’re a law major with a 4.0 GPA—top of your class, president of the mock trial team, the girl who aced her constitutional law midterm while half the room floundered. You’ve got a stack of recommendation letters from professors who call you “driven” and “exceptional,” and last spring, you won a university debate competition so decisively the opposing team just stared at you, slack-jawed. But none of that pays the rent. You’re drowning in bills, scraping by on 7,000 won an hour from your cheapskate manager at the convenience store on the south end of campus. The job’s a soul suck: sticky floors, rude drunk students, and the constant beep of the scanner as you ring up instant ramen and soju bottles. You hate it—the stale air, the flickering fluorescent lights, the way your manager hovers over you like you’re about to pocket a candy bar. Between 8-hour shifts and 8 A.M. lectures, you’re a ghost of yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely living.

You grew up in Busan, the youngest of three, with parents who scraped by running a small seafood stall at Jagalchi Market. They taught you grit—how to haggle, how to smile through exhaustion—but they couldn’t prepare you for this. You moved to Seoul four years ago, starry-eyed and determined to be the first in your family to graduate college, to become a lawyer who’d fight for people like them. Your apartment’s small—two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchenette, and a living room just big enough for that small couch—but it was supposed to be your haven. One room’s yours, cluttered with books and laundry, the other a guest room you’ve never had a guest for, its bare mattress gathering dust. You thought living alone would mean focus, independence. Now, you’re not so sure. The weight of it all—school, work, this freezing place—presses down until you can’t breathe. You’ve always been the stubborn one, the kid who’d rather starve than admit defeat, but tonight, with rent due in three days and your bank account at a pathetic, single-digit balance, defeat feels inevitable.

You sit there, face in your hands, fighting the sting of tears. This wasn’t the college life you dreamed of. Back in high school, you imagined coasting through SNU—late nights at karaoke bars, laughing with a big group of friends, maybe even a cute boyfriend to steal hoodies from. You saw yourself at rooftop parties, sipping cheap bear under string lights, free and invincible. Instead, you’re broke, shivering, and clinging to one solitary lifeline: Namjoon. Your best friend, your rock, the only person who’s stuck by you through this mess. Everyone else faded away—too busy, too far, too caught up in their own lives. But Namjoon? He’s your constant.

You glance at your phone—11:47 P.M. He’s due any minute to study for your upcoming criminal procedure exam, a brutal 50-question beast that’ll test every ounce of your caffeine-fueled willpower. With a sigh, you haul yourself up, brushing dust off your knees. The apartment’s tight—barely 25 square meters. You shuffle around, tidying what you can: stacking textbooks on the wobbly coffee table that accompanies your depressed, sagging couch, kicking a stray sock towards the hall leading to your bedroom, wiping crumbs off the counter from the half-eaten rice cake you rationed for dinner. The sink’s full of dishes, but you ignore it—too tired, too cold. You’re shoving a pile of case notes into a neater stack when a knock echoes through the room.

You shuffle to the door, tugging it open against the warped frame. It’s Namjoon. He’s there, towering over you in his puffy jacket, a knit beanie squashing his dark hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His dimples flash as he grins, but his eyes narrow when he sees you—pale, hunched, a human popsicle. “Hey,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm as always. “You look like death.”

“Feel like it too,” you mutter, shutting the door. You’ve known Namjoon since freshman year, when you met in Intro to Legal Studies. You’d been late, sprinting into the lecture hall with a half-drunken coffee and an open backpack, only to trip over his stupidly long legs stretched across the aisle. He’d caught your arm, steadying you, and deadpanned, “You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.” You’d snapped back, “Sue me then,” and somehow, that was it—friendship sealed. He was a Busan kid too, raised on the coast, all easy smiles and quiet smarts. You bonded over late-night study sessions at the library, swapping stories about salty air and nosy aunties, laughing over burnt ramen when you couldn’t afford takeout. Four years later, he’s still your anchor, the one who drags you out of your spirals.

He drops his bag on the couch, glancing around. “You okay? You’re... off.” His brows knit, concern creeping in.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, waving him off. He doesn’t push—Namjoon never does, just watches you with that steady gaze that sees too much. You both settle on the couch, pulling out textbooks and highlighters. The criminal procedure exam is in two days, a gauntlet of search-and-seizure laws, Miranda rights, and case precedents like Terry v. Ohio. You flip to a page on warrantless arrests, reading aloud: “Exigent circumstances allow entry if—” You stop, brain fritzing. Namjoon picks up, voice smooth, explaining probable cause like it’s poetry. You scribble notes, trying to focus, but the cold’s gnawing at you, your fingers stiff around the pen.

He shivers mid-sentence, rubbing his arms. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” he asks, breath puffing out in a faint cloud.

That's when it hits—you crack. The words spill out before you can stop them, voice breaking: “Because I can’t pay the electric bill, Joon. The heater’s busted, my manager’s a stingy ass who won’t give me more hours, and I’m so tired—of school, of work, of counting every damn coin I see just trying to make ends meet.” Tears burn your eyes, hot against the chill. “I’m failing at everything.”

Namjoon’s face falls, guilt flashing across it. “Shit, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around your shaking shoulders. You sink into him, his jacket smelling faintly of coffee and pine. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters, kicking himself. Then softer: “What if you got a roommate? Split the costs?”

You pull back, sniffling. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one. And honestly? I’m this close to dropping out, moving back with my parents. Just... starting over.”

He blinks, alarmed. Your parents are saints—kind, warm, always ready with a bow of kimchi jjigae and a spare bed in their Busan flat above the stall. Your mom’s a hugger, your dad’s a storyteller, and you miss them fiercely—their laughter, the sea breeze, and the simplicity. They’d take you back in a heartbeat, no questions, and part of you aches for that safety net.

“No,” Namjoon says, grabbing your hands in a desperate plea. “You can’t leave. Not now, not senior year. I need you here—we’re supposed to graduate together, pass the bar together. I can’t do this without you.”

You shake your head, voice small. “There’s no one, Joon. I’m out of options.”

He pauses, then his face lights up like he’s cracked the code. “Wait... Yoongi. My friend Yoongi. He’s been crashing on my couch for the past two weeks since his lease fell apart. He needs a place, you need a roommate. It’s perfect.”

You frown picturing Yoongi. You've seen him at Namjoon’s place a few times—quiet, almost cat-like with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He’s not unfriendly just... distant. You remember him from your junior year too, a psychology elective you both took. He’s slouch in the back, headphones on, scribbling beats in a notebook while you sat up front, acing every quiz. Your eyes met sometimes—brief, awkward, charges—but you never spoke. He’s a music major, that much you knew, always lugging around a laptop or a keyboard case, and Namjoon swears he’s a genius. Still, he’s a stranger, mostly.

“I don’t know,” you say, hesitant. “I’ve barely talked to him. He’s... weird. Quiet. And my parents—”

“Please,” Namjoon cuts in, clasping his hands like he’s praying. “Just meet him first. Come over tomorrow—we'll eat, hang out, see if it clicks. If it doesn’t, I won’t push. But don’t give up yet.”

You chew your lip, the idea sinking in. A roommate could save you—rent split, bills manageable, maybe even heat again. That guest room could finally see some use. But Yoongi? Your parents’ open arms tug at you, tempting. Namjoon’s pleading eyes tip the scale. “Fine,” you mutter, reluctant. “I’ll meet him.”

He beams, dimples deep. “You won’t regret it. Yoongi’s chill, I promise.” You nod, half convinced, as the cold creeps back in, a shiver reminding you how badly you need this to work.

--

You stand in your tiny bathroom, the air thick with damp chill, staring at the showerhead like it’s a loaded gun. The water’s been ice-cold for weeks—your landlord’s a miser who won’t fix the boiler, and you’re too broke to hire someone yourself. You twist the knob, bracing for impact, and the spray hits like a thousand frozen pins, ripping a gasp from your throat. Your teeth chatter as you lather up with a sliver of soap, the last bar you’ve been rationing for a month. The shampoo’s cheap, a floral scent, and you scrub it into your scalp fast, fingers trembling as the frigid stream pelts your back. You’re in and out in four minutes, a personal record, wrapping yourself in a towel so worn it’s more holes than fabric—a hand-me-down from your sister, like most of your life. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as you dart to your bedroom, the smaller of the two in your cramped apartment. The guest room sits placidly across from yours, a barren box with a bare mattress, a single flickering bulb, and a window that rattles in its frame—useless, empty, a silent taunt of your isolation.

Your closet’s a mess of thrift finds and sibling castoffs. You dig out a black turtleneck, the wool pilling at the elbows but soft enough, and dark jeans with a frayed hem that still hug your legs right. Your sneakers are scuffed, soles thin as paper, but they’ll do. The crown jewel is your sister’s puffer jacket—navy blue, patched with thread at the elbows, a size too big but thick enough to face Seoul’s brutal winter. You tug on two pairs of socks—one with a hole at the toe, the other mismatched—and lace up, the cold floor biting through anyway. Back in the bathroom, you swipe on makeup with shaky hands: tinted lip balm over cracked lips from the wind, a flick of mascara to coax life into your tired eyes, a dab of concealer under them to hide the shadows of sleepless nights. Your hair’s wet, curling into tendrils at your neck, but there’s no time—or heat—to dry it. You glance at your phone on the sink: 6:38 P.M. Namjoon said 6:30. You’re late.

You snatch your keys from the counter, sling your threadbare bag over your shoulder, and bolt. You weave past the kitchenette, its sink piled with chipped mugs and a single pot, and the living room, where your sad couch sags under a pile of law books. The door sticks as you yank it open, and the stairwell greets you with a gust of icy air whistling through cracked windows. You jog down three flights, sneakers clomping on warped steps, and burst outside. Seoul’s winter slams into you—bitter, unrelenting, a beast with teeth. The sky’s a slab of slate, heavy with unshed slow, and the wind howls down the narrow streets of the south end of campus, clawing at your face. Your breath fogs in sharp bursts, crystalizing in the air, and the cold seeps through your jeans, stinging your thighs. You hunch into your puffer, hands jammed in pockets, but it’s not enough—the chill find every seam, every gap, freezing your ears until they ache.

The trek to Namjoon’s is a mile east, and you’re penniless—no bus fare, no taxi dreams. The south end fades behind you—dingy noodle joints, neon-lit PC bangs, students huddled in scarves—giving way to broader streets lined with skeletal trees. Their branches clatter like dry bones, stripped bare by weeks of frost. Snowflakes start to fall, lazy at first, then thicker, dusting your shoulders, catching in your lashes. The sidewalk’s a minefield of ice patches, gloss under streetlights, and you shuffle to keep from slipping, your sneakers skidding once, twice. Your nose numbs, your fingertips tingle, and by the time Namjoon’s complex rises ahead—a sleek tower on the east side of SNU—you’re a shivering wreck. The glass doors part for you, the lobby a warm cocoon of polished marble, soft lighting, and a doorman who nods absently. Namjoon is a trust fund baby from Busan, his parents flush with shipping money, and this place screams it—nothing like your crumbling walk-up with its flickering hallway bulbs and mildew stench.

You step into the elevator, the hum of it thawing your bones as it climbs. A long minute ticks by—your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a flushed face, damp hair plastered to your neck—before it finally dings on the fifth floor. You step out, stretching your strides down the carpeted hall to 13E, dragging your feet. Your stomach churns, nerves sparking like live wires. Meeting Yoongi—actually talking to him—feels like walking into a storm blind. You’ve always been anxious, a knot of worry since you were a kid. In Busan, grade school was a nightmare—you'd linger by the classroom door, too shy to join the girls giggling as they played jump rope, too scared to ask the boys kicking a ball if you could join them. Your mom had to bribe you with sweets just to get you to a friend’s birthday party once, and even then, you hid under a table, clutching a juice box, until she dragged you out. Friends were rare, fleeting—your tongue tripped over itself until Namjoon stumbled into your orbit. You’re better now, but new people still twist you up inside. What if Yoongi’s a jerk? A slob? What if he thinks you’re some desperate loser? Your pulse races as you reach his door, raising a shaky hand to knock.

It swings open fast, and Namjoon’s there, all six feet of him, dimples flashing in a wide grin. He’s cozy—cream cable-knit sweater swallowing his broad frame, gray sweatpants loose and soft, socks with little cartoon dogs peeking out. “Took you long enough,” he teases, voice warm as he steps aside. You shuffle in, and the heat hits like a blanket, radiators purring, chasing the cold from your bones. The air’s thick with doenjang jjigae—earthy soybean paste, sharp garlic, a hint of beef simmering low, curling into your nose and waking your empty stomach. Your brows furrow; Namjoon’s a disaster in the kitchen, once nearly burning his apartment down with a botched ramen attempt. Who cooked?

His apartment’s a world apart from yours. Open-plan, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted campus and Seoul’s glittering skyline. The living room's plush—a gray sectional piled with fleece throws, a glass coffee table stacked with law books and a stray coffee mug, a flat-screen above a sleek fireplace spitting soft flames. The kitchen’s a showpiece—marble counters, stainless steel appliances, a fridge that hums quietly, not rattling like yours. A monstera plant thrives by the island, its leaves glossy and proud, while your own sad succulent back home rots in a cracked pot. “Yoongi’s in the bathroom,” Namjoon says, nodding toward a hall as he waves you to the kitchen island. “He’ll be out in a sec.” You slide onto a padded stool, the cushion a luxury after your hard furniture, and he leans across, chatting—tomorrow's lecture, the criminal procedure exam, easy stuff to steady your nerves.

The bathroom door creaks open, and Yoongi emerges. He’s tall—5'10, maybe—looming over your 5’1 frame, all lean angles and quiet menace. His hair’s blonde, a soft, bleached chaos brushing his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. He’s in a black hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, faded jeans hugging his legs, and plain socks. His eyes—dark, hooded, cat-like—lock on you, unblinking, and your throat dries up. He stares, assessing, and you stare back, words dissolving. Namjoon clears his throat. “Yoongi, this is Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi.” A nod, barely perceptible, then Yoongi slinks to the island, sitting opposite. The food’s spread out—doenjang jjigae steaming in a clay pot, fluffy rice, tangy kimchi, grilled mackerel glistening with oil. You scoop rice, hands jittery under his gaze, the spoon clinking too loud against the bowl.

Namjoon tries to spark something. “Yoongi, how’s that music project?” Yoongi shrugs, spooning stew, lips pursed. Silence stretches, thick and awkward. Namjoon kicks him under the table—you catch the flinch, the faint scowl. “It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters, voice low, gravelly. “Mixing’s a pain.” You nod, unsure, picking at your mackerel. The meal crawls—Namjoon rambles about law precedents, you murmur agreements, Yoongi grunts or tosses out clipped answers. He slurps his stew too loud, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, picks his fish apart with his fingers instead of chopsticks. Petty, maybe, but it irks you—he irks you. He’s not rude, just... distant, like he’s here but not really.

Dinner eventually ends, and Namjoon excuses himself for a moment, leaving you and Yoongi alone. The silence is deafening, the fireplace's crackle the only sound as you sit at the island, pushing rice around your bowl. He’s across from you, scrolling his phone, blonde hair catching the light. You clear your throat, desperate the fill the void. “So, uh... did you make this?” You nod at the empty jjigae pot, voice smaller than you meant it to be.

He looks up, eye flickering to yours, and there’s a beat—a heavy, charged pause—before he answers. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, brushing your skin like a touch. “Namjoon can’t cook for shit.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on the counter now, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne—something clean, like cedarwood and bergamot. His lips twitch, a smirk that’s gone fast but leaves heat in its wake.

You snort, caught off guard, and it’s too loud in the quiet. “No kidding. He set off the fire alarm with toast once—smoke everywhere.” Your laugh’s shaky, and his eyes linger, dark and unreadable, tracing your face like he’s mapping it. That smirk flickers again, slower this time, and your stomach flips.

“Sounds about right,” he says, voice dipping lower, almost lazy. He shifts, stretching one arm across the counter, fingers brushing the edge of yours—accidental, maybe, but it sends a jolt up your spine, nonetheless. “You’re not bad, though. At eating it, I mean.” His gaze drops to you lips for a slip second, then back up, and the air thickens, warm and tight.

You swallow, heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, thanks? It’s good—really good. Where’d you learn?” Your words stumble, and you hate how they sound—too eager, too soft.

“Mom,” he says, leaning closer, voice a rumble now. “Runs a store in Daegu. Cooks for the regulars. Watched her enough to pick it up.” His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something sharp, hungry—that makes your breath hitch, makes you feel small in comparison to him. His knee brushes against yours under the counter, a graze that feels deliberate, and you shift, suddenly aware of how small the space between you is.

“Busan for me,” you blurt, clutching at normalcy. “My parents have a seafood stall. I’m useless, though—burned rice once, got banned from the stove.” You laugh, but it’s tight, and he tilts his head, blonde strands falling into his eyes. He doesn’t laugh back, just watches, lips parting slightly, and the silence stretches taut, electric.

“Bet you’re not useless at everything,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it, and his gaze drops again—lips, neck, back up—slow, deliberate. Your pulse hammers, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing. Then he pulls back, just an inch, breaking whatever spell he put on you, grabbing his phone again. “Namjoon should be back soon,” he says, casual, like nothing happened, but the air’s still buzzing.

You nod, dazed, as Namjoon’s footsteps echo down the hall. “Couch?” he calls, clapping his hands. You stumble off the stool, following him, Yoongi trailing behind. The sectional's plush, and you sink in, pulling a throw over your lap as Namjoon sits beside you. Yoongi drifts off—to Namjoon’s room, you assume—leaving you two by the fireplace. The crackle fills the silence. “So?” Namjoon asks, eyes bright, hopeful. “What do you think?”

You twist the blanket’s edge, grimacing, mind still reeling from Yoongi’s voice, his closeness. “He’s weird, Joon. Quiet—too quiet. That talk just now? Barely anything. I don’t know if I can live with that.” You don’t mention the sudden heat between your legs, or the way your skin’s still tingling.

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I get it, he’s not chatty, but he’s solid. I’ve known him for a while now—met him at a music shop. My parents have money, yeah, but Yoongi’s regular. His dad's a fisherman, mom runs a corner store. He’s here on scholarships and hustle. Music’s his life, and he’s brilliant at it.” He pauses, voice softening. “You’re my rock, Y/N. Since freshman year, you’ve kept me grounded—pushed me when I slacked, laughed when I needed it. You’re my best friend, and I can’t finish this year without you.”

Your chest aches, warmth mixing with dread—and something else, something new. “You’re mine too. But Yoongi—it's so fast. Two days, and he’s in my space? I’m freaked out.”

He shifts closer, resting a hand on your knee. “I know it’s a lot. Look, he’s been on my couch too long. This place is nice, but it’s one bedroom. I’m tired of tripping over his shit every morning. He’ll pay his half, keep out of your way. You don’t have to be buddies, just... coexist.” His eyes plead. “Give it one more day to think. Please.”

You nod, slow, reluctant. “One day, just one day.” Yoongi’s in Namjoon’s room, hunched over a desk, headphones on, tapping at a laptop—either oblivious or ignoring you. You grab your bag, say your goodnights to Namjoon, and head out. The cold swallows you whole.

The walk back is a nightmare. Fresh snow is piled thick, blanketing the ground, crunching under your sneakers with every step. The wind’s a howling beast, slashing through your puffer, freezing your hair into brittle strands that whip your face. Streetlights flicker, half-dead in the storm, and the campus sprawls dark and desolate, east to south a slog through swirling white. Your breath stings, lungs burning with each icy gulp, and your fingers curl into fists in your pockets, nails digging into palms to feel something other than numb. You fumble your phone out with stuff hands, dialing your mom. It rings three times before her voice breaks through, soft and crackly, a lifeline.

“Y/N-ah? Are you okay?” Her warmth cuts through the static, the wind.

You choke on a sob, snow stinging your eyes. “Eomma, I’m falling apart. Rent’s due, I’ve got nothing—literally nothing. The heater’s busted, I’m freezing every night, and Namjoon’s pushing me to get a roommate. I don’t know if I can do it—I'm so tired. I just... I think I should come home.”

She’s quiet a long moment, the line humming, and you hear her shift. “Y/N,” she starts, voice thick with worry. "You sound exhausted. Tell me what’s going on—everything. How’d it get this bad?”

You sniff, trudging through a snowbank, the cold biting at your ankles. “It’s been building. Work’s a nightmare—7,000 won an hour at that shitty store, and my manager cuts my shifts whenever he feels like it. Schools killing me—exams, papers, I’m barely sleeping. And the apartment... it’s a freezer. I can’t afford the electric bill, let alone fix the heat.”

She sighs, long and heavy, and you can picture her rubbing her temple like she does when she’s stressed. “My girl, I hate hearing you like this. You’re working so hard—too hard, maybe. What’s the apartment like now?”

“Bad,” you mutter kicking snow off your sneakers. “My breath fogs inside. I’m in three layers just to sleep, and it’s still not enough. The windows rattle, the entire place is freezing. I can’t keep doing this.”

“That sounds miserable,” she says, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be living like that, not in your last year. But a roommate... that might be good for you. I wouldn’t look past it so quickly, Y/N.”

You swallow, the wind howling louder. “Namjoon is desperate for me to stay, I think that’s why he’s so adamant about it, telling me it’s the only way, and I kind of agree. He’s got a friend in mind, and I’ve met him, but... I still don’t know. It’s such a leap, and I’m already hanging on by a thread.”

She’s quiet again, then softens. “You know we’d take you back in a heartbeat. Your dad’s already been plotting—he's got this idea to repaint your room, teal like you always wanted, says it’s cheer you up.”

“I miss you both,” you whisper, tears welling, hot against the cold. “It’d be so easy to come home.”

“We miss you too,” she says, voice thick now. “But listen—it’s your senior year. You’re so close. I never got past high school, married your dad at nineteen, worked the stall since. We made it work, raised you and your siblings, but I always wished I’d had a shot at more. That law degree, that life—you're building something I couldn’t. I know it’s hard, but you’re stronger than you think. Namjoon wouldn’t push this on you if he didn’t care, if he didn’t think it would work. Try it—give this roommate thing a shot. Split the bills, get heat back in that place, and if it crashes, you’ve got us—always. Okay?”

You nod, though she can’t see, the snow growing thicker. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” she says, pride warming her tone. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? Tell me how everything goes—I need to know you’re okay.”

“Okay. I love you, Eomma,” you say, voice breaking as you clutch the phone.

“I love you more. Hang in there.” The call ends, and you’re alone again, the wind howling louder, snow piling at your feet.

Your building looms ahead, a squat, peeling relic on the south end. A note’s taped to your door, red ink glaring: Rent due in 3 days or eviction proceedings begin. Panic spikes, sharp and sour. You unlock the door, stepping into a wall of cold—dark, silent, arctic. Strike one. You check your bank account on your phone: 8,000 won. Enough for a single ramyeon pack, maybe. Strike two. You trip over that loose floorboard you haven’t been able to fix, crashing to your knees, pain shooting up your leg. Strike three. Furious, you haul yourself up, whipping out your phone again, texting Namjoon.

[You, 9:17 P.M.] I’ve made up my mind. Get Yoongi over here ASAP.

You storm to your bedroom, peeling off your clothes, tugging on the same pajamas you’ve worn all week—hand-me-downs from your siblings, a faded long sleeve with a stretched neck and holes at the seams, sweatpants with cuff frayed to threads. You grab your blanket—a relic from your childhood, yet the only thing that seems to have managed to remain the same over time; thick, soft, warm enough to get you through the night. You wrap it tight around you, curling up on your bed. The mattress creaks, the cold seeping through every layer, relentless. You shiver, teeth chattering, staring at the ceiling where a water stain spreads like a bruise. Sleep feels impossible, and distant dream in this frozen purgatory. This night’s endless, and you’re already spent.

--

The apartment’s a fragile bubble of warmth, pierced by the hum of space heaters and the faint tang of instant coffee lingering in the air. Two weeks with Yoongi as your roommate have stretched the edges of your sanity, but they’ve also kept the landlord’s eviction threats at bay. Rent’s been paid—a hefty price split down the middle, wired just before the deadline—and that alone is a victory. Seoul’s winter rages outside, a gray beast of snow and wind clawing at the single-pane windows, frosting them until they creak. Inside, the cold is a stubborn guest, slinking through the cracks despite the landlord’s refusal to fix the damn boiler—his last excuse, barked over a staticky call, was “building maintenance costs.” You’d bitten back a curse, teeth chattering, and hung up. But the space heaters, bought with a grudging amount, split between you and Yoongi, glow defiantly in your bedroom and his, their coils a faint orange against the dark. Namjoon’s blankets—fleece throws he’d so graciously gifted to you during the move, dotted with adorable designs like Minions or cartoon dogs—drape your couch and bed, a soft excess you’d never admit your hoard, their weight a shield against the nights when the chill bites the deepest.

Yoongi’s arrival was a blur of panic and necessity. Namjoon had blinked at your sudden text and rallied him like a soldier to the front. He’d shown up a day early, just a day after your snow-soaked phone call to your mother, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His blonde hair peeked out from a beanie, a large puffer jacket swallowing his lean frame, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a keyboard case gripped tight. “This is it?” he’d rasped, voice rough as gravel, scanning the cramped space—your sagging, depressed couch and bare walls. You’d nodded, nerves raw, and he’d sighed, a low sound of surrender, clearly used to Namjoon’s lavish apartment. He’d hauled his belongings in, carefully tucked away in boxes with muted thuds as they hit the floor of his new bedroom. He’s barely spoken—grunted at the spare key you’d handed him, muttered about the “shitty stairs”—and you’d fled to your room, shutting the door on his quiet unpacking, heart thudding with the weight of a stranger in your haven. By nightfall, the guest room was his, a bunker of blankets and music equipment, and you’d lain awak, staring at the ceiling’s water stain that you’d labeled as being shaped like an elephant, wondering if this was the right decision.

Two weeks later, it’s not a disaster. Yoongi’s a ghost, slipping in and out with barely a ripple, and you’re too buried in your own grind to mind. Law school is a beast tamed—your criminal procedure exam, the 50-question monster, hit the same day Yoongi moved in, and you’d conquered it. Nights bled into a frenzy of study, hunched over on the couch, highlighters streaking Terry v. Ohio and Miranda v. Arizona as your breath fogged in the unheated dark. The 96% grade, posted last week with your professor’s “outstanding” scrawled in red, felt like a godsend, a lifeline proving you could still climb this perpetual mountain of death. You’d collapsed on your bed that night, one of Namjoon’s many blankets cocooning you, relief so sharp it burned your throat.

Now, your days are a relentless churn—early morning lectures on constitutional law and judicial ethics, afternoons crafting mock trial arguments as team president, evenings at the convenience store where the floor is tacky with spilled soju and the scanner’s beep drills into your skull. Your manager, a pinch-faced ass, bumped you to 18,000 won an hour after you shoved a tally of your overtime in his face, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. It’s not much—enough for ramen or a coffee when your eyes droop—but it keeps your account afloat. Sleep is a thief, snatched in five-hour bursts, the space heater’s hum a lullaby against the wind’s howl. Yoongi’s orbit is a mystery, misaligned with yours. He’s gone by dawn—music labs, you guess, or classes—and back late, his door creaking at midnight. You imagine him hunched over that keyboard, headphones clamped on, lost in beats—Namjoon's “genius” label a quiet echo. Sometimes you hear it, a muted thump through the wall, and picture him scribbling lyrics, blonde hair catching the heater’s glow.

You’ve seen fragments. Once, he sprawled on his mattress, notebook open, pen tapping his knee, eyes half-closed like he was dreaming in rhythm. Another night, he lingered in the kitchenette at 2 A.M., reheating kimchi jjigae, stirring slow, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal forearms taut with quiet strength. He’d glanced at you—bleary from study binge, shuffling for water—and slid a bowl your way, the spicy steam curling between you, wordless. Last weekend, he was on the couch, laptop open, cords snaking across the cushions, muttering “fucking latency” at a glitching track. Music’s his war, fought in solitude, and you don’t ask. He doesn’t tell. It’s your silent code.

Living with him has been... fine, mostly. He’s clean—bowls rinsed, trash bagged, no mess beyond his room’s controlled chaos. The bathroom’s tidy, his towel hung crooked but dry, and he leaves your rice cakes alone, a respect you note silently. Chores split without fanfare—him on trash, you on dishes—a rhythm that holds. His room is a fortress now, Namjoon’s blankets swallowing the mattress whole, a guitar case propped up in the corner, vinyl records stacked haphazardly—from what you could see: Eminem, Epik High, Ryuichi Sakamoto, and... TWICE? You loved their songs, Fancy had you jamming in your apartment and Rewind had you holding back tears. Never in a million years had you imagined Yoongi being a Once. You often wondered who his bias was. You don’t snoop, and he doesn’t cross your line. It’s peaceful... sometimes. However, Yoongi’s got this infuriating habit—blasting tracks at ungodly hours, loud enough to shred your nerves. It’s not every night, but it’s brutal when it strikes. The third night, 2 A.M., a baseline punched through the wall, rattling your bed, yanking you from sleep. You’d lain there, heart pounding, as synths and warped vocals bled in, relentless. It stopped after twenty minutes, but sleep fled. Two nights ago, 1 A.M., it was slower—moody, heavy—but the volume gnawed at you. Last night, 3 A.M., an hour of jagged snares and distortion, the wall pulsing like a living thing. You’d hovered at your door, anger simmering, but retreated—too awkward to confront him. You’ve hinted—yawning loud, dragging your feet—but he doesn’t bite, and it festers, a quiet thorn.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchenette, 10 P.M., picking at a bowl of ramyeon, the broth warming your throat. Mock trial prep looms, notes stacked on the couch, but you’re in pajamas—a faded long sleeve and sweatpants. The bathroom door creaks open, and you glance up, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He’s shirtless, fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Water beads on his skin, dripping from his damp blonde hair down his neck, over collarbones sharp as knives. His chest is lean but cut—muscles taut, abs carved like he’s been lifting more than just dreams, arms flexing as he rubs the towel through his hair, veins threading under pale skin. His V-line dips below the towel’s edge, and your breath catches, utensil clattering against the bowl. He freezes, cat-like eyes locking on yours, and the air thickens—silent, heavy, awkward as hell. You stare, he stares, and neither of you move. His lips part, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Water drips onto the floor, a soft plink, and you swallow, throat dry, eyes darting to your food. He shifts, grabbing a soda from the fridge, the can’s hiss slicing the quiet. His bare shoulder brushes the counter as he leans there, sipping slow, and you feel his gaze—steady, unreadable—prickling your skin. You scoop broth with your chirirenge, burning your tongue, and he retreats to his room without a word, leaving you flushed and out of sorts.

You sit, thinking, allowing your food to grow cold when his music starts—loud, inevitable. Bass thumps through the wall, and you groan, dropping your head to the counter. Not tonight. You drag yourself to your room, a blanket wrapped tight around you, and flop on your bed as the track swells—drums, distortion, and a chaotic roar. Sleep’s a distant hope, and you lie there, his shirtless frame flashing behind your eyes, the wall pulsing until it fades an hour later. You drift off, restless, dreaming of damp skin and dark stares.

The morning is grey and brutal, exhaustion clinging to you like wet clothes. Yoongi’s gone when you wake, his door shut, and you slog through your day—lectures, store shift, and hanging out with Namjoon at a nearby coffee shop—you're basically running on fumes. Back home, you’re on the couch, phone pressed to your ear on speaker. Your friend Hyejin’s voice crackles through, loud and brassy, filling the room as you pick at a rice cake. “... So, I told him, if you’re gonna ghost me, at least have the balls to say it, right? Men are trash, Y/N, I swear.”

You short, shifting in the blanket enveloping you. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly swimming in options either. Work’s killing me.”

The front door creaks open, and Yoongi slips in, arms laden with two grocery bags—nothing heavy, just bulging with a carton of milk, chips, and some greens poking out. His sweatshirt is zipped halfway, hair mussed from the wind, and he glances at you, nodding faintly before heading to the kitchenette. Hyejin’s voice barrels on, oblivious. “You sound wiped, babe. What’s up? You’ve been off for days.”

You fumble to switch off speaker, thumb jabbing the screen, but it freezes—stupid cracked phone. “Uh, just tired,” you say, voice tight, eyeing Yoongi as he unpacks, silent and methodical. Milk in the fridge, a bag of tangerines on the side you know he’ll be hoarding.

“Tired?” Hyejin laughs, sharp and echoing. “Girl, you need to get laid. That’s your problem—no good dick in forever. When’s the last time you even hooked up?”

Your face flames, and you slap the phone harder, but it’s stuck, her voice blaring. Yoongi’s hands pause over a bag of green onion, head tilting slightly, and you want to die. “Hyejin—” you hiss, but she steamrolls.

“What about that roommate, the blonde one? You said he’s hot, right? Why not just fuck him? Get some stress relief, Y/N, you’re dying out there!”

Mortification crashes over you, hot and suffocating. Yoongi’s back stiffens, just for a second, then he turns to the fridge, slow, deliberate, a smirk tugging at his lips—small, private, but there. Your hand finally smacks the speaker off, and you choke out, “Gotta go,” ending the call mid-Hyejin's cackle. The silence is deafening, thick as snow, broke only by the rustle of bags as he slides the tangerines into a bowl. Your face burns, red creeping up your neck, and you mumble, “Sorry, she’s—uh—loud,” voice barely audible, cracking with same. He doesn’t look up, just hums—a low, amused sound—and keeps unpacking, smirk lingering like he’s savoring it. You bolt, blanket trailing, slamming the door behind you. You shove your face into your pillow, still blazing, the muffled groan swallowed by cotton as his quiet unpacking echoes through the apartment.

--

The apartment has turned into a silent battlefield, the air thick with the ghost of Hyejin’s voice echoing in your skull like a relentless taunt. It’s been a week since that call shattered the fragile peace, a week since Yoongi’s smirk burned into your memory as he unpacked groceries with that slow, knowing curl of his lips. You’ve turned avoiding him into a desperate science, a losing fight when you share this cramped, crumbling space—25 square meters of peeling paint and warped floors that creak under every step. You’re hyper-aware of him, attuned to every trace of his presence: the groan of his door hinges at odd hours, the faint thud of his footsteps on the linoleum, the low hum of his heater seeping through the wall like a pulse. It’s suffocating, a constant reminder of the line you’ve crossed in your head, and you don’t know what he thinks—whether he’s laughing at you behind that unreadable stare, pitying your flushed embarrassment, or—worst of all—disgusted by the mess Hyejin’s words dragged into the open. The uncertainty gnaws at you, a splinter lodged under your skin, sharp and persistent, and you’ve convinced yourself he hates you now, that her brash suggestion painted you as a walking humiliation in his eyes.

Your solution’s been retreat, a coward’s playbook executed with precision. Mornings, you’re up before the sky cracks open, the world still cloaked in pre-dawn purple, tugging on sneakers that scuff against the icy stairwell as you flee to SNU’s lecture halls—constitutional law at 8 A.M., your 4.0 GPA a lifeline you cling to. The cold bites your ankles, the wind whistling through the cracked windows of the south-end building, but it’s better than facing him over coffee. Evenings, you linger at the convenience store, the flickering fluorescents buzzing overhead as you scan soju bottles for bleary-eyed students, the air thick with stale beer and burnt microwave popcorn. You stay late, dragging out the lock-up routine—counting the till twice, wiping the counter until the manager snaps at you to “Go home already”—just to avoid the moment Yoongi’s door creaks open at home. When you finally slink back, you’re a shadow, slipping through the apartment like a thief—door shut tight, pretending the thin wall between your rooms is a canyon wide enough to swallow the tension whole.

Yoongi’s mirrored your silence—not that it’s anything new—but he’s been retreating deeper into his hermit shell, turning the guest room a fortress you don’t dare breach. He’s more ghost than man now, his presence reduced to traces you can’t ignore. His music’s quieter now, too, a muted pulse seeping through the wall, like he’s tiptoeing around your frayed nerves, testing how much you can take before you snap. You’ve caught glimpses—him peeling a tangerine at the counter, fingers deft as they split the rind, eyes darting away when you shuffle past in your threadbare socks. The citrus scent hangs in the air after, sharp and fleeting, and it twists something in your chest.

But there’s something new, something odd that’s crept into the routine: Yoongi’s been showering more. A lot more. The bathroom door creaks open at strange hours—midnight, when you’re half-asleep, mid-afternoon when you’re often gone—and you hear the water running for a shorter amount of time than normal, a steady that echoes through the thin walls. You’d want to be mad, to storm in and snap at him for hogging what little hot water your shitty boiler sputters out, but every time you shower, it’s warm, perfectly so, the steam curling around you in soft, teasing wisps. It hits you slow, a realization that sinks in like ice: he’s taking cold showers. Why? The question burrows into you, strange and nagging. You can’t shake it, and it feeds the restless churn in your gut.

The phone call flipped a switch, and you hate it—hate how it’s twisted your head, turned Yoongi from a quiet, tolerable roommate into something else, something you want. It’s humiliating, the way your mind drifts when you’re alone, a traitor to your pride. Nights, you lie underneath your pile of blankets, your heater humming a low drone, and imagine him—his lean frame pinning you to the mattress, wrists trapped under his hands, his tongue flicking against your clit, sharp and precise, unraveling you with every deliberate stroke. You wonder what he tastes like, how he kisses—rough and demanding, claiming you in a rush, or slow and soft, teasing until you’re begging? The fantasies coil tight, your breath hitching as you press your vibrator harder, chasing release under the blanket’s weight, quiet gasps swallowed by the dark. It’s never enough, the ache lingering, pooling low, and it leaves you frustrated—sexually, emotionally, a tangled mess of want and shame. You wonder if he feels it too, but he’s a wall, unreadable, and you’re too mortified to ask, too afraid of the answer.

From Yoongi’s side, it’s a different war, one he’s losing in silence. He’s lock himself in his room much more than he did before, the guest-now-his space a scattered mess of his belongings, because facing you feels like stepping on glass—one wrong move and it’ll shatter. That call—Hyejin's loud, brash suggestion—hit him harder than he’ll ever admit. He smirked, yeah, playing it cool as he unpacked those groceries, but inside, it was chaos, a wildfire he couldn’t stamp out. You think he’s attractive? No—hot? The idea sank into him, sharp and heated, a hook he can’t dislodge, and he can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel the way it’s shifted practically everything. He’s been avoiding you too, not out of hate—God, no—but because every time he sees you, his head’s a mess of lewd flashes: you under him, thighs trembling as he drives into you, your lips parted in a moan that’s his name; on your knees, mouth wrapped around him, wet and eager, eyes locked on his. It’s relentless, a reel he can't stop, and he hates how it’s turned him into a horny idiot, his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself in the shower more than he has since he was a gangly teenager with no self-control.

Cold showers, specifically—ice-cold, the water a brutal shock to his system, numbing the heat that flares every time he thinks of you, every time your small figure brushes past him. He stands under the spray, teeth gritted, hair plastered to his forehead, hand working fast, imagining your hands instead—smaller, softer, tracing his skin—your voice, low and breathless, your body pressed against him. It’s you every time—your flushed cheeks from that call, the way your clothes hug your frame, the quiet gasps he’s sure you’d make if he touched you right. He comes quick, shuddering under the icy blast, the cold biting his skin. It’s a fleeting relief, a cycle he’s trapped in, rinsing away the evidence but not the want. He doesn’t hate you—he wants you. Bad. It’s driving him up the wall, a tension he buries under layers of silence and locked doors.

A week later, four weeks into this strained cohabitation, the tension’s a live wire, sparking at the edges, ready to ignite. Last night, Yoongi had divvied up the laundry—two hampers, one for you, one for him, a silent chore split to keep the fragile peace. You always wash your clothes together, a money-saving trick drilled into you from years of scraping by, cramming everyone into the ancient machine in the basement laundry room with its chipped paint and flickering bulb. You're meticulous about it, cataloging every threadbare piece—two pairs of jeans, faded at the knees; three hoodies, one with a frayed drawstring; 5 pairs of t-shirts and long sleeves, two pairs of sweatpants, and a handful of socks, mismatched and thinning—because losing anything when you own so little stings deep. Hyejin’s words echo as you sort the pile—“You need to get laid!”—and on a reckless impulse, you toss in your one nice thing: a red lace thong, delicate and daring. Maybe Hyejin was right, getting tangled in your sheets might be a good idea, and who knows? It might actually loosen you up a little and get your mind off of you-know-who.

Yoongi had dropped your hamper off in your room last night, awkward as hell, his frame filling the doorway for a brief, tense moment. He’s barely met your eyes, blonde hair falling into his face, muttering a clipped, “Here,” before retreating like he couldn’t get away fast enough. You’d nodded, throat tight, a flush creeping up your neck, and started your wash routine today, hauling the load downstairs in the dim stairwell, the air damp with mildew. The machine’s groan was a familiar hum as you fed it coins, the clink echoing in the empty basement, and you trudged back up, the cold seeping through your socks.

Yoongi was assigned to retrieve both yours and his clothes, mindlessly tossing both loads into the same hampers used earlier. He could easily tell your items apart from his, so he didn’t have a single qualm when he dropped everything back off with you.

You’re folding the warm pile on your bed, the space heater’s glow warming your shins through your sweatpants, when panic hits like a punch. The thong’s not there. You dig through—jeans, hoodies, socks—fingers clawing at the fabric, unraveling the neat stacks, but it’s gone. Your stomach drops, cold and sour, a sick lurch as images flash: the red lace crumpled on the laundry room floor, some grimy tenant picking it up, snickering at your expense; or worse, caught in the machine’s drum, a scarlet flag flapping for the next person to find. Mortification burns, hot and prickly, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, and you rake your hands through your hair, tugging at the roots as your mind races. Did it fall out on the stairs? Land in someone else's laundry basket? The possibilities spiral, each more humiliating than the last, and you’re two seconds from bolting downstairs to check, retracting every step in a frantic hunt, when you freeze, breath catching. Yoongi’s room. What if it’s with him?

Yoongi’s hunched over his own hamper, elbow-deep in hoodies and sweats, and fabric warm from the dryer, when his fingers brush something soft, foreign, out of place. He pulls it out, slow, deliberate, and freezes—a red lace thong dangles from his hand, the fabric catching the heater’s orange glow like a flame. His breath catches, a sharp hitch, eyes flashing to you in his mind—your face, your body—and a groan rips from his throat, low and wrecked, echoing in the small room. Images flood him, unbidden and vivid. His grip tightens, the fabric bunching in his fist, cock hardening at the thought of you underneath him, the room tilting as desire slams into him, raw and unfiltered. He’s about to shove it back, bury it at the bottom of the hamper, pretend he never saw it, when a quiet knock jolts him upright, snapping him out of the haze.

“Uh—come in,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat, his voice rougher than he intends, gravelly with the edge of what’s churning inside him—desire, panic, a tangle of heat he can’t unravel. The door creaks open, slow and hesitant, a low groan of hinges that slices through the quiet of his room. There you are—timid, small, framed in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, your faded pajamas hanging loose on you. The T-shirt's thin, slinging faintly to your chest, and your sweatpants hang low on your hips, cuffs brushing the floor. Your eyes are wide, searching, darting around his cluttered space—blankets in a heap, vinyls teetering by the wall—before they land on the red lace thong handing from his hand. Your face flames, a rush of red blooming across your cheeks, a soft but piercing gasp slipping past your lips, sharp enough to jolt him where he stands.

He stares, caught, the air thickening into something vicious, heavy with the weight of your locked gazes. His eyes rake over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body—down the curve of your shoulder underneath the fabric, the dip of your waist, the way your legs shift nervously, bare skin peeking where the waistband of your sweatpants ends, and the hem of your shirt begins. His gaze lingers on your lips, parted slightly from that gasp, then snaps back to your eyes, wide and mortified but holding his stare. You don’t speak, don’t even breathe for a beat, the silence stretching taut between you, electric and unbearable. Then you step forward, hesitant, the floor cold under your socks, squeaking faintly under your weight as you close the gap. Yoongi’s breath hitches, chest tightening, his grip on the thong faltering as he watches you approach—small, trembling, but determined. Your fingers reach out, shaky and tentative, brushing his as you pluck the lace from his hand, the fleeting touch a spark that sears his skin. He exhales, sharp and unsteady, the air rushing out as you clutch the thong tight.

You turn to leave, quick and jerky, like you’re fleeing a crime scene, your socks scuffing the floor as you aim for the door. Your shoulders hunch, the T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of your lower back, and Yoongi’s eyes snag there, his throat dry, pulse hammering. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, anything—but before words form, the world plunges into black. The power cuts with a faint pop, the dim glow of his desk lamp snuffed in an instant. Darkness swallows the room, thick and disorienting, the only sound the storm’s distant howl beyond the walls and the ragged edge of your breathing. The cold creeps in fast, a chill the prickles your bare arms, and you freeze mid-step, your silhouette a faint blur against the void.

Yoongi stands rooted, the sudden black amplifying the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The air shifts, heavy with the absence of light and heat, and for a moment, neither of you move, the silence a living thing pressing against your skin.

Then he speaks, voice low, cutting through the dark like a blade. “Stay.” It’s not a request, not quite a command, but there’s and urgency laced in it, rough and unpolished. You hesitate, your outline shifting as you turn slightly, and he can’t see your face, but he feels your uncertainty, the way you’re poised to bolt. “Just—stay there,” he adds, softer, stepping toward the desk where he keeps a flashlight and tealights he grabbed in preparation for exactly this. “I’ll get light.”

You don’t argue, don’t move, and he hears the faint creak of the mattress as you sink onto it, the sound small but seismic in the quiet. He fumbles in the dark, fingers brushing vinyl sleeves, a tangles cord, until they close around the flashlight’s cold metal grip. The mean flickers to life, weak and unsteady, casting jagged shadows as he sweeps it across the room—the heap of blankets a sleepless mound, you perched on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms crossed tight over them. Your silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, and he can see the goosebumps rising on your arms, the way your breath fogs faintly in the chill. He grabs the tealights a lighter from the desk drawer and moves back, placing them on the window ledge behind his bed.

The lighter flicks, the tiny flame sparking against the wick of the first tealight. It catches, a fragile glow blooming, then another, until three small flames dance, casting gold over the scuffed ledge. He sits back, cross-legged, the mattress dipping under your weight across from him, the space between you shrinking in the flickering light. The candles throw shadows up Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes, lips parted as he exhales—and you feel exposed, the thin T-shirt no shield against the cold or his gaze. Your arms tights, a shiver running down your spine, and he notices, eyes flicking to the way your shoulders hunch, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“You’re cold,” he says, matter-of-fact, and before you can respond, he’s twisting to grab a hoodie from the pile beside his bed—black, worn, the sleeves stretched from use. He holds it out, the fabric dangling between you, and the gesture hangs heavy, an offering laced with something unspoken. “Take it.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter., stubborn, your teeth chattering faintly as the chill deepens, the room’s temperature dropping fast without the heater’s hum. Your breath fogs more now, a soft cloud in the candlelight, and you hug yourself tighter, pride warring with the cold sinking into your bones.

“Take it,” he says again, sharper this time, his tone brooking no argument, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours. There’s a demand there, rough-edged, and it pricks at you, but the cold wins out, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his stare and the shiver racking your frame. You reach out, fingers brushing his as you take the hoodie, the contact brief but electric. You tug it on, the fabric swallowing you—smelling of cedarwood, the hem brushing your thighs—and he watches, a flicker of something dark crossing his face as you settle into it, sleeves flopping over your hands.

The silence stretches, awkward and thick, the small flames creating shadows that act like a fragile barrier. You shift on the bed, the mattress creaking under you, and he leans on his hands, the bedding soft underneath his palms. The storm’s a dull roar outside, snow pelting the windows, but inside, it’s just you and him, the air humming with tension you’ve both danced around for weeks. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and you glance up, catching the way his eyes glint in the candlelight, sharp and assessing.

“It’s been quiet lately,” he says, voice soft, almost casual, but there’s an edge—a thread of intent snaking through it. His fingers flex against the mattress, inching closer, the tips grazing the blanket near your thigh. “You, I mean. Not just the room.”

You blink, caught off guard, heat creeping up your neck despite the chill. “What?” you say, too quick, your voice wobbling as you tuck the hoodie’s sleeves tighter into your fists, avoiding his gaze. He’s too close, his presence too heavy, pressing against you like a physical thing.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, but it’s calculated, his shoulders rolling slow, the bed shifting as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, narrowing the space between you. “I just noticed. You’re usually... louder. Moving around, banging shit in the kitchen. Now it’s like you’re not even here.” His tone’s even, but there’s a tease buried in it, a glint in his eyes daring you to bite, to push back.

“I’m here,” you mutter, defensive, staring at the tealights, the tiny flames blurring as your heart kicks up, thudding against your ribs. “I’ve just been... busy, I guess. School, work, and I’m with Namjoon a lot—you know how it is.” It’s a flimsy excuse, the words brittle, and you can feel him see through it, his silence louder than any rebuttal.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and the smirk returns, faint but sharp. “Busy, huh?” He leans closer, his knee pressing firmer against yours now, intentional, the heat of it seeping through your sweatpants. “Is that why you can’t even look at me?”

You glance up, and he’s closer than you thought—his face a breath away, eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing in the candlelight. “I’m looking at you now,” you say, aiming for defiance, but it comes out shaky, a whisper swallowed by the tension thickening the air between you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice a rumble. “Took you long enough.” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, and the room shrinks, the cold forgotten.

“Okay, so what?” you snap, the word spilling out before you can stop them. “What’s your point?” Your face burns, defiance masking the nerves twisting inside you.

He doesn’t back off, just watches you, steady and unyielding. “My point,” he says, slow and deliberate, “is that you’ve been avoiding me.” It’s not a question, a statement dropped like a match onto dry grass, and it ignites something in you, a flare of frustration and shame you’ve been choking down for a week.

Heat surges up your neck, prickling under Yoongi’s hoodie. “No, I haven’t,” you bite back, voice sharp, your denial too quick. “That’s ridiculous.” You shift back slightly, the bed creaking under you, putting an inch of space between your knees.

“Ridiculous?” he echoes, voice soft but edged, leaning forward more, closing the gap you just made. “You’re out before I’m up, gone ‘til I’m asleep. You’ve barely said ten fucking words to me all week. You call that normal?”

“I’ve been busy!” you snap, louder now, the words bursting out as you glare at him. “School, work, like I just explained—shit you’d get if you weren’t holed up in here all the time. Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s quiet.” Your voice trembles, anger masking the guilt, and you shove the hoodie’s sleeves up, the fabric bunching at your elbows, too hot under his scrutiny.

He snorts, a harsh sound, leaning closer, his knee slamming back against yours, a deliberate push. “Don’t pull that. I’m here, yeah, but I don’t fucking vanish. You’re dodging me like I’m contagious—can't even look at me half the time.” His voice rises, rough with irritation. “What’s your deal? You think I’m pissed about something?”

“My deal?” you fire back, voice climbing, the argument spiraling out of your control. “Maybe I just don’t wanna deal with you staring at me like—like I’m some joke after that stupid phone call! You don’t get to turn this on me when you’ve been a hermit too!” Your chest heaves, and you hate how raw you feel, how exposed.

He freezes, just for a beat, then leans back slightly, but his voice drops, low and sharp. “A joke? That’s what you think?” His tone’s quieter, but it’s loaded, frustration simmering under the surface. “I’ve been giving you space, not laughing at you. You’re the one running.”

“Space?” you scoff, incredulous, your voice crackling as you lean forward. “You call locking yourself in here space? I didn’t ask for that—I didn’t ask for any of this!” Your hands shake, and you hate how close he is. “This is all Namjoon’s fault. If I had just move back in with my parents to begin with—”

“Then why—” he interrupts, voice rising again, his hand slamming down on the mattress, and you flinch. “Why are you acting like I’m the problem when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me?” His eyes bore into yours, dark and furious, and the tension snaps taut, a live wire humming between you.

“Okay, fine!” you yell, the words ripping out, raw and jagged. “I’ve been avoiding you! Happy now?” You look away, face burning with shame, jaw tight.

He doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze when you dare to meet it again, the anger softening into something else—something heavier. “Why?” he asks, voice quieter now, almost gentle, but it’s a blade all the same, cutting straight to the core.

You swallow, throat dry, the truth clawing its way up, bitter and hot. “Because of the call,” you say, voice small. “What Hyejin said—it's been... weird. I didn’t know what you thought, if you were angry, disgusted, or—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip hard, the humiliation surging like fresh wound, a sour twist in your chest that makes you want to curl into yourself.

He tilts his head, blonde strands shifting, and his eyes soften, just a fraction, though they never leave yours. “Didn’t think anything bad,” he says, low, deliberate. “Didn’t mind it.” A pause, then softer, a confession slipped into the dark: “I kinda liked it.” It hangs there, raw and unguarded, and your stomach flips.

“You liked it?” you echo, incredulous, your voice rising slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, simple, unapologetic. “You think I’m attractive, right? That’s what she said... your friend, I mean.” His voice dips, teasing again, but there’s a hunger underneath, a question he’s daring you to answer, and it’s dizzying, the way he’s peeling you open, like a tangerine.

“I—” You falter, breath hitching, his proximity scrambling your thoughts, turning them into static. The hoodie’s too warm, his scent too close—a drug you can’t shake—and yet you can’t look away. “She said it, not me.”

“But you didn’t deny it,” he counters, voice a rumble now. “Still haven’t” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering, slow and deliberate, and the tension shifts, thickens, a palpable thing wrapped around you both. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough. “What she said. Me.”

Your mouth opens, a denial on your tongue, but it dies there, strangled by the way his eyes darken. “I-I... I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he presses, voice a tease, but his gaze is intense, stripping you bare. His knee nudges your legs apart slightly, moving towards where you need him most. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Say it, and I’ll back off.” His eyes search yours, dark and intent, flickering with something that mirrors the heat twisting inside you—desire, need, a question he’s laid bare between you. His fingers curl slightly into your thigh, possessive, waiting, and the silence stretches, taut and trembling, your response teetering on the edge.

Instead of answering him, your lips slam into his with a force that rips the air from the room, a bruising collision born from the weight of all the suppressed desire, every moment you’ve bitten your tongue instead of speaking, every time you’ve turned away instead of reaching out. It’s not soft, not tentative—it can’t be, not after all this time simmering in the space between you. Your hands fist the worn cotton of his hoodie, knuckles whitening as you clutch the fabric like it’s the only think keeping your grounded, pulling him closer until there’s no gap left to close. The kiss is spark flung onto dry tinder, a wildfire roaring to life after too long smoldering in the dark corners of your mind. Your lips press hard against his, insistent and desperate, testing the faint salt of his skin, the bitter edge of the beer he sipped earlier still clinging to his breath—a sharp tang that mixes with something deeper, something raw and uniquely Yoongi that floods your senses and leaves you dizzy.

He freezes for a heartbeat, his body tensing before you, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as if you’ve jolted his from a trance. Then he surges back, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat—a primal sound that vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver racing down your spine, igniting every nerve in its path. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie—yanking you against him with a force that makes the mattress groan beneath your combined weight. The bed creaks sharply, a protest that echoes in the small room as your bodies collide, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through the thin layers of fabric separating you, warming the chill that’s lingered in your bones for days.

You move on instinct, driven by a need you can’t name, swinging one leg over his lap until you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his lean thighs. The shift presses your core against the hard ridge of his cock through his clothes, a sudden jolt of friction that drags a soft, involuntary moan from your throat—a sound you barely recognize as yours, raw and needy, spilling out into the quiet. Your nails rake over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his sweatshirt as you press yourself closer, your chest flattening against his, the rapid thud of his heartbeat pounding against your ribcage until it feels like it’s yours too. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they flex and shift under your touch, coiled tight like a spring begging to snap, and it sends a thrill through you, a spark that catches and flares.

His hands slide under the hoodie, rough calluses scraping against your bare waist as they roam upward, igniting your skin with every inch they claim. His fingers splay wide, possessive, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth—a sharp, breathy sound that he swallows greedily, like it’s fuel for the fire he’s stoking. They travel higher, slow and deliberate, until his palms cup your breasts, the heat of his hands searing through you, thumbs brushing over your nipples in teasing, languid circles. They harden instantly under his touch, a delicious ache blooming as he rolls them between his fingers, coaxing another moan from you—a louder one this time, raw and unfiltered, muffled against his lips, vibrating in the tight space where your breaths tangle. The sensation is electric, a current that zips down your spine and pools low, making you shift relentlessly in his lap.

The kiss deepens, turning messy and wild—as if it wasn’t already—a clash of need that strips away any pretense of control. Your teeth knock together in your haste, a faint click drowned by the wet slide of your tongues wrestling for dominance, a dance of give and take that leaves you breathless. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue curling against yours with a skill that makes your head spin, a slow, deliberate sweep that has you chasing after it, hungry for more. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp sting that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and you whimper—a soft, broken sound that melts into a groan as he sucks it hard, soothing the bite with a slow, deliberate lick. The taste of him floods you—salt a heat and that faint, bitter edge—and you dive back in, your tongue darting into his mouth, desperate to drown it.

His grip tightens, one hand abandoning your breast to fist in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He yanks your head back, a sudden, firm tug that bares your throat to him, the pull stinging your scalp a drawing a ragged gasp from your lips—a sound that hangs in the air, sharp and vulnerable. Your head tips back, exposing the tender line of your neck, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate—his mouth descends, lips dragging hot and wet along your pulse, leaving a trail of fire that sears your skin. He sucks lightly at the spot where your heartbeat thumps wildly, a teasing nip of his teeth that makes you squirm in his lap, your hips rocking forward on pure instinct, seeking something, anything, to ease the ache building inside you.

That movement—unplanned, desperate—grinds you against him, the seam of your sweatpants catching just right on the bulge straining against him. A low, guttural moan tears from his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he presses his forehead to your collarbone, he breath hot and uneven against the hollow of your throat. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel, the curse slipping out like it’s been punched from him, and it sends a thrill through you, your own breath hitching in response. You roll your hips again, deliberate this time, a slow, purposeful grind that drags your core over him, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tight in your belly, a heat that spreads like wildfire. His hands snap back you your hips, guiding you, encouraging the motion with a firm squeeze, his fingers digging into your ass through the fabric, anchoring you as you rock against him.

The movement builds a rhythm—slow at first, tentative, like you’re testing the waters, then faster, more urgent, a desperate cadence that matches the pounding of your pulse. Each roll of your hips presses you harder against him, the heat between your legs growing slick and insistent, soaking through your sweatpants until you can feel it dampening the fabric, a secret you can’t hide. You can feel him—thick, hard, pulsing beneath you—and the thought alone makes you moan louder, a needy whine that echoes in the small room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the creak of the mattress. Yoongi matches you, his own groans spilling out, low and broken, as he thrusts up to meet you, the cotton soft against your thighs, yet scraping in a way that’s almost too much but not enough.

Your moans climb higher, a string of needy sounds that spill out unbidden—soft whines, sharp gasps, a broken “Yoongi” that slips from your lips before you can stop it. His response is immediate, a groan that’s half-curse, half-prayer, hips bucking up harder, meeting you halfway, the fabric dragging against your skin in a way that’s rough and perfect.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his as you pant, your breath hot against his swollen lips, mingling with his own ragged exhales. Your eyes—wide, wild, glassy with need—meet his, and the intensity there nearly undoes you, a storm of want brewing behind his own pupils, the dark swallowing the brown until there’s nothing left but desire. “You’ve been fucking teasing me for weeks,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with want, his grip on your hair tightening until it stings, a delicious edge of pain that makes you move harder against him, your hips stuttering in their rhythm. “Think I didn’t notice you squirming? All those little looks, avoiding me like I wouldn’t fucking see?”

“I—I didn’t—” you start, but the lie dies in your throat as he smirks, dark and knowing, and drags you back into the kiss, his tongue plunging deep, silencing you with a claim that leaves no room for denial. Your hands slip from his hair, trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms as the kiss breaks again, leaving you both panting, lips swollen and slick. The need clawing at you is too much now, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sweatshirt, the oversized gray fabric that’s been brushing against you all night. You tug upward, a silent question in the motion, and Yoongi’s eyes flicker with something dark and eager as his lifts his arms, letting you peel it off him in one fluid desperate pull.

The sweatshirt hits the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, you just stare, your breath catching in your throat as you take him in—shirtless, bare, and breathtakingly real beneath the flickering candlelight glow. His chest is exposed now, and your eyes trace downward, drinking in the sight of him—smooth and unmarred, save for the faint flush creeping up his sternum, a soft pink that blooms under the heat of your gaze and the exertion of what’s just passed. His torse narrows into a lean waist, the lines of his body flowing inward like a river cutting through stone. His abs come into view—subtle but undeniable, a not-so-faint six-pack etched into his stomach, each muscle a shallow ripple beneath his skin rather than a deep carve. The muscles flex slightly as he shifts, tightening with every breath, every twitch of his hips still pressed against you, and you can see the faint sheen of sweat coating them, making his skin gleam like polished marble in the low light. A thin trail of dark hair starts just below his navel, barely visible against his pale complexion, leading downward in a sparse, teasing line that disappears into the waistband of his pants, hinting at what’s still hidden.

You slide off his lap then, your hands dragging down his bare chest one last time, mapping the lean planes of him—the smooth expanse of his pecs, the subtle ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin—before you sink to your knees between his legs, the cold wood biting into your skin a stark contrast to the fire burning in your veins. Yoongi watches you, breath hitching, hands flexing on the bed as you teg at the waistband of his sweatpants, his hips lifting slightly to help you pull them down along with his boxers, crumpling into a messy pile around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, the tip glistening with a fat bead of precum that catches the faint candlelight glow—a slick, iridescent promise of how much he’s been aching for this, how long he’s been holding back. You pause, your breath snagging in your throat at the sight of him—thick, flushed, veins pulsing faintly under the skin, every inch of him straining towards you. Your fingers hover near it, trembling with the weight of anticipation that’s been clawing at you, a hunger that’s sunk its teeth into your core and won’t let go. Then you reach out, wrapping your hand around him—tentative at first, your touch light as you feel the heat radiating off him, the slight give of skin over rigid flesh. His reaction is instant: a sharp, guttural groan rips from his throat, loud and unrestrained, his hips jerking up an inch like he’s already chasing you.

You tighten your grip, fingers curling around his length, and start to stroke—slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist with every pass. The skin is velvet-hot under your palm, slick where he’s leaking, and you drag your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum in a lazy, teasing circle. Yoongi moans again, a rough, “Fuck,” spilling out as his head tips back, blonde hair spilling into his eyes in a wild, sweaty cascade that glints gold in the dim light before falling into shadow. His chest heaves, a low growl rumbling through it as you lean closer, your breath fanning over him, warm and deliberate. Your lips brush the tip, featherlight, barely a touch, and he shudders hard, thighs tensing under your elbows where they rest, a ragged “shit” groaning out of him as his hands flex on the bed, knuckles whitening against the sheets.

You part your lips, letting your breath tease him for a bit longer, watching his abs clench, his jaw tighten, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The you take him in—slowly at first, your tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the sharp salt of him, the heat that floods your mouth as you close your lips around the head. You swirl your tongue, tracing the ridge beneath with a slow, deliberate drag, savoring the way he pulses against you, the way his groan turns into a louder, “Fuck—yes,” his voice cracking on the edge of desperation. You suck lightly, lips tightening as you pull him deeper, inch by tantalizing inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate him as you hollow your cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum that makes him hiss—a sharp, needy sound that cuts through the quiet.

The taste of him intensifies, and you start to bob your head, setting a rhythm that’s wet and sloppy. Spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, slick and messy, dripping down your chin as you take him further, the heat of him pressing against your tongue, nudging the back of your throat with every downward stroke. Yoongi’s hand shoots to your hair, fingers threading into the soft strands with a rough grip—not just anchoring now, but guiding, tugging you down harder as he groans again, his voice gravelly and wrecked. His hips twitch up, a shallow thrust that pushes him deeper, and you gag slightly, the burn in your throat sharp but thrilling as you adjust, breathing through your nose to keep in time with him.

He gets rougher then, his restraint fraying as his hand tightens in your hair, pulling with a firm yank that stings your scalp and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Take it,” he growls, low and commanding, his hips bucking up again—harder this time, fucking into your mouth with a controlled thrust that has you choking around him, spit spilling over your lips and down his shaft. You don’t pull back—can't, wont—your tongue flattening against him as he sets a pace, deep and insistent, each thrust hitting the back of your throat with a wet, obscene sound that fills the room. He moans louder, letting out a string of curses, “Holy shit, Y/N that feels so—fuck,” each one rougher, more broken, he voice cracking as he watches you, eyes half-lidded and dark.

Your free hand slides up his thigh, nails scraping the taut muscle there before finding his balls, heavy and tight beneath him. You cup them, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling the way they draw up under your touch. Yoongi’s reaction is rewarding—a deep, shuddering groan tears from his chest, louder than before, his hips stuttering as the sensation hits him. You knead them softly, fingers working in time with your mouth, fondling them with a careful pressure that makes his moans climb higher. The added stimulation drives him wild, his thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate, fucking your throat with a rhythm that’s less controlled now, more primal. Your eyes flick up, meeting his, and the sight of him unravels you—head tipped back, blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, burning with a desperation that’s almost palpable—and it sends a shiver through you, your own arousal pooling low, thighs clamping together as the ache between your legs sharpens into something almost unbearable.

It’s intoxicating, the way he’s falling apart for you, and it drives you to push him further, to take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him thrust past the point of comfort, the stretch burning as you gag again, spit pooling and dripping onto his thighs as he fucks your mouth with a grunt. His moans turn constant now, a litany of sound—low growls, sharp groans, broken curses—each one louder, rougher, spilling out as his hips snap forward, his grip on your hair tightening until it’s a delicious ache. He’s losing it, control slipping through his fingers, and you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, the way his abs clench, a ripple of muscles that signals he’s close. “Y/N—shit, I’m gonna cum,” he growls, voice strained and raw, a warning that’s morphed it’s way into a plea, giving you the change to pull back if you want it. But you don’t—you can’t—doubling down instead, sucking harder, your lips a tight seal around him as you take him as deep as you can, throat flexing around his length.

You hand pumps the base, fast and slick, working what your mouth can’t reach, while your other hand squeezes his balls just a little harder, rolling them in a way that drags another loud, shuddering moan from him. His hips buck one last time, hard and erratic, and then he’s coming undone—a choked, “Shit,” tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and pulsing, thick bursts that coat your tongue, your throat, filling you with the taste of him—salt and heat and raw, unfiltered need.

You keep going, working him through it, your mouth softening but still moving, your hand stroking slower now as you milk every last shudder from him. His groans turn ragged, breathless, his body trembling beneath you, thigh twitching as he rides out the waves. His hand in your hair loosens, fingers slipping free with a faint tremor, and you pull back slowly, letting him slide from your mouth with a wet, messy pop, spit and cum mingling on your lips as you gasp for air. Your chin’s a wreck, slick and dripping, and you swipe it with the back of your hand, panting as you look up at him, your chest heaving, thighs still pressed tight against the ache that’s screaming between your legs.

You start to shift, intending to rise, but Yoongi moves faster, his hand snapping to your arms with a grip that’s firm, unyielding, almost bruising as he hauls you up from the floor with a strength that steals your breath. Your knees groan as they leave the cold ground, a soft, startled gasp slipping form your lips as he pulls you onto the bed, dragging you up to meet him in a rush of motion that makes your head spin. His mouth crashes onto yours, fierce and unrelenting, a kiss that’s all teeth and heat, claiming you with a bruising intensity that leaves no room for air. His tongue dives in, hot and possessive, tasting himself on you—the salt and musk of his release mingling with the faint sweetness of you—and he groans into it, a deep, primal sound that rumbles against your lips, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through your core.

His hands shove at the hoodie still clinging to your frame—his hoodie, oversized and heavy with his scent—fingers rough and impatient as they yank it up and over your head, the fabric catching on your arms for a heartbeat before you shake it free. It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and the cold air of the room bites into your newly bared skin, prickling goosebumps across your chest, your nipples hardening instantly under the chill and weight of his stare. You shiver, caught between the shock of exposure and the fire in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust—his hands are on you again, strong and commanding, flipping you onto your back with a swift, effortless twist that makes the bed creak softly, the springs protesting under the sudden shift. Your back hits the mattress, the tangled blankets cool and soft against your skin, and Yoongi looms over you, his lean, shirtless frame a shadowed silhouette against the glow of the candles—his bare chest slick with sweat, abs tightening as he braces himself above you, a smirk tugging at his lips, sharp and dangerous.

“Fucking finally,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly, thick with intent as his hands drop to the waistband of your sweatpants. Hi fingers hook onto the fabric, rough and urgent, yanking your sweatpants and panties down in one harsh, impatient tug that scrapes against your thighs, the material bunching briefly before he rips it free. The cold air hits you like a slap, a shock against the slick, burning heat between your legs, and you shudder, half from the chill, half from the raw vulnerability of being spread bare beneath him. He tosses the clothes aside, the faint rustle of them landing somewhere in the dark swallowed by the pounding of your heart, and his hands find your thighs—his grip bruising, possessive, as he forces them apart, spreading you wide with a strength that makes your breath hitch, your body arching instinctively toward him, open and waiting.

Yoongi’s head dips low, his breath ghosting over your core first—a warm, teasing huff that makes your hips twitch upward, chasing the promise of contact. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers splayed wide and bruising as he holds you open, pinning you to the mattress with a force that leaves no room for resistance. His lips graze your clit, a fleeting, featherlight brush that sends a sharp, electric jolt ripping through you, arching your back off the bed as a gasp tears from your throat, high and desperate. Then he dives in, his mouth latching onto you with a hunger that’s almost feral, sucking hard on your clit with a wet, obscene pull that makes your vision blur at the edges. The sudden pressure is a shockwave, a white-hot burst that has your hips bucking against his face, a chokes whimper spilling from your lips as your hands scrabble against the blankets, searching for something to hold onto.

His tongue follows, relentless and greedy, lapping at your folds with broad, messy strokes that leave no part of you untouched, electing a loud cry from you. The wet heat of it drags through your slickness, a slow, deliberate sweep that collects every drop of your arousal, and he groans against you—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your core, making your thighs tremble in his grasp. He circles your clit with tight, teasing loops, the tip of his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, precise darts that have you whimpering, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts. The he shifts, plunging his tongue inside you, thrusting it deep into your heat with a rhythm that’s slow but unyielding, fucking you with it as you moan, loud and unabashed. “Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry, the words spilling out of you before you can stop them.

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, leaving crescent-shaped marks as he pulls you closer, pressing you harder against his mouth like he can’t get enough. His nose brushes your clit as he buries himself deeper, and your breath hitches, your moans growing louder with each pass of his tongue. He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, lips sealing around it with a fierce, wet suction that makes your back bow off mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat—“Y-Yoongi, please,”—your voice breaking on his name. His tongue flicks against you in response, fast and ruthless, and then his fingers join in—two of them sliding into you, curling deep, stretching you open with a deliberate thrust that makes you feel every inch of his digits, every ridge of his knuckles as they sink inside.

He pumps them fast, rough, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room, mingling with the faint howl of the storm outside. His fingers curl just right, hooking against that spot inside you that sends sparks bursting behind your eyes, and he pairs it with another hard suck on your clit, his teeth grazing you lightly—a fleeting sting that makes you jolt, a whimper turning into a moan. His free hand lifts, hovering over your thigh for a moment, then comes down with a sharp crack, spanking you once—the sound echoing, the heat blooming instant and fierce across your skin. “Louder, let me hear you,” he growls, voice muffled against you, his breath hot and ragged as he dives back in, tongue lapping at you like a man starved. You oblige without meaning to, a loud stream of moans spilling out as your hips grind against his face, chasing the pressure building inside you.

Your hands find his hair, fingers threading into the sweaty blonde strands, tugging hard—hard enough to make him groan again, a deep, rumbling “mmph” that vibrates through you, pushing you closer to the edge. He retaliates by nipping at your clit, a quick, sharp bite that sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your grip tightening as you yank his hair again, desperate and wild. “So wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing your clit as he speaks, the words sinking into you like heat, stoking the fire in your belly. “Been dreaming of this pussy—gonna make you scream.” His tongue dives back in, relentless, swirling around your clit before plunging inside again, fucking you with it in deep, wet strokes while his fingers pump faster, curling harder, stretching you open until you’re trembling and whimpering, thighs shaking uncontrollably un his bruising grip.

The candlelight dances over your body—sweat beading on your stomach, glistening in the hollows of your hips, a red mark blooming bright and hot where he spanked you, the skin tender and pulsing with every brush of his fingers. Yoongi’s focused, utterly consumed—his eyes flick up to yours, dark and piercing, locked on your face as he drinks in every whimper, every squirm, every broken sound you make. His hair’s a mess from your grip, strands sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t care—his tongue keeps moving, his fingers relentless, savoring the way you’re unraveling beneath him. The pleasure’s sharp, overwhelming, a knife-edge that cuts through you.

He spanks you again, harder this time, the crack louder, the heat searing across your ass as his fingers curl just right, hitting your g-spot with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quicks, merciless strokes. You break—screaming his name, “Yoongi—fuck!” The sound raw and ragged, tearing from your throat as your body shatters, clenching tight around his fingers, pulsing hot and wet against his mouth. Your back arches high, hips grinding against him as the climax rips through you, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking, trembling, a moaning mess, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop, lapping you through it with slow, greedy strokes, his tongue dragging out every shudder every twitch, his fingers easing their pace but still moving, coaxing you down from the peak until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging hard at his hair to pull him up, your chest heaving as you pant beneath him, wrecked and sated.

Your chest heaves, lungs burning as you pant beneath Yoongi, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the oversensitive twitches shuddering through your thighs where they press against the mattress. He pulls back from your core, lips glistening with your slick in the faltering candlelight glow, his blonde hair a sweaty, tangled mess from your desperate tugging, strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes—dark, wild, smoldering with a hunger that hasn’t dimmed. His bare chest gleams with sweat, the lean planes of his abs tightening with each shallow, unsteady breath, his pale skin flushed pink from exertion, collarbones sharp and jutting, a faint sheen of perspiration pooling in the hollow of his throat. He climbs over you, his wiry frame moving with a predator's grace, sweat-slick chest brushing your bare skin as he looms above, caging you in with his arms, the heat of him searing into you like a brand. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and deep, a messy tangle of tongues and teeth that tastes of you—sweet and sharp—and him, salt and heat from earlier, a primal mix that makes your head spin. You moan, soft and needy, your hands clawing at his bare back, nails raking down the lean muscle, digging into the taut ridges of his spine as you press yourself closer, your chest heaving against his.

“I need you, Yoongi, need your cock.” The want between you is raw, reckless, primal—no barriers, just skin and heat—he smirks, and you shift, pushing him back onto the mattress with a surge of strength, the bed creaking sharply as you climb over him, straddling his hips, your thighs once again bracketing his lean waist, knees sinking into the tangled blankets. He groans, low and guttural, as you line yourself up, the head of his cock brushing your entrance—bare, hot, pulsing against your slick heat. He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down toward the bedside table, fingers stretching for a condom packet in the dim light, but you catch his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a question in their dark depths, and you lean in close, breath hitching as you whisper, “I want to feel all of you.” His gaze darkens further, a flash of something feral passing through it, and he groans, deeper, his hand falling back to your hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh there as he surrenders to the moment.

You sink down slow at first, the stretch raw and intense, a searing burn that splits you open. Inch by thick inch, filling you completely with no layer between you, just the unfiltered heat of him inside. You moan, loud and trembling, your head tipping back as he bottoms out, hips flush against his, the fullness overwhelming, your walls clenching around him instinctively, a tight, greedy grip that makes him groan again, “God, you feel so good—shit.” Your nails bite into his chest, scraping over his pecs, leaving red trails across his pale skin as you start to move, lifting yourself up and dropping back down, the wet slap of your thighs against his steady, filthy rhythm. “Look at you,” he grunts in between each pass of you against his member, “avoiding me for weeks and now you’re practically begging for my cock.”

You moan, high and desperate, as you ride him, hips rolling with every rise and fall, the drag of him against your walls sending jolts of pleasure sparking through you, your ass bouncing against his thighs with each thrust, and he relishes in the movement of your breasts as you ride him. “Oh, God, Yoongi—” He groans, rough and primal, his hands guiding you, lifting you higher, slamming you down higher, the bed creaking wildly under the force, springs protesting as your pace quickens.

You lean forward, hands braced on his chest, nails digging deeper into the firm muscle, and he spanks you once—hard—the crack sharp and loud, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” The sting blooms hot across your ass, making you moan louder, a broken sound that echoes in the room. He spanks you again, “you like it rough, baby?” You nod in response, the heat spreading like wildfire, and you shudder, your rhythm faltering for a moment as the pain twists into pleasure, your moans climbing higher, constant now, spilling form you with every roll of your hips.

Yoongi’s groans deepen, his thrusts up to meet you turning erratic, his cock twitching inside you, and he moans, a strained, desperate sound, his abs clenching tight under his sweat slick skin, sweat beading on his brow as he fights the edge. “Fucking hell.” He shifts abruptly, hands gripping your waist, flipping you off him with a swift, strong twist that makes you yelp, a sharp moan tearing from your throat as he pulls out, leaving you empty and trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, slick and desperate. He moves fast, pushing you onto your stomach, “Ass up,” he demands, the bed creaking as he pulls your hips up, forcing you to comply, your knees sinking into the mattress.

He drives back in with a single, deep thrust, bottoming out in one brutal snap of his hips, hitting every spot, and you moan long and loud, “You feel so good, Yoongi, fuck,” your voice shakes as he fills you again, the new angle letting him go deeper, harder, his cock dragging against your walls with a precision that has your toes curling, your hands clawing at the sheets, tearing at the fabric. He groans, rough and primal, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, the force rocking your body forward, your face pressing into the pillow, muffling your constant moans—high, desperate, spilling from you with every snap of his hips, driving you closer to the edge.

Your climax builds fast, a tight coil snapping in your belly, every thrust, every spank, pushing you higher, “I’m so close, Yoongi! Gonna cum soon—” you moan louder, a desperate, shuddering sound as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching tight. Your orgasm hits hard, a shattering wave that rips through you, and you scream into the pillow, a raw, broken moan muffled against the fabric as your body shakes, trembling uncontrollably, pleasure crashing through you in relentless surges, your ass stinging, red and raw, your nails clawing at the sheets, tearing holes in the cotton as you ride it out, shuddering, lost in the raw heat of him inside you.

He feels it, groaning loud and rough, his thrusts turning sloppy, hips stuttering as your clenching walls grip him, and he cries out, “Ah shit, Y/N!” It’s a strained sound, breaking form his chest as he chases his own edge, sweat dripping onto your back, hot and slick. His climax snaps, a guttural moan tearing from him as he spills inside you, hot and deep, pulsing thick and unrestrained, filling you with every erratic trust. His hands pull you back onto him as he comes, trembling above you, breath ragged, breaking into rough sound as he rides his orgasm out, his cum leaking out, warm and sticky, dripping down your thighs. He collapses over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight heavy and grounding, both of you shaking, spent, tangled in the damp, sweat-soaked sheets. His arm drapes around your waist, breath hot and uneven against your neck, stirring the damp hair there.

The cold begins to seep into the room as the last candlelight flickers out with a faint hiss, plunging you into near-darkness, the only light a thin, silvery glow from the window that softly outlines Yoongi’s lean, shirtless form as he slides off your back and next to you. His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his flushed skin, catching the dim light across the sharp lines of his collarbones and the subtle ridges of his abs, now relaxed after the tension of before. Silence settles over you, thick and soothing, like a heavy blanket, muffling the world beyond—the storm outside reduced to a faint whisper against the glass, barely audible over the slowing thud of your pulse. You lie there, breathless and spent, your body heavy with exhaustion, tangled in the sweat-soaked fabric that clings to you, sticky and warm, but there’s a sweetness to it, a comfort in the mess you’ve made together.

Yoongi shifts beside you, rolling onto his side with a soft creak of the mattress, his movement careful, deliberate, as if he’s afraid to jostle you too much. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle, a quiet rasp softened by a thread of concern that makes your chest warm, his breath brushing your cheek as he props himself up slightly. You turn your head toward him, cheek sinking into the pillow, damp strands of your hair sticking to your flushed face, and catch his eyes in the dimness—soft, warm, searching yours with a tenderness that feels like a balm after the roughness.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse from exertion, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, your lids heavy with fatigue. “Wrecked, though—like, can’t-move wrecked.” He chuckles, a gentle, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest, and his hand slides up to your hair, fingers threading through the sweaty, tangled mess, rubbing your scalp with a slow, soothing touch that draws a faint moan form you, a sigh of pure relief.

“My favorite kind of wrecked,” he says softly, his tone teasing but laced with affection, his thumb brushing along your temple as he smooths your hair back, tracing the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that makes your heart flutter. His fingers linger, rubbing slow circles against your scalp, easing the faint ache form earlier tugging, and you feel your body soften under his touch, the tension melting away as you sink into the comfort of it. “You’re still warm,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, a quiet wonder in it as he leans closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a tender kiss, soft and fleeting but heavy with care. You snuggle into him, ignoring the sweat—his skin slick and sticky against yours, your cheek pressing into the curve of his chest, right above his heart, where the beat thumps steady and slow beneath your ear, grounding you. He pulls you tighter, his hand still moving through your hair, fingers sliding through the strands with a kindness that makes your chest ache.

“You’re sweaty,” you mumble, your breath warm against his chest, your nose brushing the hollow of his collarbone where the faint musk of him mixes with the salt of his skin, earthy and comforting.

“So are you,” he replies, his voice light, a smile threading through it, “but I don’t mind—keeps you close.” His hand shifts, sliding down from your hair to trace your skin, fingertips gliding over your shoulder, along the curve of your arm, then back up, featherlight and slow, mapping you with a tenderness that sends a shiver of warmth through you. Your body curls into his, legs tangling, the stickiness of your skin fading under the solace of his touch, the way he holds you like you’re something precious.

The room grows colder, the air brushing against the skin of your back where the sheets have slipped, but his warmth chases it away, his body a shield against the chill, his chest a steady anchor beneath your cheek. “Just rest, I’ve got you,” Yoongi whispers, and you smile against his chest, the sweat and mess a distant thought under his gentle touch, his fingers threading through your hair and tracing your skin, grounding you in his kindness as you drift, tangled together, sated and held in the quiet warmth of the moment.

--

Two months later, the late afternoon sun spills through the living room window of your shared apartment, casting a warm golden glow over the mismatched furniture—the sagging couch where Namjoon sprawls, the coffee table cluttered with empty takeout containers, and the armchair where you’re curled up, half-draped over Yoongi. The air smells faintly of soy sauce and fried rice, remnants of the lunch you all split, and the TV hums in the background, some random variety show Namjoon picked out but no one’s really watching. Yoongi’s arm rests lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm through the thin sleeve of your hoodie—his hoodie, technically, the faded black one you’ve claimed as your own. His hair’s a little longer now, his grown-out blonde strands brushing his eyes.

“I missed you today,” you murmur, tilting your head to nuzzle his jaw, your voice soft and sweet, a little pout in it as you press closer, your hand resting on his chest where his heart beats steady under your palm.

He chuckles, low and warm, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that quiet, gummy smile you adore. “Was only gone a few hours, doll.” he says, his tone teasing but tender, his hand sliding up to rub your hair gently, fingers threading through the strands like they’ve done a hundred times since that night two months ago.

“I still missed you,” you insist, leaning in to peck his cheek, and he hums, a contented sound, pulling you tighter against him, his lips brushing your temple in return.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Namjoon groans from the couch, his deep voice cutting through the moment as he flops his head back dramatically, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sight. He’s sprawled out in a T-shirt and sweats, lang legs dangling over the armrest, his dimples nowhere in sight as his face twists in mock disgust. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters, peeking out from under his arm to glare at you both, his annoyance palpable.

You giggle, turning to sick your tongue out at him, and Yoongi smirks, his hand still rubbing your hair as he leans his head against yours. “What, Joon? Jealous?” Yoongi teases, his voice light, and you snuggle closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder.

Namjoon sits up, tossing a throw pillow at you both—it misses, landing harmlessly on the floor—and runs a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “I suggested you crash here, man, because you said you needed a place to stay, not so you could turn my best friend into—into this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you tangled together, his time a mix of irritation and disbelief. “I swear, if you start jumping each other’s bones right in front of me, I’m moving to Japan. I’ll sleep on the street before I watch that.”

You laugh, bright and unrestrained, and Yoongi’s chuckle joins yours, his fingers tracing down your arm now, a soft, comforting glide. “Relax, Joon,” you say, grinning, “we’ll save it for when you’re not around.”

“Yeah, promise,” Yoongi adds, his voice deadpan but his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls you even closer, his lips brushing your ear just to mess with Namjoon more. He groans again, louder, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated huff, muttering, “Should’ve known this would happen—gross, both of you.”

He grabs the remote, cranking the TV volume up to drown out your giggles, while you and Yoongi stay wrapped up in each other, the warmth of his touch and the softness of his laughter a quiet comfort against Namjoon’s playful grumbling.

As the day fades into evening, the three of you setting into this new, chaotic normal, a little louder, a little messier, but unmistakably home.

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