teaching torches to burn bright

He had trained you well enough that all it took was a single word left you letting out a needy whimper, glossy eyes fluttering as you struggled to keep them open and hold eye contact with him. Thighs trembling, your legs practically jello as you folded down on your elbows, crying out his name and squirming through your climax. 

You’d been cumming so often it almost felt like an instinct instead of a chore. 

Burned into your bones, as natural as blinking or breathing. Whatever lube he usually rubbed on the vibrator before he attached it to you helped, made you ache to be filled, to be fucked. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been here. 

How many weeks you were his. Curled up in a soft bed he set up in his room for you – although he did inform you that the ‘higher ups’ were upset that he wasn’t keeping you confined in a cage at night. 

They demanded a compromise. That you couldn’t just walk around freely, insisting he keep you on a leash if he wanted to let you out of his compartment. It was demeaning, you knew that, but your capability to care had eroded in Satoru’s company. 

He was sweet, always stroking your hair with his extra hands, tracing those thick fingers over your skin and decorating you with kisses and hickies wherever he could. His affection had bewitched you, bound you to him until you were no matter than an addict, chasing the next climax by nuzzling up to him and pawing at his muscled thighs and broad chest. 

Begging to sleep in his bed together and batting your lashes, although even when you didn’t, he’d still always pad over to your smaller one and carry you back to his. 

Waking up to your cheek smushed on his warm skin, sometimes cradled against his collarbone or drowsy on his happy trail, drool connecting your mouth to his thick patch of hair. You liked mornings with him, liked being the person he started his day with, when the sex was slow enough that he dragged your orgasms out, almost ritualistic in his reverence. Each kiss was precise, like he spent hours planning each spot, the pressure behind it, whether or not to use teeth or tongue. 

Pet or partner, whatever the humans back on Earth or the other aliens on this ship wanted to call you, you didn’t mind. 

Satoru still treated you better than any man you’d even been with before did. 

Even if he had…stranger tastes. 

Back when you were still keeping track of time, during the second week here, he had proudly presented his dick to you in a box he wrapped himself. Completely naked other than that, a big blue ribbon tied to the top of his present. 

Two days later, he had conveniently ‘dropped’ the vibrator between a narrow gap in the furniture, pouting and pleading with you to crawl in and get it for him. Just for it to push it together and trap you there with your ass in the air and pretend it was an accident. 

He had tied you up and you tied him during the next round. You'd been on top of him and under and inside on just about every position you could imagine. 

But he still hadn't gotten sick of you.

Half of you was sort of anticipating it. Waiting for the day you'd wake up back in your bed, where you'd tell yourself this was all some vivid dream so you didn't have to face the fact that even an alien didn't want to commit to you. 

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru hummed, tapping on your practically empty head to catch your attention. You were still dazed though, drunk and dizzy on the aftermath of your high. 

“You,” you honestly answered. 

He was all you were thinking of lately. 

Satoru smiled at that, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Pulled the vibrator off of you, the cool air on your skin making you shiver. 

“Good girl,” he purred, and your heart lurched. 

You were falling harder for an alien than you ever had for any human before. 

How could you not? 

His time, his affection, his life, they were all wholly devoted to you too. 

You were the center of his universe – and he was yours. 

He tugged on your leash, and you were following by his feet while he led you through a new hallway for once, rather than returning you to his room. 

The question of where he was taking you was sitting heavy on your tongue, but you held it in. 

You had a feeling you knew anyway. 

He'd been talking about taking you to his friend, tracing shapes on your skin while he rambled on about someone named Suguru. A scientist here, one of them who specialized in human anatomy. 

“Suguru,” Satoru chirped, a door automatically opening for him as he pulled your leash forward again, almost making you stumble through the threshold. 

A bedroom – judging by the sprawling king sized one against one wall. Although this was sparsely decorated with any personal touches. Most of the room functioned more like an office, or lab. Strange devices scattered across desks, containers with bubbling liquids in all sorts of odd colors littering the surfaces next to syringes and other medical equipment. 

A man with dark hair was sitting at one of the desks, long limbs sprawled out, two hands busy writing something down while another hand fixed his hair up in a messy bun. Loose strands sticking out, but it was pretty, almost as much as he was. His head slowly turned, glancing over his broad shoulder, his lips pressed together in a thin line as his purple eyes scanned Satoru from top to bottom before shifting down to you. 

Satoru nudged you, dropping the leash before bending down to unlatch the collar. 

But instead of pulling you up to your feet, he just tilted his head towards his friend. A wordless gesture for you to go to him. 

Something in your stomach fluttered, and you crawled forward, carefully watching his reaction. An arched eyebrow. The twitch of his lips. Shoulders rolling back. Those gorgeous eyes narrowing into a squint when you stopped between his legs. 

You waited for a moment. Wondering if he’d share the disdain everyone in their species except for Satoru had towards you. But you were pretty sure you detected a hint of amusement in his stare.

You nuzzled against the inside of his thigh, looking up at him with wide eyes, rubbing your nose against his clothes and wondering if his skin would be as warm as Satoru’s was. Wishing you could drag your palms along his clearly muscled legs. 

“Say hi to Suguru,” Satoru instructed.

“Hi, Suguru,” you repeated, a pleasant little hum that you hoped he liked. 

“I thought cats only knew how to meow,” Suguru mocked, looking down at you with bored eyes. Four hands – and he wasn't even touching you with one of them. 

You hadn’t realized how much you might want him to until it was being withheld from you. Satoru was a giver, always holding out open palms and an eager mouth. But Suguru? 

You had a feeling he liked to take. 

“Did you watch the video I sent you?” Satoru pestered, walking over, his slow steps echoing on the cold floor. 

Suguru made a sound and you couldn’t decide if it was a scoff of annoyance or interest. Maybe disgust. 

“Of the human making milk?” The question was loaded. And it made your chest pull tight, automatically glancing down at the shape of your breasts, of your nipples peaked and perky after being exposed to the chill in the air. 

Satoru had been not-so-subtly hinting at one of his hopes for you. 

Groping and squeezing your tits at night, sucking on each one like he was still not quite convinced he couldn’t make milk leak out of it if he tried hard enough. 

No wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Spoiled, maybe. Stubborn, absolutely. 

But you couldn’t deny that the idea of it hadn’t started to swirl around in your thoughts more every day. Was it out of wanting Satoru’s approval?

You sorta doubted it – Satoru already offered plenty of that.  

But you liked belonging to him. How it felt to fulfill every one of his fantasies and discover more than a few of your own. 

“Isn’t it hot?” Satoru grinned, goading him into agreeing. “I mean, she’s already perfect, but imagine-”

“You want her to be a cat or a cow?” Suguru scoffed, but two of those thick fingers grabbed your chin, tilting your head to each side. Appraising you. One of his other hands plucked the cat ears off of you, tossing them back on his desk.

“Come on,” Satoru groaned, goading him as need started to simmer in your stomach at Suguru’s heated stare. “You know you could do it.” 

“I know,” Suguru dryly replied, that sharp slope of his pretty nose tilting up as he let go of your face. 

You whined. It wasn't even intentional. But you guessed pets did take after their owners, after all. 

“You’re greedy, hm?” Suguru murmured, looking down at you with those piercing purple eyes. Narrowing as your hands slid up to run over the bulge that was beginning to grow under his dignified robes.

He could pretend he was better than Satoru. But the proof was in his cocks, the hefty size of them throbbing underneath your palms. 

You nodded, rubbing over the thick length of one, slowly putting more pressure to see how he reacted. Watching his jaw clench and release as he tried to decide how bad of an idea it would be to give in to the two of you. 

You tilted your head to the side, pushing out your bottom lip. 

“Please?”

Alien men were somehow even easier than human men. 

It didn't take much more than that for Suguru to begrudgingly remove his robes, stripping down bare skin, just as pretty and perfect as Satoru’s. His antennas were almost hidden by his hair, but they stood straighter, vibrating softly as you stayed on your hands and knees for them. 

On the bed instead of the floor. 

“You're gonna love this,” Satoru was rambling behind you, already lining himself up with your pussy, hands on your hips keeping you in place while one of his swollen tips traced over your slick folds. 

“I would love it more if you shut up for two seconds,” Suguru sarcastically muttered, but his attention was solely focused on you. How you were staring at the shape of his dicks. They weren't quite as long as Satoru’s, but they were thicker. 

You crawled forward a couple inches right when Satoru tried to put his first cock in, earning a huff from him right as you wrapped your lips around one of Suguru’s. 

It was a tight fit. 

All of him forced in as you tried to open wide, his girth pressed up against the roof of your mouth. But his groan, how deep and gravelly it was at the warm embrace of your throat, it made your pulse pound, heart thrumming with excitement. 

Body tingling at his touch when he suddenly gripped your hair. Skin simmering with the heat from your core as you sucked on his dick, putting on the best show you could. 

Satoru snickered at Suguru’s guttural reaction, one of his strong arms wrapping underneath your waist to support you before he suddenly buried himself in your cunt, knowing your knees would buckle the second he bottomed out. Holding you up while you moaned uselessly into Suguru’s cock, the reverberations only making him throb too. 

You didn't know who was filthier. 

Yourself being spit roasted between two aliens – or the guy whose idea it was in the first place. Or maybe the one who was letting sex be a bargaining chip to decide if he'd offer his help. 

Satoru’s second cock was edging against your ass, threatening to stretch you out and slip in. But you were too distracted by the one currently in your mouth, struggling not to gag as it bobbed into the back of your throat. 

Suguru was an expert at commanding attention, drawing yours back to him with just a tug of your hair. 

“Don’t let him talk you into it if you don’t want it,” Suguru murmured softly, brushing your hair back out of your face. Sweat was dripping down your forehead, your lips stretched in a wide ring to let him thrust through, clawing at his chest as thick fingers tangled deeper in your hair. 

“I-I want it,” you whined, but it came out all muffled, practically unintelligible, spit pooling in the back of your mouth as you practically choked on his cock, your other hand still stroking his other cock as fast as you could. 

Everything about it was sloppy. 

There was too much to focus on. 

Too many hands. Too many dicks. 

And then something pricked your neck, not hard enough to actually hurt, but it still made you yelp. Jolting right as Satoru slammed back into your cunt, grinding against your cervix.

Being stretched out, stuffed full, still sensitive from how many highs you'd been riding on lately, your body – and maybe your brain too – felt like it was on the verge of breaking. 

Gurgling and groaning around Suguru’s dick while a strange sensation started to coil and churn in your chest. It was overwhelmingly warm, bright enough to burn through your veins as you saw Suguru drop a now-empty syringe beside the bed. 

Then it struck you. 

Your chest felt…heavier. 

It was almost imperceptible, might have even gone unnoticed if you didn't feel something suddenly damp dripping down your skin. 

A few slow seconds passed, piecing together fractured thoughts before you realized Satoru had received what he was wishing for. 

You were lactating. 

Beads of milk forming at the tip of your nipples, slowly leaking out onto the bed below. You let out a surprised gasp, just audible enough for Satoru’s thrusts to stall to see what happened. 

You felt his warm breath on your skin, him leaning closer to assess you out of concern before he noticed it too. 

“You did it,” Satoru lightly laughed, and all of a sudden, he was pulling out – and tugging you back enough that all your holes were suddenly empty. 

Your position was flipped again, your brain stuttering and pausing to catch up with what was happening. Satoru was on his back, pulling you on top of him, your breasts dangling in his face before he buried himself between them. 

His tongue dragged over your nipple, and the sound that escaped him was depraved. Eagerly sucking and slurping, trying to drain you dry. 

“You're even sweeter than I thought,” he murmured, lips coated and glossy with your milk. 

Suguru clicked his tongue, searching for the credit he had yet to receive. 

“You’re supposed to say thank you,” he chided his friend, but he was moving, the bed creaking as he got off and moved so he was the one behind you. A palm that wasn’t quite calloused, but not nearly as soft as Satoru’s ran down your spine slowly while a sharp set of teeth nipped at your sensitive nipple. 

Satoru pulled off with a lewd pop! to laugh again. “I’m letting you taste her too.” 

You whined at unfamiliar fingers slipping between your thighs, swirling around as Suguru felt inside you. Curling and crooking with nearly clinical precision, curious to see what other sounds you'd make while Satoru was busy reaping his reward. 

He hummed, dragging his sturdy digits across your walls like he wanted to see just how much it could give, but your focus was shifting back to Satoru below you. Bright blue eyes wild and feral, beaming as he switched nipples. He had a fistful of your breasts in each hand, squeezing and groping to get more milk out, his other two hands on your waist to hold you tight. He was mumbling something, but you couldn't understand it. 

The fingers inside you pulled out. 

But Suguru wasn't finished with you yet. 

His tip nudged its way inside, so slow you were holding your breath and waiting for him to force it the rest of the way through. Suguru, however, was far more patient than Satoru ever was. 

Each inch taking its sweet time sinking in, like he was testing you. The idea that you were just an experiment to him was hotter than it should be. 

Sandwiched between both of them, Satoru’s body firm and hard underneath you while Suguru’s toned chest pressed flat against your back. Filled up with his cock, his second one snuggled right by your ass as he kept you locked in place. 

“You’re well-trained, hm?” He teased, and you were numbly nodding again. Blindly agreeing to anything he said, walls clenching down and squeezing at his thick length spearing you open. 

It wasn't fair. 

Was the rest of their species as well-endowed as these two? 

Or were they just special cases? 

Suguru’s hips smacked down into your ass and Satoru nipped at you again when you let out a breathy gasp, starting to stutter out something that was supposed to be a name. 

But you couldn't finish when someone slipped a greedy hand between your thighs. 

You tried to look, but your body felt limp. 

Touched all over, skin searing from their arms and their fingers toying with you, like you were just some pretty plaything made for their pleasure. 

Every circle they dragged over your clit was torture, tempting you to take a headfirst dive into another orgasm. Your eyes scrunched shut, your head falling forward just for Suguru to tug your hair back, forcing you to stay up while he kept up more mean thrusts. He was demanding, his mouth suddenly marking your shoulder up to your throat, letting his canines scrape over your tendon. 

“You're a mess,” Suguru chided, and his degradation only made you more attracted to him. “About to cum on my cock in front of your mate.” 

Was that what they considered you were to Satoru? 

A mate?

That was kinda like being married, right? 

“F-fuck,” you whimpered, thighs starting to tremble, your skin slick and sweaty, shifting over Satoru as Suguru fucked you down against him. Your mate's cocks were hard, twitching underneath your body as one of their hands kept massaging your clit. 

What was left of your mind was melting. Head dizzy, navigating through the fog with only them to guide you through it. 

Milk was still leaking out, your tits slightly swollen as Satoru readjusted, all wide-eyed and smiling when he looked up at you. 

“Be nice to my girl,” he scolded Suguru. Sweet and sour. 

They made a lethal pair. 

And you were stuck in the middle. Literally. 

Satoru grabbed your hand, moving it so it was practically trapped between your body and his, your fingers wrapping around one of his cocks.

A mess of limbs. Giving Satoru a handjob while Suguru gave you backshots. Sweat and saliva and slick and fucking milk all dripping out onto the sheets below. Satoru’s moans drowning out your own keen whines and Suguru’s throaty grunts.

You couldn't tell who came first.

Just a searing white wall of pressure and pleasure, falling forward and burying your face into Satoru’s neck, collapsing into him while crushed stars splattered across your vision. The feeling of being full, of being fulfilled, shuddering as you unravelled and let yourself fall apart into a billion tiny pieces. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Satoru purred, and someone was kissing you again. Your hair, your shoulder, painting your skin with bites. Cum landing on your stomach – his. Cum filling your cunt – Suguru’s. 

Cocks throbbing on and in you, stuck in place with no room to squirm when you were still sandwiched with them under and over you. 

“Shit,” Suguru grunted behind you, reluctantly pulling out. “She took it better than I thought.” 

His hand travelled over your ass, rubbing it appreciatively. If you had more energy, you might've shown him you could bite too. But all you could manage was a weak huff. 

“She's still mine,” Satoru protectively said, and you wondered if he might snatch you from his friend. 

He might be willing to share you, but at the end of the day, you were only his. 

“I know,” Suguru tch-ed, but he didn't get off. 

Satoru hummed like he was satisfied with his answer. Squeezing your breasts again appreciatively, while the last of the tension leaked out of your hips and thighs, relaxing in his hold. 

“Think you could figure out how to knock her up next?”

indie's kinktober

He had permanently borrowed an odd-looking rectangle, purely because it was shiny and fit underneath his shirt when he got beamed back up, using their far more advanced technology to sift through the files to find something that failed to satiate his curiosity. Instead, it sparked an entirely new kind, staring rapt at the screen in his room as video after video of humans mating played out in positions he hadn't thought possible.

Using different holes and sticking body parts in places he was pretty sure they weren't supposed to be, panting and moaning and sweating on camera while they came. And they seemed to do that a lot.

Gojo studied their creativity. Their commitment to pleasure - the rituals they'd perform, the exchange of sex as a form of currency, the fabled pizza guy and the females proclivity to get stuck in dryers.

He even stitched together his own lingerie, even if his fingers ends up bloody by the end of it.

Sex up on the spaceship was boring. Solely for procreation purposes. He'd been rejecting potential mates for years, people who just wanted his position as the future heir to their conglomeration for power.

And yeah, maybe they weren't so civilized, but he was starting to think humans had something right.

After all, their genitalia was sorta like theirs. They could be having this much fun too!

If everyone wasn't so stuffy about everything and insisted on following 'protocols' all the time.

But they'd see just how right he was soon - especially now that he had a test subject of his own.

This was not a nightmare.

You thought it was, at first. Convinced this had to be a strange dream, something your brain concocted after a couple bad horror movies.

Strapped down to a table? Without a single fucking memory of how you got there?

What else could it be?

But you could feel the cool air brushing over your peaked nipples, touch the smooth surface under your palms, blink and squint at the too-bright lights lining the spherical ceiling. Legs held up, fastened in stirrups.

Still, your first conclusion wasn't extraterrestrial. No, you were sure you'd been abducted by some serial killer, kidnapped and taken back to a makeshift dungeon designed to drive you crazy.

Straining against cool metal, squirming and splayed out like a science experiment for anyone to see.

"Hello?" You called out, only getting the faint echo of your own voice back to keep you company.

No one answered. But you couldn't crane your neck to check and see if you were being ignored.

You felt like you were being watched.

Small bumps trailing over your skin when you shivered, an annoying little itch grating at your nerves and insisting you weren't alone.

Still, you wouldn't have guessed what - or technically, who - was with you.

Not until the footsteps.

They were wrong. The pace was just off, some imperceptible thing making your heart race that you couldn't quite place. Were they too close together? Too far apart? Too heavy? They were accompanied by more odd noises, your brain struggling to process it, like listening to a foreign language on the radio, picking apart bits and pieces and trying to make sense out of them.

"Who's there?"

It felt like a cheesy horror movie. You could hear yourself half an octave too high, all pitchy and petrified, but you couldn't control it. Couldn't stop yourself from shivering as you were surrounded by shadows.

Your chest heaved. Your wrists strained. But before you could scream or shout, something sharp pricked your neck, and you were almost instantly paralyzed.

Not fully, but your muscles went from fighting to faintly twitching, but they didn't respond to your brain's demands to move. You could still look around, still could twist and turn your head as much as the collar around your neck allowed.

You were terrified for the worst.

Of being touched, your skin splayed or torn while you could do nothing but stare at the blank walls.

But instead, they just watched.

Something cold grazed against your skin, but it was little more than a faint trail along your leg. A few more pricks in your arm, like they were taking blood samples.

Then they left.

Whatever they were.

The silence was somehow worse. Waiting for them to return. Waiting for some horrible fate to befall you.

Just when you were on the brink of hyperventilating, a few tears pricking at your lash line you couldn't wipe away, you heard them again.

One of the creatures whined, the cold contraptions keeping your thighs spread only pushing them further apart when you tried to move again, muscles still burning through whatever was numbing your body and keeping you mostly frozen from the neck down.

The other one replied in that strange language, and you couldn't comprehend what the fuck they were saying, but it sounded cold. All clinical and curt.

A door shut. And those strange steps came back. These were lighter though, quicker.

A pair of blue eyes were suddenly above yours, bright and intelligent, deep enough to drown in. Unnatural white lashes fluttering, narrowing as he studied your reactions. But it was hard to focus on him when the world felt all foggy, only able to process everything in broken pieces. You tried to recount what was in front of you.

Fading footsteps. Faint beeping. Cold restraints on your wrists. White walls.

And him.

You figured you were really fucked when you had the distant thought some cute guy had to pulling some cruel prank on you. Even though you could only see him from the shoulders up, it almost looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume. His skin practically shimmered, like some strange movie-style special effect, a soft shade that didn't make sense to your addled brain, antennas sticking up in his tousled white hair.

But then something warm brushed against your cheek, moving your hair to the side and sliding something inside your ear, readjusting for a moment.

"Can you understand me now?"

You nodded, as much as you could given the cold collar around your throat keeping your head down on the table.

"Good," he beamed at you, flashing teeth that were mostly human - even if his canines were too sharp for your liking. "I made that myself."

"W-who are you?" You managed to speak, still breathing too fast, trying to glance around again. "Where am I?"

"You can call me Satoru," he earnestly answered, but he paused, blinking as if he hadn't expected you to ask that. "We're on a spaceship."

"Uh-huh," you dryly replied, throat constricting as you tried to consider the chance he was telling the truth and that you weren't on a reality tv show one of your friends signed you up for.

"I'm being serious," he pouted, leaning down to look even closer at you.

His eyes were starry, speckled and swirling, magnetic, pulling you into his heated stare. His breath was cold against your skin, making you shiver and retreat back. But the metal slab you were on was even chillier, stealing all the oxygen from your lungs.

He looked less human up close. All his features were just slightly wrong, the kind of pretty and perfect that people would have to get plastic surgery and pay years worth of their salary to weakly replicate.

But he looked at you like you were the most captivating thing he'd ever seen.

"A-are you going to probe me?" You didn't realize you actually believed him until you heard the question leave your lips.

You were kinda hoping he'd laugh, assuage your fears. But he just tilted his head to the side considerately.

"Would you like me to?" Like he was your fucking gracious host, happy to oblige his guest's whims and wants.

"Um, what?" You stared. He smiled.

"I could use my fingers, or one of those, how do you call them, dil-" He began offering, and your head was spinning at the concept that aliens knew what sex toys were.

"You don't have to," you interrupted before he could finish, and you were pretty sure he was disappointed.

His little antennas drooped, his bottom lip twitching into a down-turned frown.

"Why am I here?" You changed the subject, unable to break eye contact with your new...acquaintance?

Were you about to be alien livestock? Spliced apart? Stuck in this stasis on this freezing slab forever?

"Research," he grinned again, those sharp blue eyes trailing south, his stare dragging over your exposed body. Antennas shooting straight up, subtly twitching with what you were starting to think was arousal.

"Research?" You echoed, holding your breath, heat coiling inside your stomach at his intensity. At how transfixed he was, tracing your outline and mapping it out just with his greedy gaze.

"I'd like to study your pleasure," he murmured, a not-very-subtle emphasis on the last word, his voice low.

Your brain was buzzing. Nerves electrified at the prospect of how your definition of pleasure might differ from his.

But the fear had dissipated, or maybe just coiled into something more dangerous. Desire.

"Can I touch you?" He hesitated, and you had to stop yourself from gawking. Mouth parting as you tried to figure out if he was actually asking for consent in this situation.

"D-do you want to?" You felt like you were just returning his question, a weak attempt to discern his intentions.

Part of you had started to reconsider the possibility you were dreaming before he chuckled, and your pulse pounding in your ears convinced you once again this was real.

Spread open in stirrups in front of your strange alien abductor.

But it wasn't apprehension or anxiety pumping through you anymore. It was anticipation, staring down a cliff and preparing to fling yourself off of it after his mouth curled up in a cute smirk.

"More than anything."

God, he made it sound like foreplay.

You bit your lip, tasted the hint of blood and iron on it, before making what was probably the stupidest decision of your life. You nodded.

His antennas were vibrating when he reached down to press his palm against your cheek, cupping your face. Soft, like a boyfriend would. Humming and exhaling as he smiled. His eyes didn't crinkle, no little lines etched by his lips, tiny details that stood out and made you shiver.

"I'm going to examine you first," he murmured, and you didn't know exactly how his lungs worked, or if he even had any, but it sounded like his breath hitched. His chest straining to hold it in, hold himself together as his hand traced over the cool metal of the collar down to your chest.

He used both hands.

Grabbing both your tits, not exactly groping, but squeezing hard enough to feel your skin and tissue underneath squish and shift, pure delight dancing across his face.

It was the weirdest breast exam you ever had.

Soft fingers, free of callouses, free of prints, danced over your nipples, making small stars over them.

You assumed he didn't know what he was doing. That maybe this was his first time touching a human. Or maybe a woman at all.

But then he pinched, ripping a raw gasp from your throat as you blinked up at him in surprise.

Satoru hadn't stopped though. Only emboldened by the sound he pulled from you, twisting and tweaking just enough to send sparks down your spine, heat simmering inside your stomach, unable to even squirm when he leaned down, deciding that touching wasn't enough.

He wanted a taste of you.

His tongue was rougher than you imagined, dragging over your nipple with even more fervor. You tried to crane your neck, but it didn't offer enough space for you to see his face, just those pretty blue antennas bobbing above the sea of white while he licked and lapped.

Straight-up sucking on your tits, teeth grazing against your sensitive nipples as he continued to knead into your chest.

You wished you had panties on, anything to hide how wet he was making you, thighs damp and unable to even close them to hide how hot you unfortunately found it.

Satoru pulled off with a filthy pop! before turning his attention back to you, pretty pink lips shiny with saliva as he pouted. "How come there's no milk?"

"Milk?" You gaped, the question coming out shaky, still catching your breath as you stared at his piercing blue eyes.

"Am I not doing it right?" He quizzed, running a finger back over your nipple before pinching again, only stoking the flames he'd set.

You hadn't realized how horny you were until you had to put together enough brain cells to form a coherent sentence, stumbling over your thoughts as you tried to get the words out, "T-that only happens when a girl is like, pregnant."

His brows scrunched together, processing this new interesting bit of information.

"I see," he nodded, as if it was now obvious to him. But he still applied more pressure, like he had to double check. As if he was doing some mental calculation to figure out how to induce it.

One of his fingers trailed down, past your mid-riff and over your belly button - although he did pause to press on that too, just to see if it'd do anything. When it didn't, he kept moving south. He walked around the bed, out of your sight again, both hands settling on your splayed-out thighs.

They were bigger than anyone else's you'd ever been with before. Soft and massive, sinking into your pliable muscles, humming with approval as he just stared.

You were self-conscious, trying to get your weakened muscles to shift when you heard a faint clutter. Your brain tried to do the math.

There were two hands on your thighs - so what the fuck was grabbing stuff?

It wasn't until the third hand slipped between your folds, spreading them even further apart so a fourth could spread something slick over it, that you figured out what was happening.

He had four arms.

And he was more than happy to put all of them to use.

You were already stuck. Already exposed. But he seemed intent on exploring every inch of you for himself, taking his time to drag his palms over the expanse of your body while that frustratingly gentle fourth hand slowly rubbed his palm over your entrance. Massaging in what you guessed was lube, although it made your brain feel even fuzzier. Your senses heightened, tuned into some new frequency, each subtle swirl threatening to make you shiver.

"You're pretty," he complimented, and all the warmth in your chest flooded your face, flushed as you strained to keep yourself from squeaking.

Not being able to see him was a special kind of torture. You wanted to see his face. Study what kind of face he was making when he was drawing such delicate patterns over your skin, murmuring at the little blemishes and marks on them with interest.

One of his fingers moved up, poking at your clit with just enough force to make you jolt. Well, as much as you could given how tight the restraints were, and how little your muscles would let you move with whatever his fellow aliens had put in your system.

"How did that feel?" Satoru curiously asked, circling around it, careful not to touch it again, but obviously amused by your reaction.

"G-good," you murmured. Your voice broke though, cracked when a stray thumb suddenly slipped between your slick folds, fresh goosebumps running down your flesh as he dipped in your wet warmth.

One word - and he was pulling his thumb out to push a full finger in.

It was longer than it should've been, thicker. Swirling lazily around, pressing against your walls like he was testing how much it could stretch.

If that was a finger, you didn't know how you'd fit his cock.

"I-I-" You started, struggling to breathe, struggling to think when you felt something else trying to slot in next to the first.

"Mhm?" He drawled, daring you to tell him more, hanging off every little sound he tore out. You might've managed to murmur that you didn't know how much more you could handle, but then you were being speared open, mean fingers digging into your thighs to pin them down against the freezing table.

The next noise he dragged out of you was feral. Some filthy moan, one that echoed off the walls and came from the back of your throat.

It felt like he was trying to stuff his fucking fist in there.

"S'too-" You whined, but you couldn't even finish. Trying to crane up again, desperate to see what he was doing.

"That's only two fingers," he murmured, experimenting out what it'd take to make you split, scissoring with steady strokes, like he was counting the seconds between each one in his head. "You can take it."

Confident, cocky, slowly increasing the pace, fingering you fast, eventually finding that sweet little spot at the back, crooking them cruelly and chuckling at the lewd squelches of your cunt.

"Look at you," he purred, and you didn't think you'd ever heard anyone sound so pleased. "Every part of you is perfect."

"Mm, S'toru," you slurred his name, eyes rolling back, thighs starting to tremble before he pulled his fingers back out, and you heard the distinct sound of him sucking them clean, moaning himself at the taste of you on his tongue.

You felt empty. Hot. Your skin burning, your body begging for him to keep going, all your thoughts drifting incoherently as you tried to drag out some sensibility from the recesses of your mind. But everything was too cloudy, barely clinging onto what was left of your rationality as one of his hands pressed down on your clit, rolling his palm over it, applying just enough pressure to make you croon.

Whining, all pitchy and weak, fingers forming a fist as you squirmed.

"You need more?" He teased, and you were already nodding, hips trying to move to entice him.

When it came down to it, you supposed you were just another animal, devolving down to your most basic instinct when the right stimulation came along. Depraved.

You felt him shuffle before you saw him, heard the creak of the table as his broad body climbed on top of you.

His hands shifting, one on your hip, one grabbing one of your tits, fully groping you now before he reached up with another to brush your hair back.

You were a little scared to think what he might be doing with the fourth one.

But his eyes were on you, and you were lost in them. Immediately sucked into the shimmer of them, even when the blue was almost swallowed by his blown-out pupils.

"Both my cocks are much bigger than the average penis size on your planet," he proudly proclaimed, something thick and wet nudging back between your thighs.

"Both?"

Too late.

The stretch burned. Each ridge practically engraving itself, leaving an imprint inside you as he slowly dragged along your walls. Pushing past the first ring of resistance with a throaty groan of his own, embarrassingly loud, his sharp jaw locked as he forced the last few inches in.

"That's my girl," he moaned, leaning down to kiss you to swallow your squeak, your guts being rearranged before he had even pulled back out to start fucking you properly.

Where the hell had he even learned to talk like that? Know how to make the butterflies in your stomach somersault?

And really, how on Earth (or in orbit) were you somehow nodding along to the idea of being an alien's girl?

"Told ya you can take it," he murmured between breaths, sucking on your bottom lip messily, biting hard enough you were pretty sure it might be bleeding. But you were too far gone to care, mindlessly agreeing in whimpers.

"Mm, mm," you tried to speak, but nothing more would come out, eyes rolling back when you felt a new pressure pushing against your puckered hole.

He paused though, pulling back enough to wink at you, white lashes fluttering as one of his hands let go of you to reach out and fumble for something on the other table you couldn't see. "Almost forgot."

You didn't get a chance to ask what before he was rubbing more of that lube there, shuddering at the almost slimy feeling on your skin.

Apprehensively, you tensed, but then he started fucking you, and you forgot to even breathe.

Only able to take and take and take, when he started stretching your ass out with a finger while he pumped your cunt full. It didn't feel like a normal cock - and not just because of its size. It was almost ribbed.

It didn't hurt, but it was the kind of intense that was impossible to ignore. Grinding deep against your womb, coaxing you into crying his name when his cock rubbed against all those spots he mapped out earlier.

Your mouth was watering, but he kept kissing you, testing how it felt to press his lips against the corner of your mouth, across your cheek, even down your jaw.

And when he started pushing his other cock in?

Your mind melted. Reason dissolving until the only thing left inside you was him.

You had never even done anal before.

But here you were, letting an alien stuff both your holes past the brim, his cocks big enough you could feel the pressure building and building, only separated by the thin wall of your anatomy.

Satoru was toying with your tits again, like stress toys made specially for him, all the overstimulating sensations mixing together and mounting, heightening each other until all you knew was his hands and his mouth and his cocks. Rewired by how good it felt to be played with, how right it felt to be stretched and split open.

You didn't even sound human anymore, Satoru devouring every single one of your devastated whimpers, encouraging more with delicious whispers that left you arching your back as much as you could off the table.

He bottomed both cocks out, and you thought you might die. Pain? Pleasure? Both?

And then he was back to rubbing more of that lube over your clit, thighs trembling and body quivering as he soothed you through it.

"You wanna cum for me, sweetheart?" He purred, and you could've climaxed from the cute smirk curling up on his lips, his perfectly sculpted face and those pretty patterns he was busy pressing against your swollen bud.

He pulled his fingers back right as you were about to crest over it, chuckling when you let out a huff.

"Say my name again."

"Toru, p-please," you were begging. Unable to move your wrists, to tether your fingers in his hair or claw at his shoulders, giving him your best set of puppy dog eyes.

He seemed to already see you as his pet.

"Well," he hummed, thumb returning to rubbing you again. "When you say it like that."

With one mean circle, Satoru dragged you over the edge - and dropped you into the ocean of him. White (and blue) blurred your vision, your body shuddering as you desperately cried his name, his thrusts somehow lazy and rushed, burying both his cocks in you and moaning at how hard you clenched down on them.

"S'fucking tight," he hissed, but he was right there with you, cumming hard and fast inside you too, hot spurts of it coating your insides as he throbbed inside you.

Your skin was still warm when he pulled out, your muscles sore and tense, body exhausted as you blinked up at him.

"That was fun," he grinned. "Ready for round two?"

Gojo couldn't have created a better specimen himself.

You fulfilled his every fantasy - and then some.

The research department found him two hours later, grumbling about getting locked out of the lab just to find the culprit readjusting a homemade vibrator with clinical precision to your clit.

His new favorite subject not quite passed out yet, cumming for the twelfth time, weak whimpers rolling out, a mess between your thighs and covering the clinic table.

You were drunk on him, delirious since orgasm six, nodding along to all his suggestions, pressing kisses to his skin every time he was close enough, not even straining against the cuffs or collar anymore. Just accepting all that he threw at you.

He checked off twenty items from his bucket list so far already - but he still had about a thousand more to go. Tying you up, fucking your mouth, pressing your thighs up to your chest, bending you over on the desk so he could role play as your boss. Walk you around on all fours around the spaceship and show his newest prize.

"This is unacceptable."

Blah blah blah.

He wasn't listening to whatever they were complaining about. All he was thinking about was new ways to explore your body, how much more research he was dying to do.

He hadn't stopped touching you, refusing to budge, your eyes rolled back and pretty little gasps panting from your lips as he turned up the setting on the vibrator.

"You cannot have sexual intercourse with our test subjects," snapped one of the higher-ups, scoffing at him with that annoying little chitter.

Gojo resented that he said subjects.

It wasn't plural. He only wanted you.

"Why not?" He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's unethical," Suguru chimed in, leaning against the wall, like he wasn't watching your cute disoriented face scrunching up mid-climax.

"You kidnap them without their consent," Gojo pointed out. They didn't get to say no to him. It was his family's funding that supported their expeditions - covered the fuel costs to beam their unsuspecting test subjects up. "At least she consented to this."

One of the directors of the lab grimaced, all of them exchanging looks while Suguru snorted behind them.

What did humans say?

Checkmate.

"Sweetheart."

Someone was nudging you, a weak noise leaving your mouth, a keen whine as you blinked up at the bright lights. Waking up from a wet dream into a weirder reality, squinting up at Satoru's familiar face.

You felt the clamps unlock, thick fingers grazing against your throat before the collar was finally off.

He helped you sit up, your limp body moving like jello, thighs sore, no strength left to stand as you fell into his chest.

"They said I could keep you," he excitedly murmured, cradling you against him. He ruffled your hair, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before nuzzling your nose.

Keep you?

It took a few seconds to set in, your body sluggish as he already started rambling off plans, promising you pretty toys and a soft bed to sleep in, saying that you how cute you'd look all dressed up, how fun life together would be when you got to have sex all the time.

Maybe being an alien's pet wouldn't be so bad.

small disclaimer: i am not a therapist, but i definitely go to therapy! a lot of the dialogue in that scene may or may not reflect your own therapy experiences, but some of it is directly pulled from conversations i've had with my therapist. that being said, i'm not a doctor, please don't take any of my suggestions on how to cope with trauma literally. be safe out there. <3

The waiting room for your new therapist’s office is cold today, but all of Seoul is cold today. You tuck your cardigan tighter around yourself and nervously bite the inside of your cheek and then take a long sip of water to stop yourself, your hands fidgeting together as you try to just look at the painting across the room. 

It’s a wash of swirling hues of blue. 

It’s probably supposed to make you feel calm, but all you can picture is rough ocean water, and you look back down at your hands. 

Your phone lights up in your lap and you tap the screen. 

Deep breaths, babe. — Mingi’s message softens your tense shoulders immediately. 

You tap out a quick reply — I’m breathing. 

Just remember, last session you came home saying how much you liked her — Yunho’s replies into the group chat. 

True — You tap back.

  We love you, and I’m picking you up something special for when you get to the studio — Mingi says, and you can already picture a box of sweet confections, you know exactly how he spoils you after living with them for even just a few weeks. 

Thank you, baby — You reply. 

I’ll pick you up after, okay? Just text me if you need anything — Yunho’s message comes through right as the door to your left opens, and you take one quick second to add a heart to his message so he knows you read it before looking up. 

“y/n,” Dr. Kang says as she steps back from the door and opens her palm to welcome you into her office, “come on in,” 

You thank her with a bow of your head and slip into the office, still getting used to this new space. Settling in on the plush, dark blue velvet sofa, you find yourself already reaching for one of the throw pillows to set on your lap so you have something in your hands while your insides are pulled out and examined. 

She eases into the armchair across from you and gives you a kind expression. 

Something about her starts to ease your tension already. Yunho was right, your new therapist is good, and you do like her already. After trying to make therapy work for three sessions with one that didn’t feel quite right and having your tentative progress derailed, Yunho had helped you find another with no questions asked and you ended up with Dr. Kang. 

It’s only your fourth time meeting her, but it’s your first of two sessions this week. You booked an emergency session the second you had a moment alone after your heat spike, a knot deep in your gut telling you that this wasn’t something you could just talk through with your partners. 

Now you’re sitting on her couch first thing Monday morning, swimming in Yunho’s hoodie and picking at the skin around your nails as she settles into her seat across from you, crossing her legs and resting her hands on the leatherbound notebook on her lap. 

She’s a sharp and inquisitive woman, and unlike some therapists, she doesn’t just ask you how you feel about something until you twist yourself into verbal knots coming up with an answer that will appease by the end of the session. She’s quick to interrupt, to dial things back, and to press you harder in ways that are uncomfortable. You wonder if that’s her style with everyone, or if she picked up on the fact that you need that to be able to get out of your own head about these things. 

Her calm voice gently interrupts your thoughts, “y/n,” she gives you a gentle, empathetic look, “why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’re here today?”

“Right,” Your hands drop to your lap, “well, I called your office to see if you could fit me in before work today,” 

“Mm,” She nods, “I know how you scheduled, I meant, what made you feel like you needed an additional session this week?” 

You nod along with her working yourself up, “It’s kind of a long story,” 

“We have plenty of time,” 

“Okay,” You tuck your hands under your thighs to keep yourself from fiddling with your cuticles even more, “well, my best friend went into heat and I had to help get his boyfriend, or his… partner, well, actually I’m not sure what they’re calling themselves yet,” 

“This is,” She glances at her notebook, “Wooyoung and Yeosang, yes?” 

“Yes,” You exhale, relieved that she remembered so easily. 

“And how was that experience?” 

“Oh,” You shake your head, “fine, they’re fine, but I think being around all those scents, it triggered a heat spike for me.” 

Her eyes sharpen, “I see,” 

“Yeah,” 

“Can you tell me where this spike occurred? Were you with Wooyoung and his pack, or did this happen later?”

”I was with my partners, Yunho and Mingi,” you explain, “my alphas,” 

She nods, but leaves the floor open for you to continue. 

“It hit out of nowhere, it was like zero to sixty, I was fine, and then I was right in the middle of it,”

“That sounds disorienting,” She offers. 

“Very,” You sigh. 

“How did your alphas handle the situation?” 

That makes you soften, “Really well, honestly,” 

She nods again. 

“They calmed me down, took care of me,” You pull the pillow closer to your chest, a light heat building in your cheeks when you think about how they had you knotted between them, “it was honestly really good,” 

“That’s good to hear,” She smiles this time, genuinely, “from everything you’ve told me so far, your alphas have been prioritizing your recovery and your safety, I’m glad to hear they were able to handle an unexpected heat spike in a way that felt good for you.” 

“I was scared,” You clarify, “but they helped me work through that.” 

“That’s good,” 

A strange flutter rocks in your chest and your eyes flick down, “It was honestly great,” you feel the words coming faster, “we spent the day in bed, and tried a bunch of new stuff. Yunho and Mingi got closer too which I feel like is really good, that’s good for us, and then we all, you know, together, which was great, honestly great.” 

“y/n,” Dr. Kang gently but firmly interrupts, “can you tell me what is making you feel anxious? It sounds like there’s more to say about the encounter,” 

You grimace, hands tightening on the pillow, “It’s not that,” 

“Alright,” 

You look back up and meet her steady gaze, “If I’m having a heat spike, that means my real heat is around the corner.” 

She nods, “Most likely, yes,” 

“I’m,” Emotion catches tight in your throat, “I’m not ready for that.” 

“Say more,” 

“My heats are hard,” You explain, even though you’ve told her this before, “I get really hazy sometimes, really hazy. The first heat I had with Yunho and Mingi, I don’t remember a good bit of it.” 

“Mm,” She nods, “I’m not an omega, but I work with many omega clients as you know. Discomfort or fear surrounding the gaps in memory during heat is a common conversation with many of those clients.” 

“Last time,” You feel your heartbeat picking up in your chest at just the thought of it, “I would come to in the middle of a knot, I could hear myself saying things, doing things, I wasn’t even… it’s like something took over my body.” 

“Mm,” She hums sympathetically.

  “I think because Yunho and Mingi are my scent matches it’s even more intense,” You admit, “biologically speaking.” 

“That makes sense,” She nods, “studies show that the effects of heats and ruts are much more intense for scent matched omegas and alphas.” 

Your eyes flood suddenly with nervous tears, “So how am I supposed to have this heat?” 

  “y/n,” Dr. Kang softens, “there are safe places for omegas to experience unassisted heats, or there’s always medical intervention, though I’ll be honest I don’t recommend it.” 

“I’m not putting myself in a coma for four days,” You shake your head, “fuck that.” 

“I agree, especially in your case. I think that would be retraumatizing; however, it’s important to me that you understand all options available to you so that you can make an informed decision.” 

“Fair,” 

“Is an unassisted heat something you are unwilling to do as well?” She asks, as carefully as she can. 

You nod, “I did that when I was younger, I’m not doing that again. I think it would be worse,” 

“Then your heat is coming,” 

“And I have to figure out how I’m going to do this.” 

Dr. Kang sets her notebook to the side and takes a sip from her nearby coffee, “Well, I have some thoughts, but why don’t you tell me what you’ve been thinking so far.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek for a moment as you consider your words, “I’m not sure I’ve figured much out, that’s why I booked today.” 

“Hmm,” She relaxes back into the cushions of her chair, “I understand, but I’m not able to tell you how to go about your heat. I can help process the things you’re feeling about it, and offer my guidance on how to communicate with your partners, but I can’t give you a blueprint for avoiding your triggers or for how to come out of your heat feeling a particular way.” 

Your hands tighten around each other.

  “y/n,” She says, “you know as well as I do, that anyone controlling or dictating how an omega experiences a heat is unnatural. No one knows what you need in heat better than you do.” 

You let out a long, tired exhale, “I know,” you admit, “but I was kind of hoping someone could just tell me what to do,” 

“Mm,” She nods, “but I’d offer this — I think the last thing you need right now is less agency,” 

Your eyes flick down to your clasped hands again. 

“Alright,” She picks up her notebook again but doesn’t reference it yet, “tell me, what was good about your first heat with Yunho and Mingi, let’s start there.” 

A smile pulls at your lips the second you think of it, and you nod, “It was kind of a mess, I went into heat unexpectedly in the locker room of the studio, and Mingi found me and he and Yunho took me home. We had only known each other for a few months then, but they were… so careful, gentle with me. We talked about everything before we did anything sexual,”

She nods, but doesn’t interrupt. 

“It was a hard one, I was off suppressants, but they took care of me. It was more than just knotting, they were treating me like I was already their omega.” 

“You mentioned before you had moments of low lucidity,” She prompts you gently, “can you tell me about that?” 

“I mean,” You breathe, gesturing with your hand, “it was okay, when those things happened they slowed things down and we were careful. Even in moments where one of them started to get too intense or lost in it, the other would pull them back. It was a little scary, but it was safe. They’d never hurt me,” 

She nods again, “You’re sure of that?” 

You meet her steady gaze with something firm, a flickering anger in your belly at the idea they’d do anything but keep you safe, “Yes. Of course I’m sure,” 

“You trust them,” She comments, “implicitly.” 

“Yes.” 

“y/n,” She gives you another empathetic, close-lipped smile, “I think you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that this heat is going to be scary and difficult to navigate,” 

Your gut tightens. 

“But,” She adds, “at the same time you need to remind yourself who you’re with. If you’re sure that Yunho and Mingi would never intentionally hurt you, if you trust them, then two things can be true. This heat can be scary but also a part of the healing process, especially when you have two alphas that you trust to aid you through it safely.”

You swallow, nodding, “I just want it to be like it was,” 

She nods. 

“I don’t want to be scared,” 

“That’s natural,” She murmurs, “but it’s important to remember that part of processing trauma isn’t about making sure you’re never triggered or scared again, it’s about finding ways to respond differently to those triggers and move through that fear safely.” 

You can feel the echoes of panic in your gut, the way your body locked up, the way you felt trapped inside yourself, voices muffled through the thick fog of headspace. 

You remember Mingi’s hands entwined with yours, braced on Yunho’s chest during your first time together after the attack, his tender voice in your ear reminding you who held you. 

You remember the room full of mirrors, no broken glass, no blood, just a room. 

With another swallow, you look back up at Dr. Kang, “How do I do that?” You ask, “How do I respond differently?”

“With tools in your toolbox,” 

“Like?” 

“Breathing exercises for one,” She begins, “and finding safe ways to communicate that you need to slow down or stop what’s happening.”

You make mental notes as she continues. 

“For those moments of lower lucidity, finding grounding points that you are able to hold onto, whether that be an item in the room, a sound or song that makes you feel safe, a phrase or a particular mantra that your alphas can use to help root you in the moment,” She offers, “and while I know you and your alphas are regularly having sex and that doesn’t seem to be heavily tangled with triggers, a detailed discussion of sex acts prior.” 

“We’ve done that before,” You interject, “kind of,” 

“How so?” She gestures with her hand towards you for you to continue. 

“For my first heat with them, we talked about what level of touching was okay, if knotting was okay,” You explain, “and then after the attack, the first time we had sex we talked about what things we knew triggered me and how to avoid them,” 

“Good,” She nods, “that’s excellent.” 

“So we’re definitely clear on stuff like that,” 

She raises her hand slightly to interrupt your thought pattern, “Ah,” she says, “no, I’d argue you were clear on previous encounters.” 

“Isn’t it all the same?” 

She shakes her head, “Not necessarily. You may still feel the same exact way as your first heat, or those triggers you were avoiding, but maybe not. Or there might be additional things you want to do or not do this time. Consent is not something that’s given once, it’s a continuous and evolving conversation.” 

She lets that sink in a moment, and you think it through, “So this boils down to talk to them?” 

She shrugs, “That’s part of it, definitely, but from everything you’ve told me about your partners, it sounds like they would be receptive to strategizing and talking this out beforehand. I would encourage you to do that together to give you all a firm feeling of safety entering into what is admittedly a very overwhelming time for a pack.” 

“Okay,” Your shoulders relax a little, “I can do that.” 

“I would also recommend providing my office’s contact information to them. Once your heat begins, I would recommend they reach out to me to schedule an additional session on your behalf for the day after,” She says. 

You nod again. 

“I’ll offer one particular method that I think may be beneficial for you,” She takes her notebook again, back to the page that is clearly tabbed for your session. 

“Okay,” 

“Have you ever heard of the traffic light system?” Her head cocks to the side just a little with her question. 

You shake your head. 

“In BDSM, the traffic light system is regularly used to make sure that consent and comfort is prioritized,” She starts off. 

Your eyebrows raise at BDSM, your hands stilling in your lap, “Uh,” you laugh a little awkwardly, “we’re not exactly the whips and chains type of pack,” 

She smiles and shakes her head, “y/n,” she says, “you don’t have to engage in traditional BDSM sex acts to find value in some of the methodologies the community employs. You may have also heard the term ‘RACK’, which refers to ‘Risk Aware Consensual Kink’,” 

“Not specifically,” Your eyebrows draw together in confusion. 

“Two key components in BDSM are awareness and consent,” She continues, “the traffic light system is used to ensure that everyone participating in the pre-negotiated scene or play have the ability to communicate their level of consent and their needs without needing to spell it out or put a damper on the heat of the moment,” 

You blink. 

“It’s simple,” She says, “You use the three colors of the traffic lights, ‘green’, ‘yellow’, and ‘red’ to indicate to your partners how comfortable you are with what is happening. ‘Green’ means go, ‘yellow’ means slow down and assess, ‘red’ means full stop.” 

“Okay,” 

“For partners engaging in kinks like BDSM, where maybe part of the allure is struggling, pain, or resistance, something like the traffic light system provides a safe and clear mode of communication, like a more nuanced safe word.”

“That makes sense,” You nod, “but I’m not sure what that would do for us, if I said ‘stop’, they’d ‘stop’, that’s not really my concern,” 

“The traffic lights are also easy to remember,” She adds, “they’re in place because during intensive acts of dominance and submission, it can be difficult to find coherence and lucidity. You may not be able to articulate that you are starting to feel overwhelmed in so many words, but you can easily reach for ‘yellow’, a word you wouldn’t say otherwise and is simple and clear in your mind. People have used ‘green’, ‘yellow’, and ‘red’ since primary school. In moments of haziness, for many people, those words can still be recalled.” 

“Oh,” Your eyes flick up to hers. 

“You and your alphas may not be experimenting with bondage,” She smiles, “but many submissives experience headspace, subspace, even betas and alphas if they’re submitting. Colors are accessible for them and help them, so it’s just one method to consider as you work on strategizing for your heat. 

You nod, “That makes sense,” 

“If you choose to use it,” She adds, “something you can also do is ask that your alphas prompt you to provide an answer in the form of your color. It’s an opportunity to verbally have that evolving consent conversation in a way that isn’t unsexy or confusing when your emotions or hormones are heightened.” 

“So, they say ‘what’s your color?’ and I answer?” 

She nods, “Sure, I’d encourage you to find what works and make it your own, but that’s a common method, yes.” 

“So then,” You think through her explanation, “in real BDSM relationships, what happens if someone says ‘yellow’ or ‘red’?”

She smiles, and you know you’re asking the right questions, “The specifics would be up to you and your partners, but typically ‘yellow’ would be a pause and verbally reassess together moment, and ‘red’ would be a hard stop that ends whatever is happening in that moment.” 

“Got it,” 

“It’s certainly not something you have to use if it doesn’t feel right for you and your partners,” She continues, “but I’ve seen it be effective for other omegas who have similar concerns around their heats, it can lend a feeling of control to an otherwise very out of control time.” 

You don’t have anything to say, you just have to let that sink in. 

“We can keep talking and strategizing in our session later this week,” She adds, “and in every session we have together until your heat.” 

“I’d like that,” 

Dr. Kang’s eyes glance up to the clock, it’s subtle and practiced, and she smiles, “We’re just about at time,” she says, “your homework for the next few days is to think through the specifics of what feels good and does not feel good to you for your upcoming heat. Consider talking that through with your alphas as well, but if you’re not comfortable with that quite yet we can discuss strategies for talking to them when we meet on Thursday.” 

“Okay,” You breathe.

  “y/n,” She smiles, starting to stand to signal it’s the end of the session, “you are going to be just fine, and I will be here every step of the way to help process all of it.” 

“Thank you,” You manage, “I really appreciate you fitting me in,” 

“Of course,” She softens, “and remember to be kind with yourself. Even in a few weeks you’ve made excellent progress, you should be proud of that.” 

You’re not exactly sure you’re at proud of yourself territory quite yet, but you’re getting there. 

When you walk out of her office, your thoughts are swirling. Yunho’s car is idling close to the entrance of the building, and when he sees you walking out he smiles at you through the windshield. 

You give him a quick wave, quickly making your way over through the chilly air and then climbing into the passenger seat. His soothing scent wraps around you as you settle in and turn to him, “Hi, baby,” you murmur. 

“Hey,” He replies, smoothing a hand over your thigh, “how was your session?” 

“Good,” You manage, “a lot to think about,” 

He nods, giving your knee a squeeze, but he doesn’t push you for details, “Buckle up, sweetheart,” 

You smile as you clip the seatbelt in place, and he pulls the car forwards. 

“Anything you need to talk through?” He checks as he merges into traffic and starts off towards the studio. 

“Maybe tonight,” You answer, you’re still parsing through all the things you talked through with her, “but I’m okay,” 

He nods, his hands smoothly spinning the wheel as he takes a turn, letting it slide back with ease in his grip. Once he’s steady on a straight road, he reaches back over and twines your fingers with his, never breaking his gaze ahead, “We’re here for whatever you need, okay?” 

“I know,” Your thumb passes over his knuckles. 

He gives your hand a squeeze, focusing on the road, but after a minute he glances your way, “I’ve got a packed day with New World meetings,” he says, “probably working a little late,”

  Your nose crinkles, “Concept meetings all week, right?” 

“Mm,” He nods, looking not even a little excited at the prospect of a week spent in board rooms instead of actually moving his body in the studio.

  “I’m sorry,” You add, “that sucks,” 

“It’s okay,” He shrugs, “but if you and Mingi need to get home early, take a taxi. I’ll pay for it, you don’t have to hang around just for me,” 

“Kay,” You lift his hand, pressing a kiss to the back, “we’ll get dinner going for you,” 

He softens and smiles, squeezing your hand once more before he pulls it back to the wheel to take the turn into the KQ parking garage, “I’ll never say no to dinner,” 

Here, you can both sink into routine. 

Yunho walks you inside, both of you nearly hip to hip. It’s instinct now, the way he stays close enough to touch you without crowding you. His hand hovers at your lower back, the warmth of him bleeding through your sweatshirt, and the steady comfort of his scent is a guiding force when your mind feels like it’s fraying. 

You barely make it five steps through the main studio doors when you realize how alive it is today. You can hear New World’s next comeback thumping through the wall of the main studio room where they film their content, and your fellow dancers are all on the move towards their own respective studios or offices to get on with the day. Someone laughs loudly from down the corridor, the sound bright and sharp, immediately undercut by the sound of one of New World’s members calling eight counts. 

You don’t have to look through the rooms to know who’s not here. 

You’ve talked through every angle of his cycle, and Wooyoung’s heat is still sure to be in the thick throes of it. You can practically feel the empathetic echo of it in your own body just thinking of him. The pain, the aches, the slick heat, the endless wanting. You know exactly what he’s feeling right now. 

And yet, your eyes glance through the first open door as you walk up the hall, “They’re not back yet?” You murmur, almost to yourself. 

Yunho glances down at you, and then follows your line of sight, “Hm?” 

“Just,” You shake off the question, you already know the answer, “Woo, Hwa, and Sannie.” 

He hums, nodding, and this time his hand does rest on the small of your back, “No, not yet.” 

Your chest tightens a little. 

You think of the way you left them, Yeosang disappearing into uncharted territory and San and Seonghwa’s eyes fixed on him in a way you’d never seen from them before. They looked at him with such an exacting expression, not quite like a threat, something more akin to prey, their alphas stirring close to the surface and awareness flickering awake under their skin at someone new in their dynamic. You hope to hell that things fell into place once they all made it to Wooyoung’s nest, but you just don’t know. 

You know how fast a heat can turn, how overwhelming it can be, how out of control. 

There’s always medical intervention.

You shake that thought off as fast as it comes, but your stomach dips anyways, an uneasy curl in your belly. 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Yunho adds after a long beat of your silence, reading the shift in you as you make it to the back office door. 

“They are,” You agree, because they are, they have to be, “I just…,” 

Yunho watches the way you trail off, the way your eyes go a little unfocused. 

I think you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that this heat is going to be scary and difficult to navigate. 

Your therapist’s voice bubbles up again, and your eyes flick down and away from your alpha in a flash. Your body feels like a ticking time bomb, Wooyoung’s heat only making your own impending one seem properly tangible now. Scary and difficult to navigate is an understatement, an impartial third-party’s divorced way of saying that your worst fears are right. 

That’s unfair, you know it is, but you hate this. Your body feels wrong, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re close enough to taste your heat or if it’s psychosomatic, a self fulfilling biological prophecy. Every twinge in your back, every ache of your muscles, could be nothing or could be a whispered preview of what you already know is coming. 

You watch Yunho’s hand tighten and release, but his voice is infinitely soft, “You can tell me anything.” 

“I know,” The words are a reflex, and they roll easily off your tongue.

He watches you for a moment more and then lets it drop, and because the studio always seems to keep moving around you, you shift focus and ground yourself in the only thing you can. 

While Yunho is stuck in New World concept meetings, your day, your life all the time really, is starting to be fully consumed with the impending debut of the girl group. It’s still seven months away, but in this industry that practically feels like tomorrow, especially for a debut. 

Yunho catches your hand before you leave the office and pulls you back for a moment, pressing your water bottle into your hands, freshly filled, “Hydrate today, okay?” 

You’re staring down the barrel of multiple dance practices and run throughs, and your body will be moving hard all day. You nod, giving him a slight smile, “I will,” 

“I’ll find you for lunch if I can too,” He adds, “you need to eat,” 

“Yunho,” You start, but at the sound of someone in the hallway you turn your head to catch Mingi walking towards you. 

“Hey,” He grins at the sight of you, his pace picking up to meet you at the door and press a kiss to your lips, “Morning, baby,” 

“Hi,” You soften. 

“Stay one second,” He says, stepping into the office and dropping his bag on the desk to pull open the top zipper, “how was your session?” 

“Good,” You answer automatically. 

“Yeah?” He says as he pulls a white pastry bag from his duffle, “That’s good,” 

“What’s this?” You take the bag he offers and smiles, starting to unroll the top. 

“A treat,” He smiles, and then finally looks over to Yunho, “all good?” 

“Mm,” Yunho nods, “busy day,” 

“Yeah,” 

Inside the bag is the cutest pastry, flaky layers of croissant and matcha cream, sliced strawberries and jam, and pink little bear adorning the top. You smile up at him, “Mingi,” you reach into the bag, “is this from that place I like?” 

He nods, “Thought you could use something sweet after this weekend,” 

Studies show that the effects of heats and ruts are much more intense for scent matched omegas and alphas.

The words echo once again in your mind, and you try not to let your face fall. Your stomach does an anxious somersault, and you leave the pastry in the bag, wrapping the top back up, “Thank you,” you tell him as you set the bag aside on the desk, “I’ll have it in a bit, I’m late to get this session started with Dahan,” 

There’s the barest twinge of Mingi’s eyebrows, just a split second where you see that he’s questioning things, and Yunho’s eyes are still locked on you, but they don’t push. 

“Alright,” You take a sliding step back towards the hall, “well, I’ll see you later,” 

You don’t wait to hear their next words. Instead, you hurry down the hall for the booked Studio room, and try your best to put it all out of your mind. 

The trainees for Violet Prism, the new girl group, are all ready and waiting when you make your way into the room, stretching and preparing for a long day of work. Dahan is already set up by the time you make it in, scrolling through something on the desktop computer in the corner, and before you know it, you’re in the thick of the day. 

The girls are working hard, that much is clear. They have a hunger and a drive that you only ever see in trainees and rookies, a willingness to push themselves to the absolute limit at the expense of their own health, but they’re also still unrefined, still learning. 

“Five, six, seven, eight,” The count leaves your lips automatically as you clap your hands sharply, trying to snap their attention back to center. The music pulses, the song you’ve been working on with them looping again, and the cluster of girls scramble back into their positions. 

Their maknae bows quickly in apology at spacing out, but you shake your head to dismiss her concerns. 

“It’s okay,” You assure, “let’s just reset from the top of the chorus,” 

The girls step into formation while you give them a little room, moving towards the mirrored wall. A dull twinge flares up your back, and your jaw tightens. You’ve been on your feet for hours, it’s surely just that, but after this weekend, the hyperawareness sits in your chest. 

“Ready?” Dahan calls from the other side of the studio. 

The girls nod and so do you and the music starts again. 

You force your focus on counts, spacing, and the sharpness of their lines instead of the unpleasant ache in your back and the anxious sensation low in your abdomen. It’s easier when you’re working, and when there’s something tangible for you to correct. 

“You’re all missing the timing on the second turn,” You call, “run it back.” 

You go again, and again, and again for good measure. You show them what they’re missing in the steps, in the synchronicity of their timing. 

Lunch passes, and you ignore your phone on the back table even though it’s sure to be buzzing with texts and reminders from your alphas to care for yourself. 

The studio lights feel warm, or maybe it’s your skin. It’s hard to tell after this long, and your shirt sticks unpleasantly to your back. You reach up to tighten your ponytail a little higher, and the movement pulls at your spine enough to make you wince. 

Your heat is coming. 

Your therapist’s voice whispers, a blunt reminder of what you already know. 

“Let’s take fifteen,” Dahan calls the stop before you do, “that run was much better, we’re getting there.” 

The girls collapse into heaps, groaning, exhausted, and chugging down water. 

A bead of sweat rolls from your neck down your chest, and your breath starts to feel tight. 

“I’ll be back,” You move quickly, but calmly, grabbing your water bottle on the way out the door. With precision you make a beeline for the bathroom and shut yourself inside, bracing yourself on the closed door and flicking the lock closed so you can have a moment alone. 

You drag in a breath to steady yourself, to try to search your own sensation out to see what’s anxiety and what’s more.

A quick knock on the door startles you, and you stammer out a reply, “Just a second!” 

Yunho’s voice comes through like a salve, “Baby? It’s me, let me in,” 

You fumble with the lock and pull the door open, “What are you doing here?” 

He steps in and shuts the door behind him, his hands coming to your face so he can get a good look at you, “I was in the hall, you pushed right past me,” 

“Oh,” You blink, you didn’t even see him. 

His brows are pulled together in concern, and he lifts your water bottle, “Drink,” 

You take a long sip, hoping that the cold water might settle the restless buzzing underneath your skin, but if anything it just makes you more aware of yourself. Your body feels loud, you can feel the thump of your pulse and the knots in your stomach, and you hate it. 

“You’re pushing yourself too hard today,” Yunho says. 

You glance up at him, “You’re not even in my session today,” 

“I don’t need to be in the session to know that, y/n,” 

Annoyingly, you know that’s true. Your eyes flick down again, “I’m fine,” 

“When you say that,” Yunho points out gently, “that usually means the opposite.” 

A tiny flicker of heat prickles behind your eyes, and you press your lips together hard enough to stop yourself from reacting to the concern threaded through his voice. You don’t want to do this here, today, and you can’t go back to a rehearsal room and see your composure cracking in the mirrors when you have work to do. 

You especially don’t want to do this when your omega already feels close enough to the surface that every protective note in Yunho’s scent catches against your ribs and begs you to climb into his arms. 

“I said I’m okay, Yunho,” You manage, “I just needed a minute.” 

He studies you for a long moment, but just like this morning, he relents. With a sigh he nods, “You’ll tell me when you’re not?” 

“Yes,” You meet his gaze, “I promise.” 

His eyes flick over your expression. 

“I just can’t really think about this right now,” You tell him honestly, “I don’t have room for it.” 

“Alright,” He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I understand.” 

“I have to get back,” You take another sip of water, mostly to appease him, and wait for him to move out of the way of the door. 

Yunho makes space, and you hurry back to practice. 

Work resumes, but your body still feels tense, and the next two hours crawl by. 

You normally love this part of the dance process. The repetition, the gradual sharpening of each detail, watching the moment when a dancer finds it and commits it to muscle memory. Today, everything just feels slippery in your hands. Your concentration is drifting too easily, your body aching in strange little flashes that you can’t help but spiral about, and it doesn’t help that Yunho keeps finding reasons to stop by the studio room. 

He disguises it well, picking up items he’s left, dropping off items for New World who has the room booked later, even just passing by outside the door and peering in through the glass. 

Halfway through demonstrating an arm pathway, showing the girls exactly how the line of their body should extend and arc in the mirror, a cramp tightens in your lower stomach enough that you have to disguise the hitch in your breath as a cough. 

From the back of the studio, you watch Yunho watching you. No one else notices the real source of the discomfort, but he does, and he narrows his eyes the second he sees the expression on your face. 

You shake your head, but the look he gives you in return promises that this conversation is far, far from over. 

By the time rehearsal ends, your nerves feel sanded raw from sheer hyperawareness. 

Yunho is locked in meetings at the KQ Offices for his afternoon, giving you a blissful moment to just breathe into the sensations of your body and try to figure out if you’re on edge because of the panic or because of your impending heat. 

So this boils down to talk to them? 

Your question from earlier today flits through your mind, “Fuck,” you curse softly, rubbing at your tired eyes. 

You find your phone where it’s been sitting, face down on the desk, and read the string of text messages. 

In your pack group chat, there are three messages waiting: 

I should get home around 8 if these meetings wrap up on time. – Yunho

Yep. I’ll start dinner. – Mingi

Babe I’m ready in the office when you’re good to go. – Mingi

You tap back a quick reply and let him know you’re packing up, and then you see the single direct message from Yunho, just a private note from him to you. 

You worked hard today, you did well today. Please eat something substantial with some protein, drink your water, and don’t forget to stretch. I love you. 

Your chest tightens a little, and you send back a heart, before finding your other Alpha and getting out of the studio for the night. By the time you step out into the cool early evening air, the sharpest edges of your anxiety have dulled, but it’s still there like a weight in your gut. 

Mingi fixes the loop of your scarf while you wait for the car that will take you home. 

“Tired?” He asks gently. 

“A little,” 

For a moment you wonder if he’ll ask about your session, if he’ll poke and prod and fuss over you like Yunho did, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, Mingi reads you like he always does, “How was rehearsal?” 

The anxiety softens a little more and you lean into his side, “Long,” you sigh. 

Mingi talks about work the whole way home, and when you tell him you’re going to decompress in the shower, he lets you go with ease. As you pass your nest, the door ajar, your stomach tightens. Somewhere in the back of your mind you file that away, just like you file away the sudden urge to move the fluffy pillows from the right side to the left side of the room. 

Instead, you reorganize the bathroom medicine cabinet while you wait for the shower to heat up. 

The water runs hot, and you take an extra twenty minutes under the steady beat of the water to try and relax your muscles, to let the day sluff off, and to calm your omega, but it only sort of works. After, when you’re dressed in softer, cozier clothes, you pad out into the kitchen with your mind still hitching over and over on your therapy session like a skipped record. 

In the kitchen, Mingi’s focused, touching a clean fingertip to the sauce he’s mixing before swiping it off with his tongue, tasting it to gauge its flavor. He lets the flavor sink in, and then he reaches for the sesame oil to add a dash more. 

You lean against the door frame, watching him move about the kitchen with ease, but then he glances to the side and sees you. 

“Hey,” He waves you in, setting an onion onto a cutting board, “come chop for me,” 

“‘Kay,” You slide into position as his sous chef and pull a knife off the magnetic strip on the wall.

Mingi steps away to check on the chicken that’s parboiling on the stove and you cleanly slice through the onion and remove the papery husk to start chopping. 

“Dakdoritang?” You ask, glancing over the ingredients. 

“Mhm,” Behind you, you hear the musical sound of the rice cooker as he queues it up, “this time I double checked the salt, I promise,” 

You smile, your knife sliding cleanly through the onion again and again. 

Mingi shifts back to your side, “Tch,” he makes the sound with his tongue against his teeth, “careful, babe,” 

You lift your knife, glancing up at him, and he covers the hand that rests over the onion, prompting your fingers to curl so that when you cut the side of the knife only brushes your knuckles, no chance of cutting your fingertips. You roll your eyes a little, “It’s harder like this,” you grumble, but keep your hand in that shape as you continue to chop. 

“Yeah,” Mingi shrugs, “but this way I’m not calling Yunho to tell him dinner’s cancelled because our omega sliced off a finger,” 

“Mingi,” You sigh, but the smile doesn’t leave your lips. 

“Humor me,” He says, pulling a few carrots and potatoes out to queue those up for you to chop next. 

“Mm,” You murmur, and keep working on the vegetables while Mingi finishes the sauce. Everything’s relaxed for a few minutes, just the smooth slice of your knife and the bubbling pot on the stove. 

When he gets the sauce mixed in with the chicken to simmer and you’re almost finished with the carrots, Mingi’s fingers brush down your spine, “You’re quiet today,” he comments gently. 

“Am I?” You murmur. 

“Mm,” He nods, “you’re stressed,” 

“I’m alright,” You reply, biting the inside of your cheek, letting the knife come down a little too firmly through a carrot with a sharp sound. 

Mingi hums softly, his warm chest pressed against your back now, and he reaches around to still your hands and slide the knife away, “You are,” he counters gently, “you smell bitter, and you’ve been fidgeting all day.”

His words pull a long, tired exhale from you, and you lean back into his arms, “Yeah,” 

“You can tell me anything,” He says, his lips pressing to the crown of your head. 

“I know,”

“So what’s going on in your head?” He prompts you. 

Your body starts to slowly relax into his, and you finally let the words come, “My heat’s coming,” you confess, “fast,” 

Mingi stiffens a little, craning his neck to look down at your face, “How fast?” 

“I’m not sure,” You say honestly, “but I caught myself wanting to nest before I got in the shower, and with the spike, I think I’m ahead of schedule,” 

“Okay,” His arms tighten, and he drops his chin onto your shoulder despite how much he has to bend over to do it, “you know we’ve got you, right?” 

“I do,” You nod, “but I… I still don’t think I’m ready for it.” 

“You’re afraid,” Mingi observes. 

Your fingers curl against the counter, emotions tugging at your chest and you nod, “Yeah,” 

“Come here babe,” Mingi gently spins you so that you’re facing him, his hands ginger on your jaw as he tilts your face up.

“I’m okay,” The words leave your lips but the tone of your voice, the haziness in your eyes, it all betrays you. 

“Oh, baby,” His brows draw together in a sympathetic expression, his glasses slipping down his nose a little but he makes no move to fix them, “no, you’re not.” 

You swallow tightly, your throat constricted with the threat of tears and you shake your head, just a little. 

“What happened in your session?” Mingi’s thumb brushes tenderly along your cheek. 

“Uh,” You clear your throat, pulling away a little to wipe your eyes with the sleeves of Yunho’s crewneck sweatshirt that you stole out of the laundry, “we talked, I mean, the session was good, but it’s making it really real,” 

Mingi studies your face for another moment, and then he nods, “Alright, hold on,” 

Your brows knit together as you watch him quickly get the food to a place where it’s just simmering on its own without needing him to pay close attention. He works efficiently, completely focused, before wiping his hands off on the towel slung over his shoulder and coming back to stand in front of you. 

“Mingi?” You look up at him. 

Without a word, he reaches for you and picks you up by your waist, dropping you down onto a clean spot on the counter and stepping forward between your open knees. 

You brace yourself on his shoulders, a little squeak of surprise bubbled from your lips when he drops you. 

“One more second,” He leans forward and presses a close lipped kiss to your lips and then pulls out his phone. 

He opens up your pack group chat and taps out a quick message – @Yunho come home.

“He’s working,” You shake your head, reaching for his phone, but Mingi just clicks send and then holds it out of your reach high above your heads. 

“I don’t care,” Mingi shrugs, “something’s wrong with our omega,” 

A little piece of you melts, but you sigh and rest your hands on his chest, “It’s not an emergency,” 

One of his eyebrows raises. 

“It’s not,” You insist. 

Mingi exhales, tucking his phone in his back pocket and resting his broad hands on your thighs, “Maybe it’s an emergency, maybe it’s not,” he concedes, “but your heat is coming and it’s scaring you. We’re your alphas, and we are not going to shrug that off, okay?” 

You manage a nod, “Okay,” 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Mingi watches you carefully, and you take the moment to breathe. You listen to the bubbling pot on the stove and the way fresh rain has started tapping sharply against the apartment windows. 

“Your session,” Mingi finally asks, “you talked about your heat?” 

You nod once. 

“And?” 

Your hands close on the cuffs of Yunho’s sweatshirt. “We talked about a lot of things,” You start, searching for the right words to make this make sense to him, “we talked about control, I guess.” 

Mingi’s expression stays open, patient, and he nods, “That’s a scary word when it comes to heats,” 

You release a humorless little laugh, “Exactly.” 

He waits. It’s one of the things that Mingi does best when you get overwhelmed. Where Yunho tends to push gently forwards, nudging you to speak before you disappear too far into yourself, Mingi waits you out instead, he lets the thoughts untangle themselves at their own pace. 

“I just keep thinking about last time,” You admit softly. 

His hands still, now just resting on your thighs, “Minseok?” He asks carefully. 

“No,” You shake your head, “no, my heat,” 

Understanding settles in his eyes, “Oh,” 

“Bits of it are blurry,” Your throat tightens, “not all of it, I remember some of it, but there’s pieces that feel…,” you search helplessly for the right description, “floaty,” 

Mingi listens without interrupting. 

“Logically, I know that’s normal,” You keep going, “and Dr. Kang said it’s normal for instincts to take over during intense heats and ruts, especially scent matched ones, but, it’s just,” 

His eyes flick over your face, and when you can’t find the word this time, he fills in, “It doesn’t feel normal to you, though,” 

“No,” You sigh, “it doesn’t,” 

“Yeah,” His hands smooth up and down your thighs again, encouraging you forward. 

“In my session,” You manage, “she asked me if I was afraid of going into heat, or afraid of losing control during my heat.” 

“And?” Mingi asks gently. 

You shake your head, eyes finding the ceiling when you can’t quite look him in the eyes, “I’m terrified,” you confess, “I’m so scared of not remembering things,” 

“Baby,” Mingi’s face softens, his body leaning towards yours like a gravitational pull guiding him closer. 

“I know how intense things get,” You keep going, letting it all out now that the words finally come, "Instincts come over, and then you’re in the haze of it, but what if I go too deep? What if I disappear into all of that and I don’t know what’s happening around me? To me?”

Mingi’s jaw flexes once as he takes in your words. 

“What if I lose time?” The question hangs in the air, exposing all your innermost fears, and then you look up at him, “What if I wake up after and feel like my body made choices without me?” 

Mingi’s brows draw together, a pained expression raw on his face now, and he slides his hands up to cup your hips, “Is that what’s been eating at you today?” He asks. 

You nod. 

“You were so ‘on’ at work today,” He observes, “intense even,” 

Heat floods your face immediately, “You noticed that?” 

“Mm,” He nods, “baby, I know you. You’re my omega, I notice everything,” 

Your head dips, “God,” 

“And me and Yunho do talk,” Mingi smiles a little, drawing your gaze up with his hand gently on your chin, “we are doing our best not to be overbearing, but we knew something was up.” 

“Yeah,” 

His thumb smooths along your jaw, his eyes going soft again, “You want to know what I think?” 

Your eyes lock to his. 

“I think you’re trying really hard to stay anchored to yourself right now,” 

A tight sensation curls in your chest. 

“I think that somewhere in your brain you decided that if you organize enough things, control enough things, stay disciplined and vigilant and push through the things your body is trying to tell you, maybe this heat won’t be able to sweep you away.” 

The sensation in your chest throbs, a deep ache, “I…,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper, “Mingi, I don't want to disappear,” 

“You won’t,” He murmurs, his hand sliding forward to cup your neck, his thumb still tender on your cheek. 

“How can you possibly know that?” You breathe. 

“You didn’t disappear last time,” He offers. 

Your brows pull together and you open your mouth to tell him all the reasons why this is different, but this time he doesn’t let you spiral. 

“No, listen to me,” He shakes his head, “your last heat with us, we were practically strangers. Your body was under an incredible amount of stress, and you placed your trust in us without a whole hell of a lot to go on.” 

“I–,” 

“Your instincts took over,” He keeps going, “and your omega was right at the surface. You needed things from us, you acted without thinking, but you were still you. You were always you, even in the haze,” 

You blink at him. 

“You may not remember every second of your heat, but I do, baby,” He presses, “me and Yunho know exactly what happened in that room,” 

“But I–,” 

“You were with us,” He holds your gaze on him, “you made choices. You said what you wanted and said what you didn’t. You communicated the whole time, even when you were floating. Despite the situation and how scary that probably was for you, trusting us to hold you like that, you didn’t disappear. You were never just a body, or just an omega, never.” 

Emotion catches in your throat, “But that was before Minseok tried to…” you can’t say it. You both know what he did, what he would have done after, “I’ve panicked with you both after that, it’s different now,” 

Mingi nods, “I know that,” he says without an ounce of defensiveness, without dismissing you, “I’m not saying we pretend that fear doesn’t exist, or that trauma hasn’t changed you and us,” 

The tension behind your ribs relaxes just a little. 

“You are expecting yourself to handle this perfectly,” He murmurs, shaking his head a little, “and you and I both know that you would never expect that from anybody else that you love.” 

Tears prick at the back of your eyes, hot and tight. 

With a gentle hand, Mingi smooths your hair back from your face and steps a fraction closer between your open knees, “If you panic during your heat, we will help you through that. If you get overwhelmed, we will slow down.” 

The hand on your hip slides up to cup your waist, and Mingi rests his forehead against yours. 

“We were made to keep you safe, baby,” He whispers, “and we will move heaven and earth to do that,” 

You reach for him, your hands knotting into his t-shirt, and when you inhale it’s with a soft, wet sound, “But what if get lost in my own head, Mingi, I can’t go there again, I can’t,” 

“Honey, look at me,” His voice breaks as he pulls back, cupping your face, “if you go away again, we will come get you.” 

Tears slip down your cheeks, “Mingi,” 

“There is nowhere you could go,” He promises you steadily, “not even inside your own head, that we wouldn’t follow you.” 

You sink into his chest, a sob caught on your lips, cheeks hot with embarrassment, with shame, but Mingi just gathers you closer and cradles you to his chest. 

“Baby,” He murmurs against your hair, “hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” 

Your forehead presses against his sternum and you shake your head, “I hate this, I hate being this scared.” 

“I know,” He soothes. 

“I know you’d never hurt me,” The confession tumbles out, messy and tangled, “I know you’d keep me safe, but I don’t want to lose control like that. I don’t want to be locked inside my head, I don’t want to f-feel him on top of me again, I… I can’t,” 

“Breathe,” Mingi holds you tighter, “breathe with me right now,” 

You suck in a staggered breath against the wet cotton of his shirt. 

“It’s okay to be scared, and I know you are terrified, but he is never, ever going to touch you again, never.” His words are firm, unequivocal, “and if your body gets confused, we will find a way through it. But honey, your heat is coming, and suppressing your instincts and pretending your omega doesn’t need things is going to make this worse, not better.” 

“I just want this to be normal,” You admit softly, still steadily breathing with him. 

“When have we ever had normal,” He kisses your hair, “hmm?” 

You let out a wet laugh into his chest. 

Mingi gently uncouples your bodies enough to look down at you, wiping away your tears gently with the pad of his thumb, “I want our not normal,” he says, “I want our hard days just as much as our good ones. As long as we’re together, we will be okay, I can promise you that.” 

You wipe away the remnants of your tears, nodding and letting out a shaky exhale, and then you sink forward and lean your forehead on his again, tucked close together in the warmth of the kitchen. Your heart rate starts to settle, the knot inside you relaxing again, and you nuzzle Mingi’s nose with yours, “You really like me that much, huh?” 

He huffs a light laugh with an exhale through his nose, shaking his head, “Shut up,” 

“I’m just saying,” You tease him gently, leaning back and fixing him with a look, “that was kind of a declaration.” 

“You’re my mate,” He says simply, the corner of his lips pulled up in the slightest smile, “there’s nothing casual about how I feel about you, and you know it.” 

“Good,” You tug him forward with your fingers fisted in his shirt and lock your lips to his. 

Mingi leans into you, strong arms wrapping around your back. He hums against your lips, a steady vibration that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. 

“I love you,” You whisper against his lips. 

“I love you too,” He says in a breath, kissing you again and holding you close. 

Just as you feel your body start to unspool with the relief of giving your fears to him to hold, the sharp sound of your front door banging open breaks you both apart with a start. 

Mingi tenses, his lips breaking from yours as he turns, but then you hear Yunho call out, “Mingi? y/n?” 

You let out a breath, smiling with a little relief that it’s just Yunho. 

The door slams shut equally as hard though and you and Mingi exchange a quick, worried glance at each other. 

“Baby?” Yunho calls again, clear concern threaded through his tone.

“We’re in here,” Mingi calls out, “in the kitchen,” 

Yunho’s there in a flash, his expression tight and his eyes scanning you both like he’s searching for a threat, for an injury. 

“Hey–,” you start to say, but Yunho muscles his way past Mingi and wraps you tightly in his arms, yanking you off the counter and crushing you to his chest. 

“You’re alright?” He checks, his hand cupping the back of your head, his heart hammering against your chest where you’re pressed together. 

“Why wouldn’t I be alright?” The words are muffled by his shoulder. 

“She’s fine,” Mingi assures, one hand landing on Yunho’s back. 

He releases a shuddering breath, reaching back with one arm to find your other alpha, “Min,” Yunho manages, his voice hoarse, “you’re good?” 

“I’m fine,” Mingi smiles, patting Yunho’s hand where it landed on his waist, “are you okay? What’s wrong?” 

“You texted ‘come home’,” Yunho pulls back enough that he can see your face, studying you once more like he just has to be sure, before letting you back down on your feet and stepping back to face you both, “and then you didn’t answer any calls,” 

Mingi grimaces, “Shit,” he reaches for his phone, “sorry, no we’re fine,”

Yunho’s jaw tightens and releases, “You scared the shit out of me,” 

“I’m sorry,” You soften, reaching for him, “we didn’t mean to worry you.” 

He lets out a long, relieved exhale, and drops his head, shaking it, “Fuck,” he says, “you two are going to put me in an early grave,” 

“We’re okay,” Mingi reiterates, squeezing Yunho’s shoulder, “and you know I’ve got her, she’s safe with me,” 

Yunho’s brows draw together as he lifts his head, “I know that,” he sighs again, an echo of the adrenaline still humming off him, “I just… I don’t know what I thought, I was worried,” 

“I’m okay,” You promise. 

“After today, with everything going on,” He shakes his head, clearly rattled, and then he takes in your expression fully, “you’ve been crying,” 

“We’re okay,” You reiterate softly. 

Yunho searches your face before wrapping you up in his arms again, only this time with your back pressed to his front, pressing a long kiss to your hair, “Talk to me, what’s with the text?” 

You feel bad now, the idea that he rushed home, likely leaving a meeting just to make sure his pack was still whole, still well. The briefest flash of the practice room echoes back to you, Yunho’s face above yours, his face stricken and terrified. 

“I texted because we need to talk,” Mingi says, crossing his arms and looking between you both, “as a pack.” 

“Mingi,” You complain weakly, “don’t scare him,” 

“Too late,” Yunho says, his arms still wrapped tightly around you from behind, the frantic edge that came through the front door is still lingering under his skin, adrenaline and his alpha instinct tangled together in a sharper, more heady scent than his normal cedar and rain. 

“She’s been spiraling since therapy,” Mingi sums up, “and we talked, but there’s things we all need to talk about together,” 

Your lips press closed. 

Yunho’s nose brushes slowly against your temple as he curls around you, “What happened in the session?” 

“We talked about my next heat,” You say after a moment, brushing your hand along his forearm to keep him calm. 

Mingi adds the rest, “The spike probably means her real heat is closer than we thought,” his voice is gentler now, guiding Yunho into the conversation.

Yunho’s quiet for a moment, and then he exhales slowly through his nose. You feel his posture adjust, it’s subtle, but present, his attention now fully attuned to you as his omega, not just as his girlfriend. 

“How fast?” Yunho asks carefully. 

“I don’t know,” You shake your head, “but I’m feeling my omega more,” 

Mingi nods, “Nesting urges,” 

Yunho’s head lifts up, “Already?” 

“A bit,” You concede. 

He’s quiet, and you twist a little in his hold to look up at him. His expression is calculated, the same face he gets when he’s in rehearsals or choreography meetings and he’s already five steps ahead trying to solve a problem before anyone else even realizes it's there to begin with. 

After a moment he nods, “We’ll handle it.” 

“The other part though,” Mingi says, “is that the closer it's getting, the more she’s thinking about last time.” 

Yunho’s hand slips under the hem of your sweatshirt and rests on the bare skin of your waist, “You’re worried about the haze, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, your throat tightening at how quickly he knows that, how closely he must be watching you to know that without having to hear anything at all. 

He presses a firm kiss to the crown of your head. 

“It scared me before,” You explain, “not knowing where parts of it went, the way it came back to me in pieces,” 

Yunho’s grip tightens a little, something instinctive and protective in the way he holds you, but he just nods and says, “I know, sweetheart,” 

You lean your body weight into him, letting out a slow exhale. You remember so many little flashes of your heat with them, and your mind trips over static images in a sudden rush. Yunho holding your wrists gently against his chest to keep you focused on the beat of his heart, Mingi murmuring steady softness into your ear, coming back to yourself in slow, disconnected pieces, their scents wrapped around you so thick it was impossible to think about anything outside of their arms. 

“Just,” You let your head fall back against his chest, “Yunho, what if this time it’s worse?” 

“What if this time it’s better?” He counters gently. 

Mingi smiles softly, but you shake your head, “Yunho,” 

“You’re safe with us, you’re in love with us, this time we’re going into this as a pack,” He points out, “your next heat will be different in good ways too.” 

“Good point,” Mingi leans against the counter next to you both, “he’s right about that, babe,” 

That hadn’t occurred to you at all. Your first heat after a scent match is supposed to be a beautiful thing. The way a pack moves together, breathes together, in complete sync and safety, you hadn’t even let yourself entertain that as an option. 

“I’m sure Mingi said this,” Yunho slides another hand under your sweatshirt, his hands spread wide over your ribs, your stomach, the direct comfort of skin on skin for your both, “but we will get you through this heat, sweetheart. We’re yours, you’re ours, this is what we do.” 

“I know you will,” You sink into him, your eyes flicking up to meet Mingi’s gaze. 

“And,” Yunho adds gently, “if your instincts are telling you that you need something, you need to trust it. Your omega is a part of you, just our alphas are a part of us. Acting on that part of yourself isn’t the same thing as losing yourself,” 

You go still in his arms. 

“I know you’re scared,” He murmurs, “but we have you.” 

Mingi steps closer, reaching for you both, cupping your cheek with one hand and resting the other at the back of Yunho’s neck. 

“We do,” Mingi says, pressing a kiss to your forehead and giving Yunho a squeeze, before he leans back again against the counter. 

“Now,” Yunho shifts you both so that you’re all facing each other when he asks his next question, “What did Dr. Kang say? Did she give you anything more concrete to work with?” 

You can practically hear her in the room talking about all the tools in your toolbox, or maybe it’s exactly the same language that he uses with his own therapist. 

Either way you smile, “A few things, mostly some grounding strategies,” 

Yunho nods, fully focused now, “Good, like what?” 

“She said familiar sensory things can help if I start getting too out of it,” You explain, “music, phrases, touch, routines, things that would anchor me into my conscious thoughts.” 

While Yunho catalogues it all, Mingi nods, “We can definitely do that.” 

“Maybe we can talk about that stuff tonight?” You offer gently. 

“We’ll make a plan,” Yunho agrees, “did she give you anything else to think about?” 

Heat creeps slowly up your neck as you remember the session, “Just, ah,” you trail off, trying to find the right words, “some communication stuff.” 

Yunho’s brows knit together slightly, “What kind of communication stuff?” 

You make a soft, non-committal noise, eyes flicking down to the edge of your sweatshirt sleeves, “Oh, you know,” 

Yunho smiles, still confused but a little amused, “No, I don’t,” he gently nudges you, “that’s why I’m asking, baby.”

“Right,” You breathe, gathering a little resolve, “well, okay, this is going to sound weird,” 

“How weird could it be?” Mingi quips before he can think better of it and you glare weakly at him. 

“It’s just us,” Yunho says. 

It takes a minute, while you work out how to say it, but in the end the words just spill out, “Do you know anything about BDSM?” 

Mingi’s eyes widen before he blinks once, caught completely off guard by your question. Yunho’s eyebrows just lift, the confusion in his brow clearing entirely as pieces slot together for him. 

Your cheeks heat, “Oh my god, nevermind,” 

“No, no, no,” Mingi says quickly, taking your arms in his hands, “don’t deflect yet, I’m just trying to catch up,” 

“It’s not–,” You start to say. 

“Because, babe,” Mingi smiles, a little hint of teasing in his eyes, “I don’t know what this has to do with your heat, but if you want me to like, tie you up or make you bark or something, I’m open minded.” 

You make a strangled noise, “Mingi!”

“What?” He laughs, “I’m being supportive!”

“And you went straight to barking like a dog?” You burst into laughter, “What do you think BDSM is?” 

“I mean some people are into that,” Mingi shrugs, before adding, “probably,” 

Yunho finally breaks, laughing under his breath and shaking his head, “You are not helping,” 

“And you do not seem surprised enough by this conversation,” Mingi points out. 

“Oh my god,” It’s your turn to be surprised at Yunho’s lack of reaction, and you’re starting to wonder what your boyfriend’s internet search history looks like. 

Yunho clears his throat, “Anyways,” he tries to refocus, “I’m assuming Dr. Kang was talking about consent frameworks?” 

Your mouth falls open a little before you can recover, “Yes…,” 

“Did she suggest something specific?” Yunho ignores the shocked look on both your faces. 

“The traffic light system?” You offer. 

To your utter surprise, he nods, “That’s a really good idea, actually.” 

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Mingi blinks. 

“Jesus,” Yunho blushes this time, “I don’t know all that much, and what I do know is mostly theoretical, calm down,” 

“Mostly,” You point out. 

“This is definitely not the main takeaway from this conversation,” Yunho groans. 

“Yeah,” You smile, “but it is terribly interesting information,” 

“Mhm,” Yunho crosses his arms. 

“Relax,” You reach up to him, craning on tip toe to cup his cheek, “I’m not judging, I’m glad you know what the fuck you’re doing, even theoretically, okay?” 

He sighs, dipping forwards, kissing you softly, and then wrapping his arms back around you, “Okay,” 

Mingi hums, “Someone’s going to have to clue me in,” 

“Tonight,” Yunho says, “with how close your heat might be,” his hand runs a comforting line up and down your back, “we need to figure this out soon,” 

Your body softens into him again, “Thank you,”

“We’ve got this,” Mingi says, “we’ll figure everything out.” 

“Of course we will,” Yunho nods.

There’s a pull in your gut telling you what to do, and you resist the urge to push it down and keep it to yourself, “Can we talk in the nest?” 

“Of course we can,” Yunho smiles softly, “I think that’s the perfect place.” 

“I’d feel comfortable there,” You admit, “and I need to do a little rearranging before it drives me insane,” 

“I’ll get some of our shirts too,” Mingi adds, knowing exactly what you’ll need to start slowly preparing your nest the right way. 

“Please,” 

“Before any of that,” Yunho straightens up, running a hand down your hair, “you haven’t eaten a thing, have you?” 

“It was a busy day,” You offer as an excuse.

“Mm,” Yunho shakes his head, but lets it pass, “let’s eat, it smells amazing in here,” Yunho says, leaning over to press a soft kiss to Mingi’s cheek before heading for the stove. 

Mingi’s cheeks redden, a gentle smile on his lips. 

“Both of you go sit,” Yunho shoos you away when you start to reach for a bowl, “you cooked, I’ll take care of the rest.” 

He’s fussing, you can see that in the way he’s taking care of you both. You know deep down he’s worried about your heat the same as you are, he’s thinking of every possibility and every solution so he’s ready, and if caring for you now while you’re in the beginning stages of your pre-heat helps settle him, you want nothing more than to give that to him. 

Your heat is coming, a biological inevitability, but as you tuck yourself onto Mingi’s lap and watch Yunho prepare the banchan and bowls of warm rice, you know there’s another inevitability to contend with. They love you, and there’s nothing they wouldn’t do to keep you safe, to keep you whole. 

This will be hard, but you’ll survive it. 

Date No. 6: The Fuzzy Sweater

Yoongi gets home earlier from his work trip than scheduled and doesn’t tell you. The reason is embarrassingly simple: he wants to see your face without warning, wants to catch you in that soft little smile you always give him when you’re not braced for it, wants to stand on your doorstep and feel you, his baby, fold into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And tonight? Yup, he’s bringing that pack of Trojan gathering dust in his nightstand. It’s about damn time.

Usually he’d opt for a simple t-shirt and jeans, but when he opens his closet, there is a secret weapon staring back at him. He takes the hanger out and sets it atop his bed.

So he showers, gives the patch of trimmed hair down there an extra rinse, and changes into the sweater—the fuzzy stripey one. The one that turns him into a walking, talking plushie. When he slips it on, oh yeah, it feels so fuckin’ nice. It’s super soft. Stupidly inviting. He knows what he’s doing. If you touch it (him), he’s not responsible for what happens next.

Min Yoongi. Master of Seduction!

He drives over with his heart in his throat and his stomach tight, already mentally choreographing how your reunion would go. He imagines you opening the door, your shock melting into happiness, he imagines pulling you by the waist, your arms going around his neck before you even think about it. He imagines kissing you hard then you’ll giggle and say wait, come inside. And he’s gonna take that literally, cumming inside your warm, wet…

Fuck. He needs to get it together.

By the time he’s standing at your doorstep, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation. He shoves a hand inside one of his jean pockets and adjusts the semi sitting at an awkward angle against his boxers.

Tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, palms a little sweaty, he raises his fist, knocks once, twice—and breathes.

When the door opens, everything goes to hell.

It isn't you at the door.

Nope.

It opens to a guy. A tall guy with annoyingly good hair and a face that would be punchable if it weren’t… honestly, pretty.

Yoongi stares at him. The guy stares back.

Who the fuck is this dude?

There is a ringing in his brain that sounds awfully like a hundred cymbals crashing all at once. He feels something unpleasant twist in his chest, sharp and territorial, the kind that makes his pulse spike and his expression flatten. He’s about to lose his shit, actually.

The guy blinks again, slow and unbothered, like he lives there. And the fact that he is wearing a fuckin’ tank top, half-soaked and clinging to his chest…

Yoongi feels his blood pressure rise by ten points.

Seriously.

Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Dude.

The guy in your doorway looks him up and down, casual as anything, and asks, “Uh… are you Yoongi?”

Oh, hold up. He knows. Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, something neutral and normal lined up on his tongue, until movement behind the stranger hits the corner of his eye.

You appear.

Completely wet.

Hair dripping, cheeks flushed, white T-shirt plastered to your breasts like a second skin… the stuff of his fantasies. He sees the outline of your bra and his mouth dries up so fast he probably needs to lick some of the moisture on your face to hydrate.

Interestingly, despite the suspicious optics, your smile is not a guilty smile. Not a caught-fucking-another-guy smile. Just bright and unbelievably happy to see him.

But Tank Top™ is still there, raising his bicep to lean on the doorway, arm pit hair now pointing menacingly at Yoongi and for one horrible, dizzying second, all Yoongi can think of is: Oh. I’m killing this dude. I’m absolutely killing this dude. 

“Yoongi!” you gasp, lit up from the inside, and you cross the space between the two of you immediately, throwing your arms around him. Huh. Just like he imagined.

Your body hits his fuzzy sweater and he feels the cold instantly, but he doesn’t even care because you’re hugging him so tight he forgets how long it’s been. And then you kiss him, firm, warm, in the mouth. So eager he forgets his name. But he’s frozen in place and of course you notice.

“What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong is he almost nuts at the sight of you in that wet fuckin’ t-shirt.

And also, who the fuck is that guy? That’s what’s wrong.

Yoongi jerks his gaze back to the dude, still standing there, still damp, still too close to you.

The stranger lifts his brows like really?

You blink, finally remembering introductions.

“Oh shit! Sorry. Yoongi, this is Tae, my best friend. He lives across the street. Tae, this is my… umm. Yoongi.” 

You’re blushing furiously. It’s not lost on him that you weren’t able to put a label on who he is in your life and Yoongi feels the strongest need to fix that. My Yoongi sounded nice, though, he’s not gonna lie.

Then finally you address the elephant in the room, gesturing to yours and your friend’s drenched bodies. “This is what happens when your shower decides to explode. He came over to help me fix it.”

Yoongi feels like an idiot. A relieved idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. You did tell him you were not interested in anyone else. Hehe.

You slide your arm through his, completely oblivious to the mental gymnastics you’ve put him through in all of five minutes. “Come inside, baby. I didn’t know you were already in town.”

Baby. That word hits him like a warm hand on the chest and his jealousy drops several notches instantly.

You tug him in and he follows without resistance. You help him out of this jacket. And even as he walks past Taehyung, he gives him one last sidelong glance, competitive without meaning to be.

“Is it fixed?” Yoongi asks, standing in the center of your living room. Cause if it is, he can leave, right?

Taehyung grins. “Yeah, it’s done.”

“Tae is great with tools,” your head pops up from behind the fridge door, before you close it shut with your hip. “Very handy.”

Oh he’ll show you handy. He once installed six bidets in one day. Yoongi pulls at the collar of his sweater a bit. Pretends he didn’t hear those damn praises aimed at another man lest he overheats again. Yoongi knows he is phenomenal with tools—he’s gonna have to show you some time. Maybe there’s a loose door hinge somewhere. He will be on the lookout. Trust.

“We’re binge-watching Physical Asia today, Yoongi.” your sweet voice interrupts his thoughts. “You should join us.”

Taehyung scratches the back of his neck. “Nah, I should go.” My guy. At least he has the decency to know when to fuck off. 

“It’s fine. Baby, it’s fine, right?” You turn to him, balancing three bags of chips across your chest and a bowl of salsa on top and Yoongi just nods like a bobblehead even though he wants to scream HELL NO. 

“I’ve been hanging out with Yoongi’s friends, too. Honestly, you should meet them, Tae. I feel like you’ll get on with them quite well. Especially Kookie and Chim.”

Kookie and Chim! How did those dipshits get a nickname? Oh yeah, they added you on Insta. Guess you’re friends now, which is actually kinda cute. Yoongi gets distracted for a moment before he remembers where he is.

Taehyung takes the salsa bowl from you and places it on the coffee table, while you set the chips beside it.

“I’ve spinach dip also, any takers? No? Okay, I’m heading upstairs to change. Tae set the TV up. I’ll get you a clean shirt.” 

One with sleeves, Yoongi hopes.

When the sound of your footsteps fade, Taehyung turns to him. “You okay, man?”

“Mm.” Yoongi sits on the couch. “Good.” 

Yeah, this is not how he planned this day to go. But he pretends he’s not embarrassed. Pretends he’s not already plotting how to reclaim every inch of your attention the moment you two are alone again.

Because god, he missed you.

And now that he’s here—fuzzy sweater and jealous heart included—he’s not letting anyone else stand in the way! Not a fuckin’ chance.

Yoongi plucks his phone from his backpocket from getting squished between his buttcheek and the cushions and places it on the coffee table.

The screen lights up and it’s just a notification from the Boy Scouts GC, so he’s ignoring that because it’s probably just Hobi talki—

“That’s a nice photo of Y/N.”

Shit, he forgot to change his lock screen! Idiot!

Yoongi retrieves his device, replies as coolly as he can manage. “Yeah, uh, it’s from when we went hiking,” he mutters as he changes the lock screen back to something far less incriminating: the Samsung Default wallpaper.

Tank Top™ is still grinning at him like the cat that caught the cream. Just to add insult to injury, he quips, “Yeah, I heard you pulled a muscle or something. Was it your leg, or your back?”

“I’m fine now, thanks.”

“We go way back, Y/N and I,” Taehyung says casually, slouching backwards like he owns every piece of furniture in your house. “She used to have the fattest crush on me in college…”

Yoongi’s brain: If I stab your best friend with chopsticks, will you still like me?

“I’m kidding. We’re almost siblings at this point,” Taehyung smiles, raising his brow. “Oh you look like you’re about to swing.”

“Do I?”

“She likes you, you know.” Taehyung says, and Yoongi would be lying if he said that didn’t make his heart soar. “But she’s never had a boyfriend before and I’d hate it if her first one turned out to be a real douchebag.”

Wow. Shots fired. He’s protective. Not hostile. But definitely testy… and still talking.

“Like, if they strung her along for shits… Wasted her time… Y’know what I’m sayin’, dawg?”

Yoongi inhales, keeps his eyes on the TV, because he can already imagine how your best friend is looking at him. The side of his face is burning with the heat from Taehyung’s gaze. 

“Look, man,” Yoongi finally responds and makes eye contact against his will. “I’m not here to play games with her.”

Taehyung’s nodding, curious.

Honestly, this is so fuckin’ uncomfortable for Yoongi that he almost wants to yeet himself out of your house. Like being interrogated by not your father was not on the agenda, but he’s not backing down. 

“I’m not messing around with her. Just takin’ my time because she matters to me. That’s it.”

Taehyung’s brows rise, not mocking, not teasing this time. He nods once. “Alright.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile, but the tension on his shoulders loosens just enough that if someone were watching closely, they’d see it.

“I won’t snitch about the lock screen….” Taehyung snickers.

That kinda makes Yoongi laugh. Kay. Maybe he isn’t too bad after all.

 “Want a beer, hyung?”

Yoongi nods. “Sure.”

Just then, you thunder down the stairs, bright and sunny and carrying a tee, totally unaware you just walked into the tail end of a territorial pissing match cosplaying as polite getting-to-know-you.

Thing is, when you come down, Yoongi’s soul lifts because of your cute little fit.

A stripey cotton long-sleeved sweater (kinda matching his, actually and you know what that means in SK).

But then there’s your piece de resistance.

The tiniest lounge shorts designed to give him the biggest erection. 

Yoongi thinks you play dirty–using your fashion expertise as a weapon and he is so damn weak for it.

You drop onto the couch beside him, leg grazing his slacks and he has the most severe need to press any part of his bare skin against your plush thighs that his hands almost start to tingle.

Taehyung hits play and the show is on. Honestly, it’s a very interesting show. He knows Kook has been obsessed with it since Season One. But Yoongi is very much distracted. He occupied himself with nachos to keep him from doing inappropriate things.

Mid-way into the first episode, you pull out a throw from one of your ottomans and shake the blanket out to drape across your lap. You offer him one side and say, “Here, let’s share.”

Yoongi is chuffed as hell, because getting under a blanket with you, he can enjoy your warmth and maybe, just maybe, he can let his fingers wander. Then he sees Taehyung helping himself to the other corner and the plan goes to shit. SMH.

At least he finally has something covering those damn arms.

So now the blanket stretches across all three of you, a compressed row of body heat. Grrreat.

Yoongi tries to be super normal and 110% chill about the fact that your weight is settling so nicely against him, your fingers even start stroking the fine hairs by the sleeves of his sweater like you are meant to. 

It feels nice like this. Almost domestic. But because Yoongi is apparently a caveman with zero control over his urges, he feels the tips of his fingers quaking at the thought of stroking the skin on your inner thighs. 

You’re none the wiser. Just vibing, happy, watching and talking about the show.

But of course, your bestfriend knows. Taehyung fucking knows the chaos inside Yoongi’s mind.

Taehyung leans back, one arm casually draped over the backrest—behind you. Not touching you (because he doesn’t have a death wish), but close enough that Yoongi’s entire nervous system lights up like an electrical fire. Taehyung tilts his head daring Yoongi to make a move or else.

Yoongi has two choices: This is war or this is war.

Subtle, trying to remain dignified, Yoongi slides his arm behind you on the couch—mirroring Taehyung’s, but is instead claiming the space and setting his palm on your shoulder. Taehyung retracts his arm joyfully and leans the opposite way, even ridding himself of the blanket.

Your pretty eyes flick up at Yoongi, lashes fluttering in that surprised but welcoming way as you snuggle closer to him.

Taehyung is smirking at the TV and Yoongi wants to murder him and thank him in the same breath.

The night wears on. Yoongi has knocked back three bottles on a fairly empty stomach at this point, so he’s feeling a little more subdued. 

Physical: Asia flashes into a new challenge.

“Pfft!” Taehyung scoffs, placing his wine glass down. “That’s easy peezy lemon squeezie.”

Yoongi laughs to himself, remembering Kook who loves to say that phrase. Maybe you were right that your friend groups would get along.

“Real quick hyung, let’s try that!”

Yoongi replies, neutral. “Why would I want to?”

Your face lights up instantly. “OH MY GOD PLEASE DO IT.”

“Nah,” Yoongi mutters. “No dice.”

“Come on,” Taehyung grins, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I go low, just lean back on me. So easy.”

“That’s not even what they’re doing,” Yoongi argues, but Taehyung is already standing up, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for limbo.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi says.

“Absolutely yes,” Taehyung counters.

Yoongi shoots him a look, but Taehyung, who apparently has no sense of danger, takes him by the wrist and pulls him upwards.

You clap your hands before you take your phone out, obviously wanting to document this catastrophe waiting to happen.

Dead. Yoongi is actually dead. He sighs, long and suffering. “Fine. ONCE.”

Taehyung brightens like he just won a prize. He squats and bends. “Okay! Hyung, lean your back over me and we lock arms—”

Yoongi stares. “I changed my mind.”

“Baby, don't be a coward,” you say in a sweet, but teasing voice, and that does it.

Yoongi steps into position, butt to butt with your best friend before he leans back tentatively, awkwardly, like a man preparing to die for the woman he lov—wait, who said that?

“C’mon hyung,” Taehyung’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. “Just trust me.”

Yoongi clenches his jaw and shifts his weight backward and suddenly Taehyung locks an arm under his and bends, and Yoongi’s feet are off the ground.

“OH MY GOD,” you squeal, filming everything with your phone. “You’re actually doing it.”

“WHAT THE SHIT!” Yoongi’s voice cracks, sprawled like a starfish as he stares at your ceiling.

Yoongi continues to screech like a water buffalo. “Fuckkk—put me down—my sweater is riding up! TAEHYUNG-AHH!!”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, tears in your eyes, as Taehyung finally lowers him back onto the carpeted floor. Then, somehow, Yoongi starts laughing too, joining both of you back on the couch. 

“Wow, hyung. You’re very bendy.”

You high five Taehyung before you wiggle your brows at Yoongi in a mock-sleazy way, ending it with an exaggerated wink. “You’re not the only one who’s flexible…”

“Ayoooo!” Taehyung hollers and laughs like a hyena.

Yoongi bites his lip to suppress a smile. “Quit it.”

Because this “date” couldn’t have gone any weirder, Yoongi wakes up the next morning with only fragments of memory. Him being spun around by Taehyung while tipsy. Your lovely smile and your supple thighs under the blanket. After weeks of long work hours, exhaustion finally won. He must’ve fallen asleep on the couch at some point—he can feel it in his neck, the dull ache of an unfamiliar pillow.

Then he becomes aware of something else.

You stir against him, lifting your head just enough to look at his face before settling back down, cheek pressed to his chest. “Hi baby,” you murmur, already smiling. 

“Hi,” he mumbles, voice rough and heavy with sleep, eyes barely cracking open. “How’d you sleep?”

“So well. I thought I was hugging a cloud.”

That does something to him. Something quiet and deeply satisfying. He exhales, one arm tightening around you without thinking, palm resting flat against your back like it’s always belonged there.

This wasn’t his idea of a sleepover. But why does it feel so right?

He blinks again, more awake now. The room is bathed in early morning light, and finally, no sign of Taehyung. Just you and him and this bliss.

“Guess I make a good pillow,” he says, voice low, still lazy.

“You do,” you hum. “Ten out of ten. Would swipe right again.”

He lets out a tiny huff, fingers brushing absently through your hair. You’re even prettier in the morning, when your cheeks are puffy and your eyes are a little droopy and your tummy is… growling?

That was loud.

“Better feed your pet,” Yoongi jokes.

“Yahhh,” you say, burying your face deep into his chest again like you’re trying to go inside his heart. (News flash: you already might be.)

“C’mon, let’s get you some food…”

“Yeah… M’starving,” you admit, though you make no move to get up.

He tilts his head down, presses a gentle kiss to your hair. “Shall we make breakfast?”

You groan but smile, finally untangling yourself from him. He watches you pad toward the kitchen, still in those shorts, and now the only thing in his brain is: that ass.

“You coming?”

“Mmh, give me a second.” Yoongi frowns at his crotch as his muscles tighten.

When he looks up, you’re observing him, and there’s mischief in the way you mouth, “Perv.”

He narrows his eyes. “It’s morning. I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

A little later, you’re side by side at the counter. He cracks eggs while you rinse fruit. He can’t help but thank his lucky stars that this normal, gentle thing is now part of his life, and he wants more of it, more of you.

“C’mere, baby…”

Your weight sinks against him just right, the couch dipping under the shift as you straddle him. His fuzzy sweater traps your warmth, your thighs bare against his trousers, and his brain latches onto the sensation of your softness, your scent like it’s something to catalogue and revisit later. 

His palms travel the smooth expanse of skin from your leg up, higher, higher towards your ass, squeezing with both hands without restraint. Your hips roll forward instinctively as you continue to devour his mouth.

Your lips make their way down his jaw, towards the sensitive skin under his ear. He exhales through his nose, slow, measured, pretending this is normal. Pretending he hasn’t been imagining this exact moment for weeks.

“I need you to ruin me,” you mumble in between sliding your tongue against his neck. Wet. Messy.

“Yeah?”

Fuck! This is it…

Your fingers slide into his hair and he makes a low sound before he can stop himself. You kiss him again, sloppy and decisive. Soft sucks, teasing bites, and slippery swirls. He can tell you were feral, and he loves it so damn much.

Yoongi is about to let you have your way with him when suddenly, you shoot up from his lap.

A trail of curses follows you as you disappear to the bathroom leaving Yoongi baffled. Did he do something wrong? He suffers for a solid 10 minutes before you come back wearing sweatpants instead of those cute shorts. 

“Sorry, baby. I’m about to be unbearable, so I might need to kick you out.”

A fly could enter his mouth right now and he wouldn’t notice.

You sit on the opposite chair, crossing your arms over your chest. “TMI, but I just got my period, so…”

“You need me to go to the pharmacy?”

You smile. “It’s okay. I will ask Taehyung to drive me later.”

Yoongi places a fist atop his heart. “You wound me.”

“What?”

“You think some blood and whining will spook me.”

“You have not seen me in the throes of pain, Yoongi. Trust me. It’s better this way.”

Yoongi’s ears perk at that. Partially because you said something about pain and that’s something he likes to dabble on. But that’s a conversation for another time.

“Get dressed, we’re going to Olive Young.”

“No, thank you.”

Wordlessly, Yoongi stands up and goes to your coat closet. He wears his baseball cap and takes his jacket and zips it up while you watch with watery eyes, because you seem to think he is leaving.

When he is all bundled up, he takes yours, the white puffer with brown fur trim and walks over to you. He takes your wrist gingerly and slides your arm on one hole before you get the picture, slipping on the other by yourself.

He stands in front of you, zipping it all the way up to your neck, then pulls your hair free where it bunches at the back, smoothing it down with careful fingers.

Then he decides his cap would look better on you, so he places it on top of your head. Cute.

Keys dangling on his index, he gestures to the door. “Ready?”

Olive Young is a labyrinth so Yoongi tails you like a puppy, because he could seriously get lost in all these hypnotic beauty aisles.

You make your way to the female wellness section and he decides to take his phone out.

A box of something pink catches your eye, and you tuck it under your arm.

Yoongi looks at the shelf strip and types.

“Are you answering emails? You can sit there and wait if you want.” You purse your lips, pointing to that little bench near the elevator where two guys (boyfriends, presumably) are waiting for their girls.

“Ah no,” he shows you his screen where he’s been listing the things you’ve put on your basket. “For future reference.”

Your face twists into something unreadable and then suddenly you’re hugging him, cold-mottled cheeks squishing against his black puffer. Then, he hears the tiniest sniffle.

“Don’t cry.” He says it gently, thumb brushing under your eye. There isn’t much there, just a twinkle in your eye you’re trying to blink away. 

You shake your head against his chest. “I’m not. I just—” You exhale, shaky. “That was really sweet.”

“Aish..” His arms come around you properly then. One hand settles at your back, the other resting over your hair, fingers threading through gently. You fit there too easily. Like you’ve done this before. Like you’re supposed to.

Between you pulling on his jacket and crying into his chest over something so small and human, something in him solidified. But he can’t tell you yet.

He rests his chin lightly on the top of your head, eyes unfocused, heart doing something dangerously earnest.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, not even sure if you hear it amidst the store chatter and the kpop song blasting in the speakers.

When you pull back, cheeks still flushed, eyes fonder now, you smile at him like you did.

And Yoongi realizes, with a quiet certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he’s not going anywhere.

He just hopes you aren’t either.

Date no. 7 >

A/N: Soooo… who’s gonna tell me these two aren’t the cutest? Starting a list of who wants to fuck H&B!Tae because y’all know he’s a stud.

Anyway, last chapter is in the works and you’ll get a one-way ticket to Hong Kong and that's on me. (I can’t believe this is about to end. I'm already feeling the sepanx.)

If you enjoyed reading, please leave me a note or reblog with your review. It’s the best way you can show your support. Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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Date No. 7: The Birthday Suit

Oh this ate.

You’re appraising yourself in the mirror, a smile spread across your glossy lips in satisfaction.

The black dress you’re wearing is from a recent pull-out, the designer being one of your industry friends. It’s off the rack but somehow fits you like it was tailored with intent. A slit reveals just enough leg when you walk. The bodice molds your breasts like they were measured for it. Tae called it Bridgerton boobs when you Facetimed him earlier just to vibe check.

You like this look. Sexy, sophisticated. You hope Yoongi likes it, too. Because well, you like Yoongi. No question. You like him a lot.

He’s been amazing these past few days, doting on you regularly as if you’re harboring a more serious disease and not just dysmenorrhea. He even came over once, offering you hot soup and even hotter kisses, before he had to go back to his studio.

You do wonder how to move things along. How to progress. 

Seokjin’s birthday party seems like the perfect night for it.

The restaurant is glowing when you arrive. Low golden lights, crisp linens, florals arranged. It’s full without feeling crowded, laughter spilling from every corner, wine glasses clinking softly. It feels warm and alive. 

And then you see him. And if you wolf whistle what will his friends think of you?

Yoongi’s posted up near the bar in a dark suit that looks custom-made for ruining your panties. Terrible, really. His jet-black hair falls in soft waves like he woke up unfairly handsome on purpose. He flips his jacket backwards and plants his hands on his hips, flashing a gunmetal Valentino belt holding up pants you are already mentally kicking off him and onto the bedroom floor.

He turns the moment your gaze heats up the side of his face. And for a second, he just stares. Just looks at you like all the thoughts swirling in your brain are also swimming in his.

Then, his mouth curves into a slow, devastating smirk.

“Fuck,” he says when you reach him, voice low, eyes unapologetic as they track you from head to toe. “You look… unreal.”

You lean forward and press your cheek against his and you feel his arm circle your lower back lightly. A kiss would have been nice, but you think Yoongi’s not one for PDA, especially in a classy place like this.

“You look hot. But I think you know that already…” you raise a brow, then glance down to the bartop where 11 digits and a name are written on a piece of napkin. 

Huh.

Women move fast. But wait, he’s not embarrassed that you clocked this. Not one bit. This cocky mf wanted you to know that he’s been wanted.

His tongue skirts his bottom lip, failing to prevent a shit-eating grin from forming. 

Was it to make you jealous? Because you’re not. But a twitch inside your chest and a little further south says otherwise.

You’re still not saying anything, still locked in a staring match. Cat-like eyes study you from the rim of a lowball. You’re unfazed, waiting for him to say or do something.

Suddenly, you see a flash movement from the corner of your eye. Jin, the man of the hour, spots you from across the room and makes a dramatic beeline over, grin wide and pleased.

“You made it,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to your dress. “I was worried Yoongi would fuck things up before my birthday.”

Yoongi warns. “Hyung.”

You laugh. “He’s been a good boy. Mostly.”

The napkin’s still there.

“Lies,” Jin says cheerfully. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t miss the birthday of Yoongi’s favorite hyung,” you reply. 

“Careful,” he warns with a delighted grin, glancing between you and Yoongi. “You know he has an older brother.”

“Well it’s not his birthday…”

“Ah.” He wags a finger. “You’re already my favorite guest.”

A heavy palm is deposited on Jin’s shoulder making him tilt sideways. “Behave, hyung.”

“I refuse.”

“The place is beautiful,” you say, just to change the topic, smiling as you scan the room, but fully unaware of the staring match the two boys are having.

“You fit right in,” Jin replies coolly and when you glance back he has a very sticky top 5 bachelor kinda grin waiting for you.

Hang on. Is Jin flirting with you right now? In front of Yoongi?

The stare your not-boyfriend is giving Jin could melt the polar ice caps. But Jin is non-plussed.

“C’mon… is it not my birthday, Yoongi-yah? Let me have my fun.” Jin says, eyes still bright with mischief.

Yoongi doesn’t even look rattled. He exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh, and replies evenly, “Have all the fun you want, hyung.” Then, without breaking eye contact, he adds, “but don’t you have other guests to attend to?”

It’s said casually, but Yoongi’s hand slips to the small of your back as he speaks, warm and firm, drawing you closer until your hip fits neatly against his.

Jin’s grin sharpens, reverting to you. “See? He’s learning.”

As Jin peaces out, you feel the press of Yoongi’s thumb at your waist, and it hits you then: how funny it is that earlier you clocked that napkin on the bar, the number scribbled like a quiet provocation. But standing here now, tucked into his side, you realize the balance has shifted.

If anyone’s being quietly undone tonight, it’s him. And judging by the way his fingers flex once at your back, dipping a little lower, this evening is about to get a lot less polite, if you play your cards right.

“So what was that about?” You move to sit on the bar stool, placing your clutch on the bar top.

“What?”

“You and Jin, talking in telepathy. I noticed that too the first time you took me here.”

Yoongi sighs like he is already tired of talking to and about his hyung. You know it’s just poorly masked affection. “You met at the magazine shoot, right?”

You hum.

“And he got your number…”

You nod.

Truthfully, you don’t remember a lot about that day. It was a full day that started at 4 in the morning and Jin was the last of the lot when your energy reserves had almost whittled down to zilch. But still you remember the rack of delicious strawberries and the nice banter with Jin that came easily. He seemed like a solid guy so you didn’t mind matching his vibe even though you were dead tired.

“Yeah, I guess he said he needed a stylist for future projects.”

“He, umm, gave me your number after that actually. Told me about this cute stylist that hummed my song who seemed pretty cool.”

“Your song?”

“Eight. I produced it.”

Oh…

Your favorite song. Well one of. But still. Didn’t you play it on your hiking date? 

“That’s amazing.” You quip, but then your smile twists into a pout. “But you never texted me?”

“Honestly? I wasn’t really looking to start something with anyone back then.” He exhales through his nose. “But they kept pushing me to put myself out there.”

“Fair.”

“Jin-hyung loves to remind me that he found you first.”

“You know, I do find him… handsome.” You dangle the last word just to see his reaction.

He shrugs it off. Casual. But certain. “Doesn’t matter…”

“Is that right?”

“He may have met you first, but,” Yoongi’s leaning in close, lips brushing your ear just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “We both know who’s gonna fuck you first.”

Oh shit.

Food and drinks were amazing as to be expected from a Michelin star restaurant. And the company is also wonderful. There’s no awkwardness. No sense of being an outsider. Yoongi’s people greet you easily, already warm from your previous interactions. Namjoon pulls you into a conversation about wine pairings like you’ve always been part of the group. Hoseok compliments your dress with zero subtlety and a dramatic hand to his chest. Jimin hands you a drink you didn’t ask for but absolutely wanted.

Taehyung arrives fashionably late and immediately steals attention, but instead of hovering near you or Yoongi, he’s pulled almost instantly into chaos with Jungkook and Jimin. Within minutes, they’re deep in conversation, already laughing like they’ve known each other forever.

Later, you catch Tae’s eye across the room. His grin is boxy and genuine.

You smile. Yoongi notices.

“Looks like your best friend’s doing fine.”

“Yeah. Knew he would. He’s a social butterfly.”

“And you? Are you having fun?”

“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I really am.”

His fingers trace a slow, absent line along your waist, thumb brushing the edge of your dress like it belongs there. You lean into him, instinctive.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I want you here. With me.”

The words land heavier than he probably intends.

As the night winds down—dessert plates cleared, candles burning low—you find yourself standing with him near the edge of the room, his arm draped loosely around your shoulders, your hand resting at his side. It’s comfortable. Intimate. Unquestioned.

You look up at him.

He’s already looking at you.

“Come home with me tonight.” 

It’s not a question, but the tiny raise of his brow tells you he is waiting for your response.

“Yeah. I’d love to.”

And finally It feels like the next chapter opening. The beginning of the part you’ve both been craving for.

“Yoongi… fuck—”

He pulls you back into his chest with a firm grip, one hand sliding possessively around your waist while the other tugs at the ribbons of your dress, fingers confident and unhurried as if he studied how quickly he can unwrap you all night. You wouldn’t put it past him.

His mouth finds the slope of your neck, tongue dragging hot and slow against your skin, leaving you gasping before he latches onto the tender spot just above your collarbone.

You’re so wrapped in the heat of his tongue and the low sounds he makes in your ear, you don’t even notice the top of your dress slipping down—until the cool air hits your bare skin and his hands are suddenly there.

Warm palms cup your tits, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, letting it snag against his blunt nails. You whimper, hips canting back, and he groans at the sound, mouth moving to your ear. He sucks your earlobe between his lips, then lets it go with a soft pop, his breath fanning across your cheek.

Goosebumps rise all over your skin, and you’re falling apart with every single touch.

You don’t know how you made it to his bedroom—you don’t even really know what it looks like—just remember stumbling backward with him chasing your mouth, pulling at your dress until it’s on the floor.

He’s still fully clothed, but his eyes are dark and wild now.

You pull him back in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds. He groans when you bite his lip.

“You look way too good in this,” you murmur, fingers curling lightly at his collar, tugging him close. “But I want it off.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling the crisp fabric of his suit jacket beneath your palms. You slide your hands up to his shoulders and push the jacket backward, watching it slip down his arms and drop soundlessly to the floor behind him.

He tilts his head. “You wanna help me?”

“Mmm… No,” you say, stepping back just a little, biting your bottom lip playfully. “I wanna watch you.”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep in his throat.

God, you need this moment to loop in your brain. Watching Yoongi undress for you may just be your favorite fucking thing in the universe.

He tugs the knot of his tie loose with practiced fingers and your mouth dries at the flex of his neck. You don’t look away for a second—not when he slides it out from under his collar, not when he lets it dangle from his fingers before…

He drapes the necktie around your neck like a leash and pulls you towards him, your body following without resistance.

“Mine,” he says and you draw a breath, kind of dumbstruck as he tightens the fabric just ever so slightly. You wear it like a medal.

Your eyes follow every motion as he pops open the top button of his shirt, then the next, and the next, each one revealing more milky skin, more of the toned planes of his chest. By the time he reaches the fourth button, you’re already reaching out, greedy and unable to wait any longer. You slide your hands under the open placket, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and down until it pools at his feet. 

His belt and trousers follow, falling with a heavy clink. He’s bare now, save for the black boxer-briefs clinging to his hips, a trail of hair disappearing and leading into a noticeable bulge.

Oh.

Your eyes rake over him shamelessly. “Fuck you, actually.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“You made me wait so long,” you mutter, running your hands down his chest, over the pebbled tips of his dusky nipples. “I could just devour you right now.”

He grins. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

You maneuver him onto the bed, letting the mattress catch his weight before you climb over him. He has this wry smile on his face, like he’s letting you do this, take command temporarily, and you have a feeling he's switching up on you when you least expect it. Still, your thighs straddle his hips, heat pooling low as you sink down—barely clothed, but completely burning.

Your fingers twist into his hair as you rock against the hard line of him, both of you groaning into each other's mouths at the friction.

"Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps, low and labored.

His hands are on your ass, your waist, your thighs, your tits, your hair, any surface he can grab on to. You don’t know what’s come over either of you. It’s gotten frantic and uncoordinated fast—the kind of desperation that only months of holding back could breed. You grind harder, now chasing your high shamelessly. But finally, he comes to his senses, planting both hands on your waist to ease you off his pelvis.

“Baby, stop–we gotta slow down.” he says, voice strained but resolute. “Please.”

You collapse against his shoulder, laughing through the burn of your need, body still thrumming. “Oh my god.”

Because you’re both a mess. Slick with sweat and arousal, tangled in each other, like horny teenagers dry humping in your parents’ basement with zero shame and zero game.

“This is your fault.” You boop the tip of his nose with your index finger.

“How is it my fault?”

You huff dramatically. “Why didn’t you fuck me on our first date? Were you not into me?”

“It was the first date,” he replies, like that should be obvious. He really is such a gentleman.

“And the second?” you press, eyes narrowing.

“We had raw fish,” he says flatly. “Lots of it.” You don’t know if that’s a valid one, but you let it slide, because you want to hear his answers for the rest.

“Third? We literally made out in the club.”

“Nah, you were out of it. I was, too. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Fourth?” you challenge, now counting on your fingers.

“It was mid-workday,” he counters. “You were still on the clock.”

You smirk, leaning in closer. “Rather be on the cock.”

Yoongi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ–”

“Fifth date?” you fire back, unfazed. “You were super handsy. Don’t even deny it. Thought you were gonna finger me on the trail.”

“Was about to, yeah, if the maknaes didn’t crash our date. Your body was insane in those leggings.” He licks his bottom lip, hands spreading over your thighs before giving the plush flesh a firm squeeze. “But, you already know I strained my back from our descent.”

“Thought it was your knees?”

“Shut up,” he grits, tickling your sides, making you squirm. “Both hurt like a bitch. I guess I’m getting too old for it. And before you mention the sixth, I blame Taehyung.”

You nod, sighing. “I got my period too. That’s on me.”

Yoongi looks at you, voice suddenly softer. “Wouldn’t have minded if you really wanted it.”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Yoongi?”

“Doesn’t it help with cramps or some shit?” He just stares back, gaze quiet and sure. “I was reading something about it last week.”

Shit, why do you feel so shy? 

“I don’t even know what to say about that.” 

His fingertips trail the curve of your breasts, catching on your nipples and giving them a soft pinch that sends a jolt straight to your core. “Truth is? I didn’t stand a chance with you. I would've given you anything you asked for.”

You're gushing again, breath shaky as you inch closer, lips brushing against his. “Except your cock.”

“Don’t dwell on the past, baby.” He smiles against you before he slides his lips fully against yours, hungry and messy, licking into your mouth like he is savoring the taste of you.

Air leaves your lungs when he sucks your tongue and continues to roll your nipples between his fingers, your hips bucking haplessly to feel the friction of fabric against your clit.

“Yoongi…”

“Mm?”

“Need you… need to feel you inside me.”

Yoongi’s eyes flash. He reaches toward the nightstand, but before he can grab what you know he’s after, your hand wraps around his wrist—gentle but firm. A silent message.

“Oh?” His brow quirks, a snarl unfurling. “You nasty, huh?”

When he says it like that? You’re a blushing mess, but you press on. “I’m on the pill. And I’m clean.”

He licks his bottom lip once, before that infuriating smirk takes over. “Got it. You want it raw?”

“Stop teasing me,” you whine, squirming against him, but he’s got you locked in his embrace. “I haven’t fucked in so long I’m basically a virgin again…”

“You’re so—” Yoongi lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“I haven’t fucked in so long I self-cleaned like a Roomba.”

He chuckles, lopsided and low. “Oh, you’re just full of jokes tonight.”

“Rather be full of cum.”

That earns you another groan. “Nah,” he decides, eyes darkening. “You know what? I think I need to have my fun first. You gonna let me?”

You nod, half-sure. 

Then he tugs you gently by the tie still hanging on your neck, making you lock into his deep eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“If it gets too much, let’s use a safeword.”

“Sugar cube.”

“Perfect,” He nips your lip. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

Before you can process what all that means, he’s moving you—effortlessly maneuvering your body until you’re draped over his lap, ass up, like some bratty girl about to be taught a lesson.

Wait. Are you?

Shit.

You gasp as his palm smooths over your skin, gliding over the soft curve of your ass, dipping briefly between your thighs before moving back up. Just the weight of his hand, big and warm, is enough to unravel you. Then, he slips his fingers under your panties, grabbing a fistful of your flesh, squeezing it like a squish toy.

“Fuck, this ass…”

You let out a breathy moan, loving the roughness, the way he handles you like you’re just his favorite plaything.

But then—crack!

He slaps the underside, quick and unexpected. You yelp, high-pitched and breathless, your hips jerking forward against the bed. The sting is sharp, and you’re suddenly feeling so fucking alive, Hs palm then cups the same spot, massaging it gently. 

Then, another slap. Sharper. You cry out again, not from shock, but because of the force. Your hips twitch, because it hurts and your body is anticipating the ache. But once again, he follows with a slow, delicious rub that makes your tippy toes curl. It’s messing with your head–the strike and the soothe that follows.

“My baby sounds so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement. “You like it, don’t you?”

You bury your face in the pillow, breath catching. “Fuck… yeah. I like it.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging his fingers along the curve of your thigh. “Good. Cos I’m just getting started.”

You could die from anticipation and arousal. Thankfully, Yoongi doesn’t make you wait long. He tugs your panties snug between your cheeks, the fabric biting deliciously into the heat of your skin. It’s filthy, the way it exposes you even more, the way he takes his time to admire your body.

“You’re dripping, baby…” he murmurs, almost to himself. Like he’s marveling. Like he’s proud.

Of course you’re dripping, is he joking? But you bite your tongue since you are already in a precarious position. A whimper huffs out when his nails drag lightly, just barely, across your flushed skin. Then—smack!

Another sharp slap, perfectly placed, and the burn flares through your body like a live wire. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your breath ragged and a little desperate.

“God damn,” he mutters, smoothing a hand over the mark, admiring his handiwork.

You groan into the pillow, aching, but aching for more. “Yoongi, please.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he leans down, kissing your bruised backside gently. “I’m gonna give it to you, but can you take a few more?”

“Yes, I want more…” You really do. You’ll even count if he asks. The need is overwhelming, to be so good for him. Like his—

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He pulls your panties down gently, making sure the lace doesn’t drag across the redness.

But he is a menace, letting the fabric settle by your knees and not removing it all the way. His hand is splayed at the tops of your ass cheek, shaking it like he is wanting to go into hypnosis.

“I love your ass.”

“Really? I didn’t notice…”

“Don’t be a brat.” Yoongi chuckles, and another thwack lands on your cheek, the pain duller, but deeper. It’s blossomed now, like a bruise you want to keep poking just to feel it again. Tears start to blur your vision but when you expect another spank, it doesn’t arrive. Instead, a finger prods your slick folds and soon enough, his bony knuckles breach your entrance.

Fuck, finally. Fuck.

 A strangled moan escapes your parted lips. 

It’s relief. But it’s also unlocking a hunger, all-consumming and urgent, to take more.

His index moves in and out of you, while his other hand slaps and makes your ass jiggle. He adds his middle digit to your sloppy center, the squelches of being finger-fucked filling the room.

The feeling is unfamiliar, but divine—this cocktail of pain and pleasure. Brain shutting down, you already know it’s not going to take long before you reach your peak.

You crane your neck to catch a glimpse of him. So fuckin’ sexy, his lips are flushed from being bitten, jaw tense with focus as he works your body with single-minded intent, determined to push you right to the edge of euphoria. 

He catches your eye, still at it, then he tilts head, “Still trust me?”

“Yes…”

You’re curious now. Like what other tricks does he h—Holy shit.

Suddenly his thumb is pressed against your rim, rubbing it in tight circles as his other hand continues to assault your pussy with his fingers.

“Feels nice.” You breathe out, mind melting in bliss.

“Yeah? Wanna feel nicer?”

His thumb, glossy from the slick gushing from your cunt, slips inside your tight ring of muscle.

“Ah shiiiit!” You wail, raw and animalistic, hips jerking reflexively.

What the hell? You don’t expect the blinding rush of pleasure from being penetrated there.

“Yoongi, fuck— I’m coming.”

And in the multitude of sensations, in the countless layered shades of want, need, and something deeper—you hear the single thing that cuts through it all: his command. 

“Come.”

Your body locks up, thighs trembling as your orgasm hits you, sharp and blinding, until it feels like stars are bursting behind your lids. The high is so celestial, it almost feels like you slipped out of your body for a second and came undone somewhere above. When you come down, every muscle melts at once.

Yoongi’s voice is the first thing that reaches you again, soft with praise as he lifts you gently from his lap and lays you down on your belly, careful and tender.

His pretty face comes into view beside yours, lying on his side. “How was that, baby?”

“10 out of 10, no notes,” you slur, still drifting in and out of your zone, but locked in enough to ask for what you really wanted. “So can you fuck me now?”

Brows scrunching, Yoongi lets out a soundless chuckle that makes his shoulders shake. “Can you even move?”

“No… but you can hit it from the back.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but his boxers disappear, thickened cock flopping against his soft tummy.

Look. If dicks had beauty pageants, Yoongi’s would take the crown. Long, with the kind of girth that makes your lips split just thinking about it; it leans just a tad to the right, curling enough to hit the spot. A prominent vein runs along the underside, flushed deep purple, leading to a tip that’s glistening. It’s the kind of cock that you need inside you, like yesterday.

Glad you didn’t overreact. Actually, no. You do. You literally dive for it as if someone else might snatch it away any second, gripping his shaft with a little too much gusto. Yoongi groans from deep within his chest, before letting out an amused chuckle. Yeah, his ego has increased ten-fold with your antics.

You shimmy your body towards him, hoisting your body with both palms to make the cushion dip. You let a trail of warm saliva drip from your lips, coating his cockhead, before your mouth descends upon him in one smooth stroke.

“Hell yeah,” he tips his head back, exposing the line of his throat and the tendons flexing in his neck.

Your mouth is watering again, making spit dribble down his length. It’s disgusting how you're blowing him so sloppy, lips wrapping in a tight seal around his cock and slick fingers on parts you can’t mouth over yet.

"Knew you’d be good at that," he murmurs, one hand scrunching your hair as he guides your gaze up to him—just so you can see how much he’s relishing the way his cock bulges against your cheek. “You dirty girl.” 

Maybe you too have tricks up your sleeves. In one fluid motion, your tonsils kiss his mushroom tip and you swallow, gagging against it, salty with pre-cum.

Chest heaving, Yoongi drops your hair to pool on the side of your shoulders as his breathing gets more ragged. “Oh fuck–”

You bob faster, sucking the velvety skin at the base and keeping the suction until his head rubs at the roof of your mouth. He’s so close, you can feel it in the stuttered cadence of his breathing. In the way his hips are lifting from the cushions, helping you take him deeper.

Do you? Should you…? The question whether to finish him off like this is answered with a slight tug of your hair, before you ease off him with a wet pop.

You look at your masterpiece. His already huge dick seems to have grown in size, so hard it looks painful, the tip flushed an angry crimson.

He heaves a heavy exhale, as if he read your mind. “I’m fuckin’ close, but I been waiting on that pussy.”

“It’s yours.” You swipe a knuckle on the side of your lips, nodding. “How do you want me?”

“Just like that,” he smirks. “You don’t gotta move a muscle.”

Yoongi hovers behind you, his palms smoothing firmly down your back, then eases up as it travels down the globes of your ass, still flushed and stinging from his earlier assault.

Lying on your belly, you gasp as he takes you from behind, cock still swathed in your saliva to plunge inside your sopping pussy with little to no resistance.

You squirm, cheeks still raw, stinging with every movement as he bounces against your ass. The pain is starting to feel addictive, but still your body writhes with each pump of his pelvis.

“Relax baby, I want it all the way in,” he presses a quick kiss on your shoulder, gentle as ever, before he bucks hard and bottoms the fuck out, taking you by surprise.

You scream, pornographic and loud. It hurts, but it hurts good, and your body is simply not yours anymore. You’ve relinquished it to Yoongi as every push of his cock drags heat around your every vertebrae, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Yoongi sits on his heels and hoists your ass up, stuffing a pillow between you and his bed before he’s pounding you again.

The change of angle lessens the friction against your burning cheeks but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Like a man possessed, he pistons into you at a consistent pace, smack after smack landing on your ass before he grips you by the hips and really goes to town.

Your vision mists at the edges, the grip you have on his sheets tight enough to crumple the fabric as you hold on for dear life. 

“Yoongi… shit… Yoongi…”

“Keep saying my name like that… fuckin’ love it.”

“Yoongi, I wanna cum so bad…” you babble. “Please, baby, I can’t take it anymore.”

“Play with your clit, baby. Rub it for me just how you like it…”

You slip a clammy finger between your folds, the motion of him rocking into you enough to stimulate your delicate nub deliciously.

You moan, twitching, already teetering on the edge of delirium. Every inch of your skin feels scorched, like you’d peel it from your bones if it meant finding the slightest relief.

And just when you think you’re spiraling too far to come back, it hits—your breath catches, chest tightening, airways constricting.

Yoongi yanks the necktie back, forcing your body into a perfect arch, spine bowed, helpless to anything but sensation.  

“Come with me, baby,” he grunts.

You choke, already dizzy, lightheaded, then he thrusts deep, one final time, and releases.

His climax tears through him, taking you with him in a blinding crash as you feel the warmth of his cum flooding your walls. And just like that the grip on the fabric loosens, and air rushes back into your lungs like salvation.

Your body floats in a haze of something close to euphoria. There’s something warm and fluffy expanding in your chest, tingling across your skin.

You’re unable to put it into words how perfect it is to be so thoroughly seen, touched, wanted by Yoongi.

And it’s not just the high of your multiple orgasms (though that was a beautiful bonus). It really is the ache in your ribs from breathless laughter, the tender kisses he plants on your forehead, the gentle way he hugs you tight. Everything else in the world is secondary.

You bury your face on the pillow, thoughts clouding your mind. When you open them again, Yoongi is already moving carefully around the room. 

You wince slightly when the gentlest cloth dabs your skin clean. He’s working quietly, just the soft sweep of fabric along your ass, your legs. 

Then comes the shirt, placed over your head to replace the sinful accessory, and a loose pair of boxers he eases up your legs. Both smell like Downy and home.

You’re quiet, too. Words unable to assemble and be spoken out loud, lest it breaks the fragility of the moment. So focused on after care, Yoongi brings a straw up to your lips. You blink at him, as cool water douses your ragged throat, and he gives you a look so tender it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Thank you, baby. You were perfect,” he says softly, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “So good for me. Every second.”

He doesn’t just kiss you once—he kisses your lips, your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the corner of your eye. Loving and gentle, not to stoke the dying coals, but to soothe and settle your fiery heart. 

Eventually, he tucks you beneath the covers and slides in beside you, curling his body around yours. You don’t even try to fight the sleep that’s pulling you under as his arms wrap solidly around your waist.

And as you pillow your heads together in the quiet, you finally understand why this feels different, unlike anything with any other partner. This wasn’t just sex. This is trust. This is respect. This is intimacy. Real and raw.

The kind you didn’t think was meant for people like you. Until him. Until now.

EPILOGUE

Date no. 8: The Satin Pajamas

“What are you wearing?” You plant both hands on your hips.

“My pajamas.” Yoongi responds, deadpan. He’s reading a book, eyeglasses perched on top of his shiny button nose.

“Let me rephrase that. What are you wearing and why are you trying to seduce me?”

He smirks, still doesn’t look up. “I’m doing no such thing, baby.”

The pajamas. They’re dark gray and satin and a matching set. Harmless, right? Wrong. Because the problem with this smooth, thin, satin is even if Yoongi is at rest, you can still make out his dick print.

And now you wanna make out with it.

“How very dare you.” You’re shimmying your own cotton pajamas down, leaving you in your panties. You have thoughts. And you’re leaning on acting on those thoughts. i. e. About the smooth glide of that fabric against your bare pussy. Fuck, you’re so hot and bothered for him it’s really embarrassing.

“Fuck, this thing feels amazing.” You breathe out as you slide against his body, bare thighs brushing against his clothing. 

He just chuckles.

You run your palms against his chest and when you see his nipples starting to perk between your digits, you plop your mouth on one and suck against the fabric.

The fuckin’ book finally closes and is tossed aside.

“Shit your mouth.”

You nod. “Mhm… where else do you want it?”

“You know where.”

You slink down, mouth his cock against the fabric, your saliva making a deeper shade bloom against the satin. You hook your index on the garter and pull the waistband down for his pretty cockhead to pop out. 

You lick him all over, do your best to take him deep enough to swallow against his tip.

You’re getting into it now, determined to give him the motherfuckin’ head of his life when you’re yanked off his length.

“Nah,” he says, like he just had a thought. “You get up here and take your panties off.”

You take his spot by the headboard, crotch bare for him now. He’s hovering over you, palms braced on either side of your thighs. 

“I didn’t get to appreciate this last night.” He says, lips trailing against his bottom plush, mere centimeters from your wet, aching cunt.

“Then appreciate it. With your mouth.” You suggest with a little smirk.

“Brat.” He delivers a quick little spank against your puffy lips, your legs closing on instinct against his head. “Nope. You’re gonna keep this nice and open for me.”

You show yourself again to him. A slow, torturous flick of his tongue against your clit and you’re unraveling in real time. His mouth suctions on your throbbing core, setting a controlled but dizzying pace which he alternates with long flat licks of his tongue. The realization that he kept his fuckin’ glasses on sends you skyrocketing. You’re practically oozing now, drenching his sheets, and he just laps you up, drunk and high on that pussy juice, not wasting a single drop.

“You taste so good, fuck.”

lick

“Love this cunt.”

lick

“Who owns this pussy?”

meow

Wait what?

You come face to face with green eyes and a Victorian collar.

And so it was your turn to ask: “Who owns this pussy?”

Yoongi surfaces from your depths, chin glossy as the black cat slinks towards him, tail swishing against your face, making you sputter out the fur that made its way in your mouth. Uh, rude?

“Me,” he says, giving the cat a little pat on the butt. “And the entire condo I guess. This is Tang-ie.”

“You forgot to tell me you have a whole living creature in this house?” you ask, moderately scandalized.

“He’s kind of an informal settler. Likes to hop from one condo to another,” Yoongi explains. “We all kind of just pitch in if he chooses to stay with us.”

Tang is actually a really adorable cat, if he isn’t staring at you like a tiger about to eat its prey. It’s a little jarring, if you’re gonna be honest.

Yoongi is none the wiser. Just continues to pat pat his cat’s bum bum, utterly distracted now. This man really has a fascination with spanking, you realize, wincing a little as you still feel last night’s after-effects.

“Yeah, um, should I leave you two alone, or?”

Yoongi eyes you before releasing a shoulder-shaking laugh.

You finally remember to close your legs. How embarrassing.

Yoongi carries Tang off the bed, setting the cat outside before he closes his bedroom door with a muted click.

“Don’t be jealous of the cat, Y/N.” He says, sounding very matter-of-fact, as he pads back to the bed.

You roll your eyes, reaching for the blanket to cover your bare half.

“Stop,” he says, snatching the gray blanket and tossing it on the floor. “We’re not done.”

You curl in on yourself and face away from him.

Yoongi positions himself behind you, pressing his forehead against the back of your neck. “Can I eat you out now?”

You break your silence with a huff. “I dunno. Is it your favorite pussy?”

“Of all time.” he says, the smile apparent in this tone, adding. “I love it when my girlfriend is a little jealous.” 

The word hits harder than anything he said all night.

“I’m your girlfriend?” you ask, turning sharply.

He goes a little pink. “Oh—uh, I mean…”

You lean in, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I am.”

His smile comes slow this time. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just sure. Like he’s been holding the word in his mouth for a while, waiting for the right moment to let it live between you.

“My girlfriend,” he repeats, softer.

And you let him.

You let him say it when he kisses you.

When he makes you come.

When he tucks you into his chest like you belong there.

My baby. My girlfriend. Mine.

You let him say it when the two of you sit cross-legged on the floor later, phones in hand, deleting Hookie without ceremony. Neither of you has any use for it now.

Because this—soft sheets, sore muscles, swollen lips, a soft-spoken man and his snobbish cat—feels nothing like a hookup.

It feels like the first love you used to imagine.

Soft. Safe. Certain.

And finally, it’s yours.

:)

A/N: Aaaand that’s a wrap on H&B. Thank you so, so much for sticking with me through it all.

I have to say, this concept was a little hard for me to warm up to in the beginning and then it just started clicking. Planning the dates and correlating it with iconic Yoongi fits were probably my favorite thing about this series.

So what did you think??? See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

Lastly, I do take ko.fi if you’d like to support what I do. <3

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Date 5: The Olive Green Parka

Yoongi: Let’s touch some grass You: wdym? Yoongi: 📍Achasan You: let’s do it Yoongi: Pick you up at 8 You: 👌

Okay. Truth time. You’ve never gone on a hike before. You weren’t even sure if you were the type to enjoy it. But it seems that when it comes to Yoongi, you’re willing to try just about anything. And if that means trading your kitten heels for rugged boots even just for a day then so be it. 

“Wow, babe. You’re really branching out, huh?” Taehyung says as he closes the door of your fridge, a can of Coke nabbed.

You scroll Naver for photos of the area Yoongi pinned as you continue to chat with your bestie. “What do you even do during hikes?” 

“You hike.”

“Bitch?”

Taehyung grins, boxy and annoying. You know he’s just being a little shit, but he knows his stuff. When he enlisted, his special forces squad pretty much scaled every mountain in Seoul for their training. He got so damn good, he got the guns to prove it. “Achasan is an easy enough trail. Low altitude. Lots of paths to take. If your boy knows his shit, he’ll take the northeast trail. You can get about 4km in about an hour and you get great views of Guri.”

You blink. “Your mouth was moving but literally nothing you said made any sense to me.”

“Just wear a nice pair of leggings. So as you enjoy the view, he can also enjoy the view… of your ass.”

Now that’s the kind of advice you were looking for!

You rush to your closet and come out with three athleisure sets that might work. Tae tells you to wear the orange set and you thought it would pair nicely with the white windbreaker you recently got from alo, the cute one with the thumb holes. Later on, he lends you his backpack and helps you pack your essentials.

Thank God for Tae and his fitness era!

Yoongi’s in a casual white tee and hiking shoes with an olive green parka to keep him warm. With a DSLR camera slung around his neck and a backpack over his shoulder, he looks every bit the overzealous tourist and you think it’s kinda adorable.

He hands you a bottle of water. “Ready?” he asks with that soft smile.

“Ready,” you answer—and you are.

The trail starts out gentle: gravel path, a few wooden stairs, and views of the Han River just peeking between trees. He leads but often turns back, holding out a hand. You catch yourself taking it.

When your foot slips on a mossy rock, he’s there fast, steadying you, his palm warm against your lower back. You breathe out loud, “Thanks.”

He just nods. “No sweat.”

You stop to take photos. You watch him squat and shoot photos of the river, of the shadows made by the trees, of the moisture on a leaf. His stance may be weird, but when you saw the photos from the viewfinder, you have to admit he has a great eye for composition.

After about an hour and a half, you reach a clearing: tall pines ring the grassy patch, and just beyond the trees the ridges of the mountains stretch into light haze. 

“Thought we’d chill for a bit,” Yoongi says as he drops his pack and pulls out a blanket.

You flop beside him, stretching your legs and watching the clouds drift. He unpacks the food he brought: gimbap, sliced pears, a bit of cheese and crackers. You add your trail mix, mini sandwiches, and shine muscat to the spread. A cute little picnic date.

You pick up a slice of pear. “This is great,” you say softly, looking up at the sky and inhaling deeply. 

“Fresh air, finally.”

“Agreed, pollution’s gotten really bad in the city.”

“No, it’s fuckin’ terrible.”

You share fruit, conversation. He asks about something you haven’t talked about before, your family. You’re happy to share. You tell him bits and pieces about your relationship with them. He reciprocates with anecdotes too, like his older brother recently opening up a restaurant.

He procures a bluetooth speaker from his backpack and places it on the mat. “What kind of music do you like?”

“Pop, usually. Sorry, I’m so basic.”

“Nah. No rules about that. You like what you like.”

“I have this go-to playlist. Songs I don’t mind listening to forever. And they’re a mix of genres.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“Honestly I don’t even know some of the artists there.”

“How’d you discover them?”

“Whenever I hear a song I like—in a mall, cafe, wherever—I use this app, Shazam. It tells me what song it is, then I add it to my playlist. For some reason I just kept doing it, adding songs as I go along.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Sounds dope. A playlist built organically, like it’s the soundtrack of your life.”

You never thought of it that way and how Yoongi just makes it sound so profound, pink colors your cheeks. “I… wow. Okay, here. I’ll play it.”

You reach for your phone and hit shuffle.

The opening melody fills the space between you and Yoongi. You lean back against your palms, allowing the song to touch your soul as it always does, nostalgic and comforting.

The thing is, when you close your eyes, you don’t get to see Yoongi’s reaction.

… How his eyes go wide. … How his breath stutters. … How he freezes mid-reach for a grape.

You have no way of knowing that he is crashing the fuck out, just a little.

Because it’s his song.

And you just told him, without knowing, that you could listen to it forever.

Now he can’t help but be so fond of the way you hum to the song, looking serene and content.

Did he really meet you on a godforsaken app?

Thank god for Jin and his dumb ideas!

As minutes pass, you notice Yoongi has… inched closer. Not dramatically, like he’s not suddenly draping himself all over you. You know he’s not the touchy feely type. And when he does touch you, it’s usually deliberate and purposeful. But now, he’s close enough that his knee brushes your thigh every now and then. He picks stray pollen from your cheek. His hand plants itself on the spot behind you as he leans back. He’s close enough that you can feel his presence encroaching your space.

He points at the thumb hole in your sweater sleeve. “You always wear stuff like this?” he asks, tone light.

You hold your hand out so he can see it better. He takes your wrist gently, turning it over like he’s inspecting a museum artifact, not your 180,000 won sweater.

“It’s comfy,” you say.

He nods, still holding your hand. “Looks like it.”

His thumb grazes over your knuckles, barely, like maybe it was on purpose or maybe he just miscalculated the angle. Hard to tell with him. But he doesn’t let go right away.

As it turns out the sun starts throwing real heat, so cute and comfy as it is, the jacket has to go. You push to your feet and let the fabric slide off your shoulders. You’re down to your cute sports bra, which you’ve been wanting to show off anyway.

“Why are you stripping?” Yoongi asks, deadpan.

“Don’t mind me. You’re immune to my charms, remember?” You don’t know why you say it. It was meant to be light, a joke. But maybe it was half-meant. You guess in some way you are battling some insecurity that he doesn’t want you as badly as you want him.

Cat-like eyes narrow into slits. “The fuck?”

You roll your eyes and stroll off to hang your jacket on a low branch so it can catch the breeze and dry out.

When you come back, he’s in the middle of shrugging out of his own jacket, tossing it aside like it offended him. Then he says your name, firmer than you’ve heard before, and adds, “Come here.”

You go without thinking.

His legs part just enough for you to slip between them, your back settling against his chest. His arms wrap around your waist, gentle but claiming.

“I’m not immune.”

You scoff.

Lithe fingers dance up and down your arms, goosebumps rising.

“You can check.”

“Yoongi, don’t say shit like that.”

“Okay…” he murmurs in a tone way too agreeable, and then, like the menace he is, he leans in and presses his lips to that sliver of skin where your neck meets your shoulder. 

A tiny, but treacherous huff of satisfaction leaves your lips.

“Mmm?” he asks, even though it seems he is already taking it as a good sign, trailing his lips higher, across your jaw, towards your earlobe. 

“Yoongi…”

“Yes, Y/N?” 

“You wanted to wait, right?”

“I said I wanted to get to know you.”

“And this was what you had in mind?”

“Oh I have a lot more things in mind. But this is good…” He resumes kissing your neck, and in a shocking twist of events, you feel it, a flash of teeth and tongue, promising a wet bruise he should absolutely not be leaving.

“You’re driving me insane.” You say, clutching the back of his hand by your waist. You drag his hand higher, smoothing the fabric on the underside of your sports bra until it rests squarely at your chest.

“Likewise.” he breathes out, hand moving to squeeze your tits once, twice, softly, gently, before his thumb locates your nipple in alarming precision and swipes it to peak.

“Are you still immune, Yoongi?”

“Gave you permission to check, didn’t I?”

You reach behind you and trace the outline of his joggers. When you close in on his clothed shaft, a groan so raw and beautiful and needy escapes from his mouth. He is hard and big against your palm and you press a little firmer, letting your hands wander up and down.

Twisting your body, you come face to face, bringing his face towards yours for a kiss. There’s a desperation in the way your lips slide against each other. He licks the seam of your lips and you open up for him, letting your tongues twirl.

Your fingers find the waistband of his trousers, eager to take him when suddenly, you hear a crunch of gravel and a cloud of chatter drifting towards the clearing.

You’ve got company.

“YOONGI-YAHHHHH!!”

You peel yourself away from Yoongi, scooting backward to create a respectable distance.

Your eyes bulge at the obvious bulge tenting his pants and when you gaze up, Yoongi’s tonguing the inside of his cheek as he chucks his discarded jacket in front of him as cover.

There are two guys bounding over with their cameras and backpacks. Two very good-looking guys, actually, and you could not help but wonder which factory Yoongi and his friends came from because how are they the finest fucking specimens you’ve seen in your life? They can even compete with your Tae-Tae, and you’ve never said this of anyone ever. 

“What are you doing here?” Yoongi scowls like he is suspicious.

“We’re filming for our vlog!” The tall one with a perm and bunny teeth chirps cheerily.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, hyung,” the blonde with pink lips tilts his head towards you.

Yoongi sighs like a man who’s lived a hard-knock life. “This is Y/N. And these,” he gestures vaguely, “are the pains in my ass.”

“Jimin,” the blonde says, smiling like he knows he’s irresistible.

“Jungkook,” the other adds with a wink.

“Hi boys,” you say with a lilt of your lips. Something about the way these two are grinning prettily at you just spells trouble with a capital T. “So you’re vlogging? What’s the name of your channel?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah…?”

“No, that’s the name of the channel.”

“Oh!” You nod, feeling a bit silly.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Yoongi gives them a pointed look, interrupting your exchange. “Why are you two here? Of all the mountains in the world.”

“Ah, don’t worry your pretty little head about that, hyung.” Jimin says, knocking Yoongi’s shoulder as he cross-sits beside his elder, then reaching for a sandwich. “This is just a happy coincidence.”

Yoongi mumbles to Jimin and you hear the words Seokjin and meddling.

“Oh this is good!” 

You turn to Jungkook who already has an entire sandwich in his mouth, chewing with brows furrowed intensely.

“Thanks. I made it.” You smile sheepishly.

“What sauce? Wait—I know there’s gochujang…?”

“Yeah. Japanese mayo, gochujang, and a drizzle of honey.”

“Ohhh…” He nods, already shoving another down his throat. “Isso goo.”

You glance at Yoongi. He’s fighting a smile and shaking his head.

“Y/N-noona, can we shoot? You can say no, of course. But this spread is fire and I want to include it in the vlog.” Jimin asks with a toothy grin, holding up his Osmo.

You shrug, cool either way. Yoongi waves a dismissive hand to the two. “Aish! Do what you want.”

The pair instantly shifts into full vlogger mode, rambling about their hike: the weather, the wind, the incline that apparently “killed their calves.” Then they gush about stumbling onto this pretty clearing and “meeting some friends on the trail.” On cue, Jimin swings the camera around and aims the lens right at you and Yoongi.

You give a small wave. Yoongi does this: :]

Jungkook, apparently the food expert between the two, starts speaking about the perfect hiking date grub. They focus on the spread for a bit, pointing to each item, and gushing about what’s good. Jungkook talks about your sandwiches like you’re a chef in a Michelin star restaurant and you can’t help but already be so fond. Flattery gets you every time.

Then Jimin swings the camera back to you, and suddenly all three men are staring like you’re the main character of their show. You get a little flustered, not that you’ll ever admit it.

“Y/N-noona,” Jungkook starts dramatically. You already know he’s up to something. “Never mind who you came here with, you’ve got three choices. Who’d you want to date?”

“What???” Lmao. You’re breathless all of a sudden and it’s not the altitude.

“You heard him,” Jimin double-downs on the ask. “We’re all single here.”

“Oh my god, you guys,” you cover your face with your palms, super embarrassed at being put on the spot.

Jungkook chimes in instantly. “I work out a lot, noona. My stamina is fuckin—”

“My ass is unbelievable.” Jimin says without batting an eye lash. “Plus I’m taller than hyung.”

He isn’t. They’re about the same nugget size.

You let out a short laugh, not even looking at Yoongi and what kind of faces he’s pulling at this point.. “You’re both… adorable, okay? But I’m choosing Yoongi.”

“Are you sure?!” they both shout—all exaggerated gasps and fake shock—and it takes you a second before you realize they’re parroting the catchphrase and title of their show.

You break into a full laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Yeaaaaaaahhhh!”

This is so stupid.

Yoongi’s neck has gone pink, just like his gums that are on full display. But beneath the shy flush, there is something else there. An unmistakable smugness even as he looks away, pretending it’s not a big deal.

They stop rolling, finally satisfied with their chaotic content, and for a few minutes the four of you fall into easy small talk–the kind that happens when new acquaintances are still circling each other, figuring out the vibe. Jungkook’s already taken over the speaker, pairing his phone to Yoongi’s Marshall like he’s done it before and an English R&B track floats through. You chat about Physical Asia on Netflix, that new viral Kancho snack with names, and also what you do for work. It’s pleasant and Yoongi’s friends are really quite easy to talk to.

“Aren’t you both leaving soon?” Yoongi quips after a while. The tone isn’t rude. It’s just Yoongi being Yoongi. And honestly? You kind of like that he wants you to himself.

With a shit-eating grin, Jimin grabs his pack. “Alright, alright. We’re out.”

Jungkook picks up a bunch of grapes, plucking one with his mouth like Cleopatra, before mumbling his thanks and goodbyes.

“Hyung, you pullin’ up to Seokjin-hyung’s birthday?” Jimin asks, adjusting his beanie.

“Like I have a choice.” Yoongi responds flatly.

“Noona, you should come through.” Jungkook says, pointing at you before slinging on his backpack. “Hyung’s like 70% less grumpy when you’re around. Maybe even 80.”

You laugh; Yoongi glares; Jimin drags Jungkook away by the hood.

When the two leave, the world suddenly feels quiet. The breeze flips a lock of your hair. You say nothing for a bit because there’s nothing to say. You like the calm, comforting feeling that wraps you and Yoongi as if the mountains are holding its breath.

“I’m sorry for those two,” he says, tilting his head.

“What? No. They were really fun,” you say, not just to placate him, but because you did find the maknaes amusing. “I didn’t mind them crashing our date.”

“They ate all your sandwiches.”

“Food’s meant to be shared.”

He smiles before it transforms into a pout. “I didn’t get to taste it, though.”

Oh, so that’s why he’s all grumbly.

“You snooze, you lose.” You shrug, teasing, before leaning towards him playfully. “Okay you big baby. I’ll make you sandwiches, however many you want.”

“You better,” he says. “Promise you didn’t get annoyed?”

“No, but…”

“But…?”

“I kinda want to pick up where we left off?”

“We should get going too,” he murmurs, though his arm is already curling around your waist, guiding you back into the space between his legs.

“Five more minutes?” You ask.

He closes the distance between your faces. Smirks against your lips. “Maybe 10?”

You make out for a few glorious minutes. Where earlier felt frantic, this is slower, mellow, almost indulgent. His tongue moves like warm caramel, coating your mouth, letting you swirl yours against his before he puckers around your lower lip and sucks gently. When you pull apart, a thin string of saliva stretches between you until it snaps. He drags his thumb across your bottom lip, eyes fixed on your mouth like he’s thinking about diving in again.

Later, walking back down the trail, you take his hand. Not because you need it, but because you want to. He squeezes your fingers and something new flutters in your chest. You’re used to one-night, quick hits, that adrenaline rush. But this feeling, steady, secure, though a little less frenetic, feels like something else. And you think you’d much prefer it than those quick fades.

When he drops you at home, he opens the door for you and you step inside, letting your pack slide from your arms.

“Thanks for today.”

“Thank you for coming with me,” he replies.

You close the distance, catching his mouth with yours. The kiss deepens fast, your tongue slipping against his in a slow curl that pulls a low groan from his throat. When you pull back, he leans forward instinctively, chasing the taste of you like he’s not ready to let it go.

“Okay, er… I,” he laughs at his shoe. 

You hum. All innocent, like you didn’t kiss the shit out of him just a second ago.

“I should go,” he murmurs. “If I don’t, I’m staying.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It isn’t, fuck, I want to, but–,” he admits, eyes softening.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say cupping his cheek. His mouth forms the shape of an O. Was it because you called him baby? His lips part further. Yeah, the baby did something to him.

You get why he wants to wait—you really do. But a bit of honesty feels fair. He strikes you as the kind of guy who wants real, not guesswork. You inhale sharply, letting yourself be brave and a little vulnerable. “You should know, I’m not interested in anyone else, Yoongi. You probably think I might ghost you after but… I actually really like you. You’re hot, obviously, but you’re sweet and thoughtful and I just really…”

His hand comes up to hold your face against his warm palms. “I’m into you. You’re smart and incredibly sexy,” Then, the corner of his mouth curls, and he leans in, voice a low rasp. “And I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you, okay? I promise. But my knees are killing me and I wanna be at 100.”

You choke on a laugh, pressing your forehead briefly in his shoulder. “You’re stupid.”

“If I’m being for real,” Yoongi whines. “My back hurts, too.”

“What a grandpa. Should I send you off with some painkillers?”

“Oh, you just wait.” His fingers skim your ribs in a mischievous tickle that makes you squirm slightly. “When I fuckin’ recover, you’re not gonna be able to walk…”

“Promises, promises…” you sing-song.

He shakes his head.

You give him a little shove, playful. “Go. Drive safe. Text me when you get home.”

His eyes turn into little crescent moons as he slips out the door. “Bye, baby.”

You climb the stairs, hair mussed, heart light, memories of pear-sweet kisses, gentle truths, and mountain air floating behind you. 

To be continued… [Interlude] [Date no. 6]

A/N: We’re getting closer y’all… 

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thanks for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

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Min Yoongi is a busy man. He keeps his days packed tight on purpose. There’s work, composing, lessons, appointments, whatever keeps him moving forward. Today, it’s finishing some beats, a meeting with a collaborator, a visit to the dermatologist, and 30-minutes of Duolingo to keep his Japanese language streak (now at 678 days). 

He’s always been like this—wired to fill every hour with something “useful,” something that feels like progress. A creature of habit some might say, his life runs on quiet routines he’s refined over the years. It’s the same rotation of projects and hobbies that he’s already mastered enough to feel comfortable in. Everything in his world is set up exactly how he likes it: predictable, familiar, no gimmicks. The kind of life pattern that doesn’t surprise him, doesn’t ask too much of him, doesn’t shift under his feet.

The only shenanigans he allows involve his friends and the recent one led him to you. So suddenly, a new slice quietly appeared in the pie chart of his day. It’s not the biggest chunk, but it’s significant.

You.

Thinking about you. Texting you. Waiting for your texts. Calling you at night just to hear you laugh. Sending you cat memes. And uh, tugging one out to thoughts of you more often than he’s proud to admit.

Somehow you have carved a spot in his daily life, and it’s a part he ends up prioritizing without even trying. The thing is, he doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, he wishes he had met you sooner.

One afternoon, he sees an e-mail from a Japanese recording group. The next day he is in front of Fujii Kaze, discussing his new album. It’s typical for Yoongi to have overseas trips, attend writing camps, things like that. What he anticipated was in the midst of being productive, he would miss you.

But fuck, he just didn’t know it would be this bad.

The first week, he pretends he’s normal about it. He texts you in the mornings, sends you a pic of one of the studio cats, updates you that he is in fact, eating and not skipping meals. You tell him he’s a good boy for it, and he beams, making a heart emoji appear underneath your chat bubble. Every time your name lights up his notifications, he’s biting his lip.

By week two, he decides to video call more often. He misses your face so much, he made one of his pictures of you from your hiking date his lock screen.  He tries not to be obvious about how much he misses you, but you probably can tell at this point.

One night, he almost drops his phone when the camera opens because you’re a domestic goddess in the kitchen, this gingham apron across your chest with the words, “Not the best cook. Eat me instead.”

0h yeah. He wants to eat you out real good.

He coughs lightly to cleanse the thoughts polluting his brain, while you tell him your bestie gave it to you as a gag gift last Christmas.

“When are you coming home?” you ask. Using the screen as a mirror, you’re pulling your hair up in a claw clip and letting some tendrils fall out to frame your face. 

“Yoongi?”

Oh, he got distracted. “Yeah, sorry? What did you say?”

“I asked when you’re coming back.” You smile. 

He takes a moment to actually respond because— Holy shit, he wants you. He wants you in his kitchen, his bed, his hoodie. He wants to slot behind you while you’re whisking something and kiss the back of your warm neck.

He clears his throat. Plays it cool. (Fails miserably.)

“What are you making?” He tries for casual but it comes out lower than intended.

“Brownies,” you say, moving back so the apron comes fully into frame. “Been craving for something sweet.”

Yeah, no. He is absolutely not thinking about brownies. He’s thinking about pushing that apron up and—

“Yoongi? You okay?”

He blinks. “Yeah. You just look… cute.”

“Shut up.”

He grins like an idiot.

But then he watches you dip a finger into a bowl and suck the batter off your fingertips. 

Oh shit. That mouth is sinful.

And you had the audacity to moan? "Taste so good..."

His jeans are suddenly so tight so he had to go, pretend he had to do something, be somewhere, but in reality he is in his hotel, spread-eagle on top of his comforter, controlling his breathing.

By week three, he’s so far gone. You’ve done it. You’ve switched off something in his brain, and now all he can think about is how much he wants you. How much he wants to come home to be with you.

A/N: Hope you're excited for Date No. 6 - The Fuzzy Sweater <3

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Part three: the chase. 

[Seongju, twelve years ago.]

They had told her to not come here. She had fought about thirty people in her department, before losing her temper and forcibly assigning herself to the large, sole high school in Seongju City. It was an impulsive decision, but the people were really nice, even if the Gyeongsang accent took some time to get used to. She wasn’t even required to do anything in her final year, having submitted her final thesis, and surely, her parents would have approved if she took the rest of the year off, but working here would mean a larger sample size for her thesis, and well, she needed the fresh country air. 

“Wait, what are you working on?” The principal had asked her, on the day she had arrived from Seoul, her accent perfect, not a hair out of place, in a small compact car, “it’s not every day we have a graduate student from Yonsei coming here to work amongst us.”

She had smiled, “I’m working on the crime rates amongst youth in rural settings. This is from my professor. He’s called ahead, I hope?”

Professor Lee had written her a glowing letter of recommendation, but even beyond that, he was a relation of the current school principal. The man immediately perks up upon hearing Professor Lee’s name, “you’re the student he was telling me about!” he laughs, “he’s told me so much about you, Miss, er—”

“Kang,” she replies, thinking about whether to give her first name, “Kang y/n.”

“Miss Kang!” the principal claps his hands, “well, you’re free to interview our students, but you’ll need to talk to the guidance counselor first. Even then, the student might not trust you enough to get close with them, so be careful, please.”

She shakes her head, “I’m fine with that, of course. Which way is the guidance counselor's office?”

And that was that, apparently. The rural air was fresh, and invigorating, which meant that she regained her failing health in a span of mere weeks. The place she stayed at, the upper floor of a house that belonged to an elderly melon farmer, had both the amenities she wanted; cheap rent, and within biking distance from the high school. All in all, it was an ideal living situation. 

Until of course, the murders started happening. 

At first, of course, they never thought about it being the work of a serial offender. They took it as a one-time offense, a heinous one, no doubt, but one that would not be replicated again, not within the town’s living memory. It wasn't until the third murder, that they started to get antsy, worrying about their daughters who would come back home after working at nearby Daegu. The townspeople got more and more scared, and by the end of three months, it was difficult to walk alone at night. 

“Professor,” One of the residents had said, “don’t you feel scared walking around alone? At night?”

She had shaken her head. There was no fear for her, at least not for now. The distance from the high school to the temporary rental was a scant three miles. It took her less than half an hour to cover that distance on a bicycle. The man who picked off women at random while they came back from work posed no danger to her, who had the power of a machine on her side. 

The school was in an uproar, of course, one that reached fever pitch when the news came out that the man was sexually assaulting the women before killing them with their own clothing. It was macabre, but she was looking at it through a different lens. She’s perhaps a bit more objective about this, but the residents here have known little other than abject terror in the face of an unknowable threat.

“So creepy,” a girl muttered, shivering, seated on the opposite side of the desk, “do you think he’s a creepy man, Prof?”

“I don’t know enough about this man to make any assumptions, Mi-ae,” she had smiled, “and don’t call me Professor. I’m Miss Kang.”

Mi-ae had shrugged, “but the principal told us that you were about to be a professor, so we should all call you professor anyway.” Then, leaning forward, Mi-ae adopts a conspiratorial tone, “hey, prof, do you like anyone?”

She stares at the girl over her glasses, “Mi-ae, this is not the time for you to be bothered with things like romance. You need to get a good score on the—”

“On the CSAT,” Mi-ae grumbles, “that’s all anyone talks to me about, you know. The CSAT, and how my grades aren’t good enough to get into a university in Seoul or whatever. I don’t know if I’m even good enough to take the CSAT in the first place, let alone go to Seoul. I’d much rather stay here.”

She shakes her head, laughing at Mi-ae’s antics, “Seoul is a big city, Mi-ae. Sometimes you’ll hate it, sometimes you might love it, but it’s just a place. Just like this one.”

“Still, everyone I know is here.” Mi-ae replies, mulishly, “anyway, do you like someone?”

“Like? I like you,” she cocks her head, “what else are you talking about?”

Mi-ae groans, “not like that, professor! I meant if you like someone. You know, like romantically.”

“Romantically?” she pauses to think about it. It’s been years since she’s thought about liking someone romantically, but the thought, in itself, is not unappealing, it’s just that she doesn’t see the point of it. “I don’t like anyone, Mi-ae,” she replies, long-suffering, “now, we need to finish the questionnaire so I can use it for my research.”

“Ugh, you’re always going on about research.” Mi-ae pouts, and then perks up, “you know, Choi from the science track, has an older cousin. He’s a policeman now, but he went to the Police academy. So he started out as a lieutenant. He’s posted here, but he’s from Daegu, so he knows the area well. He’s really nice!”

She raises an eyebrow, “Mi-ae, why are you telling me this?”

“So that you can go shack up with him, of course!” Mi-ae grins, “he’s too old for me, but he’s only slightly older than you, so you’ll be a perfect fit! Even Choi’s grandmother was telling her friends the other day, about how you’d be a great choice for the man. They’ve never seen a girl from Seoul stay here for so long before, you know.”

“And where might I find this man?” she’d said this just to humour the girl in front of her for some time, but Mi-ae grins wide, “you can go down to the station! Or I can ask Choi to have him pick her up from school tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, you have the after-school study session, right?” she asks, and Mi-ae nods, aware of what she means. The man who was going on a rampage had not yet targeted school students, but it was only a matter of time before he started doing just that. All the girls had been growing increasingly troubled, and even as a mere graduate student herself, she could see how much it hurt them, to be so wary of everyone they met on the village roads. Youth was a time to be carefree, to be selfish. They should not have to worry about who the next victim would be. 

It was all so, so unfair. 

“I’ll be here at the school, as will all the other teachers,” she smiles, “if you are alone, one of the teachers will walk you back home, Mi-ae. No need to worry.”

The girl regards her with a degree of skepticism, “why are you worried about us so much, prof? You said it yourself—you’re not a teacher here. You don’t need to go to this extent for us.”

Mi-ae’s face was open, and the sullen look in her eyes conveyed only one emotion, something she was particularly used to seeing in her own eyes, once upon a time, “did you think I was going to leave you all behind and go back to Seoul?”

“Choi’s grandma told her friends she wanted you to marry Choi’s cousin, and Kim’s grandma said that you would be leaving for Seoul anyway. Then, Choi’s grandma told her that she should set you up with Choi’s cousin, so that you can stay in the village.”

She raises an eyebrow, “and what did the others have to say about this plan?”

Mi-ae shrugs, “everyone seemed pretty much in agreement, but Kim’s grandma told them you probably had a boyfriend back in Seoul. Everyone has seen you make calls at the phone booth at night. Kim’s grandma told them you were calling your boyfriend, but Choi’s grandma said that it was probably your parents.”

She shakes her head, trying not to laugh, “and what are your thoughts about this, Mi-ae?”

The girl narrows her eyes, “should you be talking about this? You’re a psychologist, I thought they didn’t talk about their private lives and all.”

“I’m not a practicing psychologist, Mi-ae,” she replies, handing the girl another worksheet, “I’m only a student for now, so I can ask you these questions.”

Mi-ae doesn’t look very convinced, but she doesn’t fight her on this, “I don’t know, I do quite like you, but no one should be dating Choi’s cousin. He’s a policeman all right, but he’s just so boring,” She yawns, “one time, we went over to her house to watch television, and he scolded us all, because we should be focusing more on our studies and not on silly television dramas.”

Her eyebrow remains raised. In this one matter, she’s inclined to agree with the faceless man, “and you decided you don’t like him?”

“Yeah, he’s really annoying,” Mi-ae shrugs, “anyway, I’m going to give you this worksheet by tomorrow morning, if that’s okay.”

“Take your time,” she waves a hand, “I’m using this for extra data anyway.”

“You sure work hard, prof,” Mi-ae stands at the doorway, “do you mind me asking you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you really think what’s happening here is because of the wrath of the gods?” Mi-ae asks, standing at the door, “I keep hearing people say that we’ve angered the gods, but I don’t know which gods, and I really don’t know what to do.” 

“Well, for once. You don’t have to think about it, Mi-ae,” she smiles, “the adults will worry about this, not you guys. Spend your life as children, and stop thinking about the bad things in the world outside.”

Mi-ae sighs, “you’re always so nice, professor. You should stick around. The people would like it if you stayed around here.”

She shakes her head, “I can’t do that, but I can promise that I will return—” she wants to say something more, but stops short. Outside, there’s a rising hubbub, and Mi-ae gives an excited little squeal, running to the wide windows, beckoning, “oh hey, there’s Choi’s cousin!”

She ignores Mi-ae’s calls for her to come to the window to goggle at the man, and swings her bag over her shoulder, “Mi-ae, I need to lock up right now, do you want to walk with me?”

Outside, the crowd has seemingly increased, and the man looks very uncomfortable, even from a distance. Choi is nowhere to be seen, which explains why he was still braving the ogles of teenage girls and female teachers alike. Even boys throw their fair share of appreciative glances towards him, but the women are most definitely leering. 

"Where's Choi?” she asks Mi-ae, who shrugs, “you don’t know where she is?”

“Probably making out with Kim Daewon behind the science laboratory,” Mi-ae says, far too cavalier for someone who’s just confessed her friend’s deepest secrets to her professor (professor adjacent?) and points to the man, “let’s hang out for a minute with Min oppa!”

“Ah, he likes being called by his given name, huh?” she nods, but they’re halfway through the crowd already, and Mi-ae is enthusiastically waving at the man, so she sighs, before following suit. Mi-ae is still a child, and by some misfortune, she’s the only responsible adult around here. 

The man, Min oppa, her mind supplies helpfully, looks like he would rather be anywhere but here, shuffling away from the main gate in a desperate attempt to avoid the gazes of teenage girls and young women, but his eyes light up when he sees Mi-ae walking towards him. 

“Min oppa, this is Miss Kang,” Mi-ae gestures towards her, “she’s a professor at the school. I told her about you.”

She sees him; the man—Min oppa—observes the two women warily, already inching away from them. He probably thinks Mi-ae is trying to set her up with him, just like everyone else and their mothers. She shakes her head, “let’s go, Mi-ae, I think he’s feeling uncomfortable with me right now.”

Mi-ae narrows her eyes, “but professor, I thought you wanted to wait until Choi came here?”

She grins, still avoiding the man’s eyes, “I don’t think he wants to talk to me that much, Mi-ae. Maybe next time.”

“Next time?” Mi-ae looks frustrated, and sidles up to her, “professor, he’s Choi's cousin! The one I told you about! He’s the one who Choi’s grandmother wants to set you up with!”

“Maybe next time, get him in a setting when there are less than a hundred girls ogling him, Mi-ae,” she whispers, walking away, to her bicycle, “have fun!”

As she cycles away from the school building, she can feel the gazes of Mi-ae and Min oppa, following her until she disappears down a bend in the road. 

—

Two days later, there’s another dead body, this time someone close to her. Someone she knows. The news spreads like wildfire throughout the sleepy town. Within an hour, there is a group of people gathered at the embankment, trying to figure out the identity of the murder victim. She hears it from Choi’s grandmother at seven in the morning, and thinks for a moment. 

She had followed the students on her bicycle last night. Self-study sessions typically ran late, and even if Seongju county high school did not have study sessions that ran well after midnight like those schools in Seoul (like the one she had attended), the countryside had its own dangers. It was pitch dark when the students were let out, and she’d followed them on her bicycle, acting as a grown-up even when she didn’t feel very much like one. Hell, if she thinks about it, her peers were probably busy drinking their weekends away like normal young adults, not stuck in a village while a serial killer goes on a rampage. 

And to make things worse, she had been on supervising duty because Miss Kim Miyeong, the homeroom teacher, had a family emergency at Daegu, so she had to leave as soon as regular classes ended. She liked supervising, but today, Mi-ae had gossiped to Choi about her meeting Choi’s cousin, which meant that Choi had spent the better part of the study session poking Mi-ae with her elbow and giggling at her general direction. She’d even asked, “Professor, I heard you met my cousin yesterday?” in a voice that was loud enough to get the attention of every girl in the classroom, which meant she had to corral a class full of giggling teenagers about her newfound love story with Choi’s cousin. He was a policeman in Daegu, which meant he was partly responsible for some goings on in Seongju. This also meant he was already under a lot of stress, and teenage gossip would only add onto it. 

“Cut it out,” she had warned, trying her best to imitate Miss Kim, “you’re here to study, not speculate about my love life.”

“Oh so you have a love life?” Mi-ae had asked, sly, only to be shut up by a glare. 

Afterwards, while the other kids rode back on their bicycles or just walked in groups, Mi-ae and Choi had been picked up and escorted by her cousin the policeman, who stood awkwardly at the gates, his hands shoved into his pockets. She threw him a look as he waited for Mi-ae and Choi to arrive, their bags slung over their shoulders, and announced loudly, “Miss Choi’s cousin here, has volunteered to walk the students till the village convention centre!”

He stares at her, horrified, and she smiles breezily, swinging one leg over her bicycle, “let’s go, kids!”

And that was that. They had walked and biked all the way to the village convention centre, and she had cycled back to her temporary home. All the way back, she could feel the eyes of Choi’s cousin on her, probing, like he was assessing the reasons behind her presence in the village. 

And in the morning, someone was dead. 

She cycles to the embankment, frantic pedalling taking over for her general morning fatigue and peers at the growing crowd, held back by constables. The hubbub of gossip rises above the morning air, and she can see a body being placed into a bag and carried out. A group of detectives stand around the embankment, talking amongst themselves, a few of them talking to the onlookers and taking notes.

Choi’s cousin, Detective Min, is also there, wearing plainclothes, with a notebook in hand. He’s talking to a group of older men, taking notes, when he catches a glimpse of her, standing beside her bicycle. She does not want to talk to him, but he’s got other ideas, given how fast he’s making a way through the crowd. 

She wants to cycle away from the scene, hoping he would give up, but he’s faster than her reflexes, having caught up to her cycle in three seconds while she was contemplating running from the scene. He stands in front of her, blocking her path, and raises an eyebrow, “did you see any suspicious activity here last night?”

She thinks for a minute. The previous night, she had cycled to the village convention centre behind all the students who were taking the same path, and once the kids had dispersed safely, had cycled back to her home all by herself. It was dangerous, sure, but she had enough belief in herself that the killer would not be stupid enough to kill the daughter of influential Seoul intellectuals. Whoever they were, they were cunning enough to pick and choose their victims. She would rank pretty low on the probable list of victims, in that sense. 

“No, nothing of note,” she says, leaning back to look at the detective. He looked frazzled in the morning air. Even with the slight chill, he had a flush on his skin that probably came from exertion, “do you really think that man was following the kids?”

He shrugs, evidently unwilling to give away any secrets, “you saw no one at all?”

She ignores that question, “this is the tenth victim of his, just so you know. The town is living in a constant state of fear. No one talks to anyone. No one trusts anyone anymore. Even the kids are becoming scared. What the hell are you doing?”

He sighs, “we’re trying to do our jobs here, ma’am. Please answer the question.”

She rolls her eyes. Talk about doggedness. “I followed the students on my bicycle after the study session ended. There was no one suspicious hanging around the students.”

“Right.” He notes it all down, “and would you happen to know where Miss Kim Miyeong was yesterday?”

“Kim Miyeong?” she asks, “Teacher Kim?” 

There’s a slight pause. She stares at him, eyes wide. Detective Min pauses for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. They lock eyes for a heartbeat before she realises why he’s asking her this question. It’s Kim Miyeong. She’s the tenth victim. Kim Mi-yeong, sexually assaulted and murdered, found on the side of the road in a ditch. The tenth victim.  

She stares at Detective Min, horrified, “Kim Miyeong was supposed to come back from Daegu this morning. She told the school that she had to leave urgently for Daegu after classes ended, which is why I had to supervise the study session last night.” She pauses, hand covering her mouth, trying not to think about Kim Miyeong, the cheerful young teacher who smiled at her everyday, “she told us she would come by the last bus, which meant that she would have been here by midnight at the latest.”

He looks at her, dutifully noting this down in his diary, “and who else was there when she told you of this?”

She thinks back to the staffroom when Miss Kim was packing her bag to go to Daegu for an emergency, “the Principal and the vice-principal were there, and the math teacher too. She was in a hurry to go to Daegu, but she didn’t tell us why. None of us pried too much, either.”

He frowns, “and what is your work at the school, Miss Kang? You are not a teacher, I presume?”

She rolls her eyes, “you know what I do.”

The glare he throws at her is impressive, “you need to state all of this for the record.”

She squints, “shouldn’t you be interrogating me officially for that?”

He sighs, resigned, “I don’t want to drag you into county business when you’re clearly just caught up in it. This way is easier.”

She thinks. He’s not wrong. If she’s officially interrogated, or summoned in front of a court of law, it complicates everything. She’s the one in a precarious position. 

“So this is for my own benefit?” She narrows an eyebrow, “why didn’t you just say so?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Not really, so you’re right on that,” she replies, trying not to sneak a look at the police van that was preparing to depart. Teacher Kim’s body was in there, lifeless and in a black bag. I should have asked her to come back early, given how scared people were. I should have asked to accompany her to Daegu, instead of staying behind to watch over her class. They would have managed well on their own. If there was someone with her, then Teacher Kim would not have been carried to the police lab in a body bag today.

“You’re spiraling,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder with his notebook, “you barely knew her. Why are you getting so cut up about it?”

She doesn’t answer, just looks away. The scenery is peaceful, the sky is a bright blue in the morning light, and yet, here they are, trying to make sense out of the brutal murder of a person she knew. 

“I have nothing more to tell you, Officer Min,” she finally replies, staring straight at him, “if you’re done with the interrogation, I am going to excuse myself.”

He doesn’t stop her, just looks conflicted. Fair enough, she thinks, pedalling as fast as she can, your guilt is not mine to bear. 

—

That night, a storm raged. 

It was nine at night, when she parked her bicycle in the courtyard of the Choi family house, half-soaked from the rain. As she sheds her raincoat in the foyer, the old woman, Choi’s grandmother, and her son, come barreling out of the house, grabbing a hold of her, “Teacher!”

She raises her eyebrows. What the hell was going on here? “What happened?” she asks, “is it urgent? I’ve just managed to come back from the school, so—”

"Teacher," Choi's father, a man in his early fifties, holds her hands, begging, “Ae-sun and Mi-ae both went out in the afternoon, but they haven’t returned.”

A cold sweat runs down her spine. Haven’t returned? “What do you mean?” she asks, pulling on her raincoat again, “both of them are gone?”

“Mi-ae and her went to Daegu in the afternoon, saying they wanted to have some fun at the karaoke bar,” her father weeps, barely holding on, “and they were supposed to return an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” she asks, hoping she’s heard him wrong because of the raging storms, “and you didn’t call anyone? You should have had the whole village out here looking for them!”

“The villagers are all busy tending to their own houses in the middle of this storm,” Choi’s father sobs, “I couldn’t find anyone who would be willing to go out there in the middle of this rain to search for them.”

She sighs, walking out of the house, “Come with me, sir. We need to inform Mi-ae’s family too, to make sure they know the gravity of the situation.”

The two of them begin their search in the fields near their house first, calling for the two girls over and over again, without any results. She wants to yell at the man for allowing the two girls to go out without any supervision while their whole county remained frozen in fear, but the man seemed too distressed to even be capable of coherent thought. I’ll scold him for this properly, she reasons with herself, not now. Now, we need to find Ae-sun and Mi-ae. 

“We need to separate and search over a wider area,” she tells him, when the search of the fields gives no results, “we can’t contact them, and it’s getting more dangerous by the minute.”

He nods, a bit dazed, and to her, it seems like he’s about to burst into tears, “what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Shut the fuck up!” she snaps at him, “we need to find the two girls right now, that’s the priority. Anything else can be dealt with later.”

“Okay, Miss.” The man resumes his search, calling out for his children over and over again, but after coming up with nothing for the past hour, she’s starting to get worried. Where the hell were the girls?

Stumbling onto the main road, she calls out for Mi-ae and Ae-sun, only to be rewarded with silence. Sullen, stretching silence that never seemed to end. All around the two of them, the storm raged, but in their hearts, there was silence. If we can’t find Mi-ae and Ae-sun—there will be two more bodies weighing on my conscience. Two more lives that will be taken in front of me, while I look on and do nothing. 

“Mi-ae!” she screams, eyes blurry from the rain getting in them. She can’t see anything anymore, not with the rain fogging up her glasses, but she plods on, Mi-ae’s father right behind her. The sky splits apart in two with thunderclaps, and she shudders to imagine what would have happened if the two girls were ambushed by the madman. 

Professor; Mi-ae had said, you’re very cool. I like you. She needed to preserve them, as much as she could, and she needed to find them. The body of Teacher Kim flashes behind her eyelids, lying lifeless on the embankment for the world to see. No dignity, not even in death. She drags Mi-ae’s father by his arms to the embankment, trying to find the girls there. Or if something had happened, at least their injured bodies. Maybe this time the killer hadn’t managed to do everything properly. Maybe he was sloppy and the girls were alive. Maybe—

“Professor?” The voice of Mi-ae, timid and small, comes from the embankment, under a large concrete pipe. The two of them hurry, tripping over their feet in their haste to get to the girls. 

“What the hell were you doing here?” She shakes Mi-ae by the arm, “we were worried sick!”

“There was someone there,” Mi-ae whimpers, pointing to nothing in particular, “I never saw him, but there was someone.”

“A man?” she asks, hoisting them both to their feet, “never mind. Let’s get you back to your homes.”

Both Ae-sun and Mi-ae are half-drowned and scared to death, and she bundles them both up with the help of Choi’s father, helping them walk towards the Choi family home. 

A hundred yards away from the house, there’s another figure on the road, clad in a black raincoat, hauling a bicycle along. She looks at Choi’s father, “Mr Choi, do you know this person?”

The man shakes his head, too busy with the girls, but she cannot shake the uncanny feeling that this man is important to whatever has been going on in the village. The man still approaches them, so she sneaks in a look at Ae-sun and Mi-ae, hoping to find a flicker of recognition in their eyes. If they recognise him, she’s going to hold him down and call for the police. 

The man raises a hand when they’re within a couple feet from him, “excuse me, do you know the way to the bus stand?”

“The bus stand?” she cannot hear him well over the torrential rains, so she has to yell at him, “what?”

“The bus stand,” he repeats, face obscured by the hood of his raincoat, voice still infuriatingly calm, “the way to the bus stand, miss.”

“In this weather?” she yells, “that way!” 

As he moves to walk away, she looks at Choi and Mi-ae, both of whom are busy huddling close to Choi’s father for warmth, no fear of recognition on their faces. They don’t know this man. 

Still, as the man walks past her, she looks back at him, and he looks at her. There’s a stray thunderclap, and for a single, bizarre moment, the entire countryside is illuminated, and she can see his features, cruel and dark, stark against the backdrop of an unnaturally handsome face. She doesn’t know him, but he smiles when he sees her. 

Check, mate. 

—

She wakes up the following morning, and cycles as fast as she can, to the local police outpost. The small building, usually manned by three aged police officers, is now a hubbub of tension. There is an older constable standing outside, looking highly disgruntled, and he glares at her as she approaches. 

“That bicycle work after the rains?” He asks, as she dismounts, “you’ve got mud all over your pants, little lady.”

She smiles, “who’s inside?”

The man scowls, “higher-ups from Daegu. Coming in here with their fancy equipment, talking about how we botched the investigation. They’ve even gotten some people from Seoul, fancy people who call themselves, wait, what do you call them?”

“Profilers?” she laughs, “they’re called profilers. Can I go inside?”

He makes a gesture, and she doesn’t waste time, just walks into the station to grab hold of the first police officer who will listen to her. The higher-ups who have arrived from Daegu all look at her like they’re seeing someone with two heads on their shoulders, and she asks one of the other, younger constables, very sweetly, “May I speak to a detective?”

“A detective?” the man looks confused, “did something get stolen, teacher?”

“Not really,” she smiles, grateful for the people who know her as a teacher, “I just need to speak with a police officer. For something.”

“You’re not going to find a police officer on duty right now, they’re all busy with the investigation,” the constable shakes his head at her, “they’re calling it the Seongju County Murders.”

“Great name,” she says, a tad impatient, “just ask if there’s a detective or a police officer here who can help me.”

“I’ll help,” a voice says, and she doesn’t even need to see who it is. Choi’s cousin. She looks at the man, “you’re setting up camp here?”

“Heard you saved my cousin last night,” he replies, sidestepping her question, “I mean, distant cousin, but cousin nonetheless.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“That?” he raises an eyebrow at her, but brings her to a corner table anyway, “what about that?”

“I think I saw the man last night.” She whispers, “he was dressed in a raincoat, and asked us for directions. I was with Choi’s father, and the two girls. The man even had a bicycle.”

Officer Min has a smile on his handsome face, a faint curve of his lips that makes it very apparent that he is laughing at her, “Teacher Kang, there are about a hundred tipoffs like yours coming into this office. Every day. And this man had on a raincoat. That is not grounds for arrest. Of any kind.”

“He had a bicycle,” she thinks back to what the man was hauling on the road, “I think it was a stolen one. Maybe one of the other victims had their bicycle stolen, and he’s still hauling it around. Serial killers do that, you know.”

He snorts, “and what gives you the authority to term this as the work of a serial killer?”

She rolls her eyes, “will you listen to me?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening!” He’s laughing openly at her, and even some of the constables who were eavesdropping on their conversation, were laughing at her. She feels sick. She’s so fucking annoyed, “and what did this man do?”

She sighs, swallowing the irritation, “he asked me for directions.”

“Directions. How sinister.”

“You’re never going to take me seriously, so I’m going to leave this palace,” she says angrily, “he’s stolen something, you know. And I know he’s going to be back again.”

With this, she leaves. Even before she steps out of the station, she can hear the loud cackles of the policemen following her out. 

“What happened inside, miss?” The old constable asks, as she stomps out of the station, “You don’t look so well.”

She makes a decision on a whim, “I wanted to report a stolen bicycle, but they were all too busy to take my report. Kim Mi-yeong’s bicycle was stolen last night, and I think someone robbed her dead body.”

Of course, this is a lie. Teacher Kim never really rode her bicycle, and she’s not even sure if the bicycle she saw the previous night was hers, but she doesn’t see the wrong in this lie. Kim Mi-yeong was killed in one of the most gruesome ways possible, and she wants revenge. 

“A bicycle was stolen?” the man is taking down notes, “okay, teacher, we’re going to be on it!”

She nods before riding away on her cycle. Half a month later, she leaves Seongju, but the murders have stopped much before that. 

—

[Seoul, present day.]

She wakes up with a gasp, and sees the odd scenario in front of her. Detective Choi Yeonjun is sitting in a corner of the room, fast asleep, while half the room is filled with floral arrangements from various people. She feels a sneeze coming along, likely triggered by the massive amounts of pollen in the room. 

“Detective Choi,” she calls out weakly, wincing at how raw her throat feels, “wake up.”

“Huh?” Choi Yeonjun wakes up with a start, “Professor! You’re awake!”

“Unfortunately, my voice—,” she gives a hacking cough, “is not the best right now. I’ll need to be on voice rest, I presume.”

“Voice rest?” he squeaks, “professor, you had a panic attack so bad they got you here in an ambulance!”

“Panic attack?” she thinks back to her last recorded memory. The rising fever, the splitting headaches. The letter. The scrap of bloodied fabric that belonged to Teacher Kim. Who else would it be, if not for him?

“I know who he is,” she whispers, but Choi Yeonjun doesn’t catch it, “the man.”

Yeonjun stands up to say something more, but it’s at this moment, the door opens, and Min Yoongi rushes into the room. She stares at him. He looks like shit. His hair is matted and greasy, and he’s got dark circles underneath his eyes that indicate at least a week of staying up late. And most of all, he’s got this dark, haunted look in his eyes, that she’s only seen once before, in a nature documentary. She cannot remember what it was about. 

“You’re finally awake?” He breathes, holding onto her hand. His voice is scratched and rough, and she thinks it is sad that he is like this, “you’ve been out cold for the past week. The doctors kept saying that you were too weak, that your system had given out, but I really thought you were dead, Professor.”

The words are delivered with the same, semi-mocking tone that she’s come to expect from the man, but she cannot find any actual malice in them. “Unfortunately for you, I’m still fit enough to return to the investigation,” she jokes, and stops when she sees his face grow dark. 

“What, too dark?” She makes a joke again, and Yoongi doesn’t even react to what she's saying, which is how she knows it’s important. “What’s going on?”

Yoongi sighs, before drawing the blinds close, and nodding to Yeonjun, who scampers out of the room, apparently having gotten the signal. He moves closer to her, and she moves a little back. Yoongi doesn’t bother, just moves even closer. She groans, “what happened?”

“Look, Professor,” Yoongi says, voice thick, “there are some things I need to tell you.”

She wants to say, when did you start being so nice to me? But she cannot bring herself to do that, not when Yoongi is looking at her like that, with his face haggard and roughened. He looks half broken, and she’s going insane, she really is, because even before she can stop herself, she brings a hand to hold his face, in a gesture that makes him widen his eyes and look at her like he cannot believe his eyes. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she jokes, hoping he would take it lightly, “don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Not until this investigation is over, of course. After that, I’m going straight back to my house, and back to academia.”

“You’re not going back to your home,” Yoongi says, “not until the investigation is over, and even then, it would be a massive security risk. The entire police department, hell, even the prosecution service, thinks that you should be moved to somewhere safe.”

She leans back into her pillows, “I need to call Professor Lee. He’ll know what to do.”

Yoongi frowns, “Professor Lee? That’s who you want to call? Not your parents?”

She looks at him, and her expression says, oh you sweet summer child. “Have my parents visited the hospital?”

“No,” he looks confused. 

“Were they informed of my situation?” She asks again, this time a little more insistent. 

“Well, yes, of course, you registered them as your emergency contact—”

“Go talk to Seokjin about it,” she sighs, “I need to think about some things.”

“Think? About what?”

She glares at him, “I’m going to perform a very fucked-up shamanistic ritual in my room right now, happy?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, “glad to see you’re back in your usual form, but the orders are from the higher-ups, you know. The Police Superintendent himself has taken an interest in this case.”

“So, I cannot go back to my home?” She feels angry now, “a fucking idiot killer made me unable to go back to my own home, Inspector Min Yoongi. The man took away my right to live under my own roof, and now, for the foreseeable future, I am homeless.”

Yoongi does not know what to say to her. He’s always lived a sort of charmed life, with his parents who were very proud of what their youngest son had achieved, and an older brother that seemed to think the world of him, but he doesn’t know her feelings. He doesn’t realise why she’s getting this angry, hands shaking, eyes flashing, over the prospect of having to move. Surely she wouldn’t have trouble doing so? Her parents were wealthy Seoul intellectuals, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would have particular difficulty in finding a new place, even with the astronomical cost of living in Seoul. 

“Leave me alone,” she says, tone final, “let me think.” 

Yoongi honors her wishes, walking out of the room, but before he steps over the threshold, he takes a look back at her, sitting preternaturally still in the hospital bed, and he bites down on the desire to tell her everything about what happened a week ago. Don’t even think about it, Seokjin had warned him as they made their frantic way into the hospital, Yoongi in half a state, she does not need to be reminded of this shitty night ever again. Just tell her the basics of what had happened, and then leave it to her. Don’t tell her that she lost half her mind and the bastard got to her. The words before we could, are implied heavily in that phrase, and Yoongi knows it, knows why Seokjin had told him that. 

The police superintendent and the Head of her Department, an old man that Yoongi knew as Professor Lee, had decided that she should be put on leave until they finished investigating this mess. Yoongi had sighed when he heard this, but let go of it soon. If he had been on the receiving end of that threatening letter, he would have done far, far worse. 

And what a letter it was. Every time Yoongi thinks about the letter, he’s filled with a burst of rage that borders on unhinged; I'll take my fill of you, over and over again, until all that remains in your mind is my name. The bastard was threatening to sexually assault her, until she was forced to give birth to his children. Yoongi knew this was the norm for sexual predators, but this seemed bizarre, even for someone so depraved as him. 

Seokjin is waiting for him outside the gates of the hospital, “did you see her?”

“She seemed angry,” Yoongi nods, “I had to tell her that the department and her university have told her not to go back to the house.”

Seokjin whistles, “no way. Did she take it well?”

“Not really. She got very angry about it.” Yoongi thinks for a moment, then looks back at Seokjin, “why is that, though?”

“Why is what?” 

“Why did she get that angry when I told her she couldn’t live in herhouse?” Yoongi explains himself, “she looked very angry. Although I can’t really understand it when women get angry, but she got angry.”

“Well, Yoongi,” Seokjin claps him on the shoulder, offering a tight smile, “when you’re someone who has been living estranged from your family for so long, the prospect of going back to living with them becomes a little bit daunting, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Yoongi confesses, “my parents have always been there for me.”

“And that’s great for you, but her parents didn’t even visit while she was being hospitalised,” Seokjin begins walking towards the smoking zone, and Yoongi can see a pack of Marlboro Reds peeking out from his pockets, “they called me once, and that was it. Said they were too busy in academic conferences, in other countries.”

Yoongi pauses, accepting the offered cigarette from him, “do you think he’s targeting her?”

“Definitely,” Seokjin shrugs, but his posture remains very, very drawn, “he told her as such. Somehow, she knows who he is, and it’s important for him to not leave a single witness alive. The other parts, the assault, are all tertiary.”

“So, he’s not going to do anything to her?”

“Oh no, that bit is true,” Seokjin scoffs, “he’s fully intending to follow through on his promise, but I don’t think he’s exaggerating on that count.”

Yoongi nods, stubbing out his cigarette, “has the analysis come back?”

“The other letter he sent us was typed out, as is this one, but there are similarities in phrases and how he writes, that makes us pretty sure that this was the same man that killed the three girls,” Seokjin holds out his phone, “here’s the report.”

“Who made this one?” Yoongi asks, reading through it. Similarities in phrasing suggest the two letters might have been written by the same man. “This is not her writing.”

“Yeah, what did you expect? She was going to write a report while lying unconscious in a hospital bed?” Seokjin narrows his eyes at him, “this was written by Professor Lee. He was the original profiler on the Seongju case, if you remember.”

Yoongi thinks back to those days in Seongju, when he had been on special dispatch from Daegu. He doesn’t want to remember the events, but with everything that has happened in the past week, he has to think about it. His cousin, Choi Ae-sun, and her friend Mi-ae. The teachers they talked about. Teacher Kim, dead on the side of a ditch. Teacher Kang, the young woman who had asked him to look for a stolen bicycle. 

“Wait, she was in Seongju,” he murmurs, and Seokjin rolls his eyes, “what?”

“It took you this long to remember her?” the man laughs, “well, she wasn’t Kang Pro back then, so I get why you’d forget about her.”

“No, wait,” Yoongi thinks back to that one morning, just after they had found the body of Teacher Kim, “she came and told us that she saw him. Said that he had a stolen bicycle.”

“And?” Seokjin frowns, “she told me about it, but what did you guys do about it?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi shakes his head, “we were getting a hundred anonymous messages about the killer, in those days. Everyone who had a grudge against anyone was reporting them to the police, hoping we’d make a mistake and charge them with the crimes.”

“Figures, but the murders stopped after that, right?”

“Right,” Yoongi thinks back, “there were a string of armed robberies in and around Daegu in that month. We caught a few guys for it, and—”

“The murders stopped.” Seokjin finishes for him, “oh, look, there is the dynamic duo. Is it their thirtieth time coming to visit her?”

Yoongi leans backward to see who Seokjin is referring to, and it is Jeongguk and Jimin, still in some sort of semi-office wear, running towards the hospital gates. 

“Jimin! Jeongguk!” Seokjin waves them both to the smoking zone, “why are you running like that?”

“We got called to see noona,” Jeongguk pants, “Choi Yeonjun called us in.”

“And we came here as fast as we could,” Jimin finishes for him, “still in my court clothes, as you can see.”

Yoongi squints. Both of them are out of their proper robes, but they’re still wearing the pins that indicate who they are, and he sighs, “don’t make too much of a fuss inside. She’s just woken up.”

“We won’t,” Jeongguk grins, but the expression on their faces tells Yoongi that he is intending to do exactly that, “we just have a little present for her.”

“A present?” Seokjin sighs, “come on, man, you can’t be encouraging a patient to smoke. She’s just woken up after being unconscious for a whole week. Smoke in her lungs will kill  her at this point.”

“Well, not cigarettes, but we got her some chocolates,” Jimin looks offended, “I’m surprised you would accuse us of that.”

“I’ll accuse you of a lot more,” Seokjin warns, “come on, only the chocolates. Nothing more. She’s a patient, not your best friend.”

“But she is our best friend,” Jimin whines, “or at least, our most favoured noona.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever, man.” Seokjin checks his watch, “visiting hours are going to be over in half an hour. Go, make the most of it.”

Yoongi watches as the two idiots scamper away, and he looks at Seokjin, “do they have a crush on her or something?”

“Who, Jeongguk and Jimin? Nah, they’re massive flirts, and she doesn’t care about them that way.” Seokjin shrugs, before staring at Yoongi, “you got a thing for her?”

Yoongi blinks. “What?”

“No, it’s plausible,” Seokjin squints towards him, “you’ve been acting weird ever since whatever happened last week, and I didn’t think about it, but now I know. You have a thing for her.”

“I don’t have a thing for her, Seokjin, please,” Yoongi sighs, pinching his brow, “I’m just worried about her.”

“About what? She’s fine. And even if Jeongguk or Jimin like her, it’s none of your business, Yoongi.”

“Piss off,” Yoongi grumbles, but he doesn’t really believe in what he’s saying. Sure, Jeongguk or Jimin might like her, and he’s about ninety percent sure that Yeonjun has a humongous crush on her, but it’s none of his business. He just needs to catch the criminal, and then, she’s going to be out of his life for good. He’s never going to have to deal with fucking profilers again. 

“The Police Commissioner was supposed to give a speech about the return of the Seongju Murderer,” he says, changing the subject, “when was it?”

“Since when do you care about the speeches of the Police Commissioner?” Seokjin rolls his eyes, “he gave a speech an hour ago, talking about the ‘unity’ of the country, and presenting a united front to catch ‘the worst mass murderer this country has ever seen.’”

“He said that?”

“He said that. Funny, all this talk of unity and working hard to catch a serial killer when underground forums are rife with assholes who genuinely think the man was doing a good job.” Seokjin holds out his phone to Yoongi again, and he can see the forum the man has switched his browser to; it’s a normal website, not even on the dark web. And it’s full of men wishing they had the balls to do whatever the Seongju Killer did, thinking of him as a visionary, calling him a messiah for the men’s rights activists, and more things that Yoongi does not want to read. 

“What the hell kind of stuff is this?” He makes a face, returning the phone, “I don’t want to read anything like that ever again.”

“The state of our society,” Seokjin sighs, “even if we catch this killer, who’s to say someone won’t get inspired by whatever he’s done, and do it to other people in the future?”

“I truly don’t know,” Yoongi sighs, holding his head in his hands. What the hell? It seemed like common sense to be against the work of a known predator, but the fact that there were people celebrating his crimes—

“I’m going to go back to the station,” he says, “we need to find out who the hell was among the people we caught during those months in Seongju. The man responsible for all this must have been within the people we caught.”

“Call me when you get anything, yeah?”

Yoongi nods, and before he gets into his car, gives a call to Choi Yeonjun. They need to get to work, even if their efforts were rendered futile, and it would be, given the amount of fans the bloody killer’s gotten over the months of this investigation. It doesn’t matter. They’re going to catch him. And Yoongi will have the pleasure of putting him in handcuffs and throwing him into a jail for the rest of eternity. 

—

Jeongguk and Jimin are both like koalas. She’s spent the last half an hour contriving to get them off her back, but Jimin had apparently decided that her hands were too weak to be able to consume food, so he insisted on hand-feeding her the chocolate they had brought along. She would have liked it too, if it weren’t for the exaggerated winks that accompanied each bite. Jimin was a menace. 

“Okay, time’s up,” a very frazzled-looking intern walks into the room, “no more visitors.”

“You heard them, right?” She shoves at Jeongguk, who doesn’t even budge, “go away, Jeongguk. I need to rest.”

“You need to have some sleep right now, patient,” the intern says, not unkind, “and visiting hours are over.”

The girl leaves, and Jeongguk holds her hand, “noona, you need to rest. Spending all this time on the investigation, it’s not healthy.”

“The doctors have all told me it’s fine, Jeongguk,” she smiles, “but I promise to remain a bit more careful, if only to help you sleep better at night.”

“Just him?” Jimin pouts from her other side, looking disturbingly like a baby chick, “what about my peace of mind?”

“You’re both annoying,” she laughs, “now go!”

Once the two of them have left, she’s alone with her thoughts. Yeonjun, ever the helpful guy, has left behind a notebook for her to write in. She knew the man, just didn’t know his actual name. He’s got to have been someone from Seongju, and as she had thought, someone who had been arrested for something all those years ago, and who now was coming back to get his revenge. 

Was DNA testing still a thing twelve years ago? She knows it was a more recent addition to police work, but there being no DNA testing twelve years ago, means there are no extant samples of the man’s DNA, and worse, if he had been imprisoned for something not related to sexual crimes, there would be no need for them to have his DNA on file. 

She checks her phone, and there is a message from Professor Lee, informing her of the department’s decision to put her on indefinite medical leave. Fucking hell. They were all probably shitting themselves, now that the man had somehow been able to send her a letter to her department, but this seemed a bit excessive, even for their tastes. She sighs, moving on to the next notification, one from her brother, who had sent her a link with a conference held by the police commissioner, in which he had confessed the fact that the current murders in Seoul were linked to those in Seongju twelve years ago. Her brother had accompanied it with the question, Is this true?

“I cannot deal with this.” She groans, turning over on her side, ignoring the rest of the messages (no doubt sent by a host of colleagues who all felt deeply sorry for her) and she thinks. It’s almost laughably simple, the man’s anger towards her. She had seen his face. Even if it was for a single moment in a thunderstorm, she had seen his face, and that made her a target. As to what end were his anxieties regarding her knowledge justified, she didn’t know. 

She had effectively become a sitting duck for him. 

And now, they were forcing her to remove herself from the investigation, and telling her to go hide out at her parents’ place, under the guise of ‘keeping her safe’, when all it meant was that the man could now go and hunt her down as well as he pleased. 

There has got to be another way. 

—

Yoongi hates the filing system. How on earth had we managed to survive for this long, he thinks, looking at the veritable mountain of papers in front of him, “who here was in charge of filing all this properly?”

“The funds for maintenance have not been released by the city government for more than two years now,” Yeonjun pipes up from a corner, where he is inundated by papers, “you should come here and check it too, Senior.”

“Not now, I need to think.” Yoongi doesn’t want to say it, of course, but he is currently incapacitated with the growing dread that he was in some way, responsible for whatever the man was doing now. Professor Kang had tried to warn us, all those years ago, he thinks back to that one morning, she had tried to warn us, and we had laughed it off. Why? Because we were getting close to a hundred tip-offs every day, and we simply thought she was there to submit some idiotic case against her neighbour whose lemon tree was encroaching in her yard. She didn’t even live in Seongju, for fucks’ sake. 

Yoongi keeps thinking about his deduction, “Yeonjun,” he calls out, “what do you think about the Seongju murder cases, twelve years ago?”

Yeonjun stares at him, “I was in high school, probably? Or graduating middle school.”

Yoongi ignores the absolute gut punch of those words, because Yeonjun was in middle school twelve years ago? Or was it high school? Still, he puts on a straight face, “great, anything else?”

Yeonjun thinks about it, “uh, well, I remember there was a media frenzy surrounding it. Nothing more. They began in the middle of spring, and by the end of summer, it had stopped.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Yoongi claps his hands, “okay, I’m giving you an hour. Go pack an overnight bag.”

“Where are we going?” Yeonjun asks. 

“We are going to Daegu,” Yoongi replies, shoving in papers into a file folder with all the grace of a crazed elephant. “Get your stuff and get ready to go to Daegu with me.”

“Okay, I’m looking up trains right now.”

“Trains?” Yoongi narrows his eyes at Yeonjun, “trains make no sense, and KTX is a nightmare on a normal day. We’re going by car. Pack your bags.”

“A car will take over three hours, sunbae.”

“And a train will take more dollars out of our already shitty allowance,” Yoongi counters, sighing, fine, just go ask Namjoon if they can give us enough funds to go to Daegu via train.”

Absolutely not, Namjoon says, and that is how the two of them end up with some of their belongings crammed in the back of Yoongi’s trashed Kia sedan, Yoongi driving as fast as he can towards Daegu. The Daegu police superintendent had promised that they would provide them with lodgings and cooperation for this investigation, but Yoongi knows no one does anything without an exchange in mind, and he does not want to imagine what the exchange rate would be, for someone like the Daegu Police Superintendent. 

“Chief Kim should have just let us buy the KTX tickets,” Yeonjun whines for the umpteenth time in an hour, “it’s going to take us so long, just to drive. Not even accounting for every other stop we might need to make.”

“I have enough gas in this one to last us till we get here,” Yoongi grumbles, “and if you ask for a snack break, so help me god, I will leave you by the side of the road. You can hitchhike your way back to Seoul.”

“I don’t even like snacks that much,” Yeonjun laughs, very nervously munching on his third packet of shrimp chips. Yoongi sighs. He’s on a serious job thing, and Yeonjun is here, gulping down the entire snack aisle of the last convenience store they passed. 

“Sunbae,” Yeonjun says, once he’s done with the shrimp chips (Yoongi has had one, much to his dismay), “why are you in such a hurry to go to Daegu? We could have gotten there tomorrow, you know. We’ve already waited this long, and another day doesn’t seem like a dangerous prospect. We have all the evidence we need to connect the two serial murder cases, and we could have gone to Daegu, well, not like this.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Why am I doing this? He’s failed to answer that question, but every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in her living room, trying his best to keep her from hurting herself. Her skin had been burning to the touch, and Yoongi still remembers how her eyes had looked, unfocused and glassy, as she had tried to look for an opponent who had already set his sights on her. The worst bit about this whole affair was that no one remembered what he looked like, but he apparently did. 

“You’ve read the letter the man sent to Professor Kang, right?” Yoongi asks, watching Yeonjun drink a whole can of soda in a single go, “just ease down on the eating, my god. I don’t know how many rest stops we have on the way, and if you have to shit on the side of the road, I’m leaving you.”

That gets Yeonjun to stop, and he looks at Yoongi like he’s done him a personal affront, “rude, sunbae. Also, yes, I have read the letter. What an absolutely sick creep.”

“Yes, well, the sick creep now has full knowledge of where Professor Kang lives, as well as her university address. We need to move as fast as possible.”

“Her university address? He was stalking her for that long?” Yonjun has to think about it for a minute, “but wait, if he was stalking her since the second round of murders began, and he already found out about her home and university address, does it mean that the man was somewhere else earlier?”

“Her last report was similar to what I had thought about the man’s whereabouts for the past twelve years. He was probably in prison, or he was abroad.” Yoongi sighs, “I don’t know how we missed that bit.”

 “Probably? He was most definitely in prison.” Yoongi hears Yeonjun scoff, “so, we need to get access to all the old files, and find out who was arrested for a crime twelve years ago.”

“Twelve years is a long time to go to prison for,” Yeonjun thinks for a moment, “do you think it was something like aggravated assault? Or attempted murder?”

“Maybe both, if he did not have any priors. If he had prior arrests, it could have been something much smaller,” Yoongi checks his phone, “let me call Seokjin.”

The call goes through, and the man picks up within seconds, as if he’d been waiting for Yoongi to call him. Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, but Seokjin beats him to the punch, saying, “Namjoon called, saying that you wanted the department to get you emergency KTX tickets.”

“Well, they disagreed, so we’re on our way to Daegu right now,” Yoongi grumbles, “and stop gossiping with Namjoon all the time, for fucks’s sake.”

“I do not spend all my free time gossiping with Namjoon,” Seokjin complains, “and you two didn’t even tell me before you went running off to Daegu. What’s all that about?”

“Me going to Daegu?” Yoongi asks. 

“Yes, you running off to Daegu, stringing Yeonjun along for the ride. Is this all because she’s in the hospital right now?” Seokjin’s emphasis when he refers to her is not lost on Yoongi, and he steadily ignores how Yeonjun’s grin just widens as the kid realises what Seokjin is talking about, “really, Yoongi, you could be a little less obvious about it. I know she’s intelligent, gorgeous and all that, but playing fast and loose with your emotions might not be the best—”

“While she’s in the hospital,” Yoongi cuts Seokjin off by loudly pressing the car horn to no one in particular, “while she’s in the hospital, have the sketch artist sit with her for a session. We might be able to get a proper identification sketch from her description of the man.”

“A sketch? It’s been twelve years.”

“It was a traumatic memory, so I’m sure she remembers how his fucking face looked like back then,” Yoongi lights a cigarette, holding it between his lips as he floors the accelerator, “and get the good sketch artist, please. Not the weird guy you always insist on saddling me with.”

“Who, Kim Taehyung? Fine, if you don’t want to have a Seoul University of Arts graduate sketch for your suspect, then fine, I’ll send someone else over to the hospital. Although I don’t know why you don’t like him sketching.”

“He has weird tastes, and I fear that his tastes bleed into how he draws the suspects,” Yoongi grumbles, “he’s just annoying is what he is. No, don’t send Taehyung to her, he’s going to make a post-impressionist painting instead of a realistic one, and then we’re all gonna be fucked, because who the fuck wants to see a Picassoesque rendition of a serial killer? No one.”

“You’re rambling, Yoongi. And Taehyung is the only sketch artist we have available on such short notice.”

“Just send someone else. I’m hanging up, bye.” Yoongi stubs out the cigarette into his cup-holder (he’s going to have to clean that bit up later), and he cuts the call, only to be confronted by Yeonjun’s wide-eyed gaze, “oh, not you too.”

“No, sunbae,” Yeonjun giggles, “I was just thinking.”

Yoongi sighs, suppressing the groan that is stuck in his throat, “and what are you thinking about?”

“No, I mean, you did tell me you hated her,” Yeonjun laughs, “and you did call her a hack on national television. As far as declarations of hatred go, that is perhaps one of the most obvious ones.”

“What would be the most obvious way to say ‘I hate you?’”

“Tattooing it across your forehead,” Yeonjun says smoothly. 

“The speed at which you answered that question made me think that you already had that response ready, which is not very nice.” Yoongi mutters, reaching for another cigarette. He lights it with alarming efficiency. 

“Well, you did tell me you did not want profilers on this case, and now you’re driving dangerously close to the speed limit in order to get to Daegu as soon as possible.”

“I want to get this case over with, Yeonjun.” 

“You’re not fooling anyone with that sentiment, sunbae, we know your feelings towards her have changed over the past month that we've been working with her. At least now you can admit that there is a little bit more than hatred there, you know?”

“I don’t want to talk about this with you right now, brat,” Yoongi says this, but he knows he’s not fooling anyone, not even himself. Whatever he had thought about her and of the profiling business, has changed slightly over the past month. And as for her—he really does not want to admit this to anyone. He really does not. 

But he might be attracted to her. 

“You’re dawdling,” Yeonjun laughs, “come on, sunbae. Everyone has been talking about your heroic rescue the other week.”

“Heroic rescue?”

“You did run to her house because you knew she was unwell.”

“I did that because Seokjin asked me to. Now shut it.”

Yoongi wants to antagonise Yeonjun some more, and he deliberately drives at the speed limit once they hit the freeway. He doesn’t want to think about her and her face or her neck anymore. He just needs to get this investigation done, and then he’ll be rid of Professor Kang, and he can then go back to his usual existence. 

—

“The files are here, Senior Inspector, but might I ask, why was there an urgent request from the Seoul Headquarters for cooperation on this case.” The Daegu Police Super asks, rubbing his hands together, and Yoongi decides he hates the guy. Too loud, too annoying. Professor Kang would have laughed at this one. He resists the urge to slap himself for that last thought. 

“While we cannot divulge all of the information, there have been enough facts to come out during the investigation that tell us that the Seongju County Killer might have been sent to prison twelve years ago, on unrelated charges.” Yeonjun says for him, and Yoongi finds himself slipping into the usual mask of bored investigator who doesn’t want to talk to idiots, and it works like a charm when the Police Chief takes a look at their names and credentials and suddenly becomes very, very, accommodating to their requests. 

“Is this because they think you’re going to cuss them out?” Yeonjun asks, when they’re seated at two separate tables, looking through years of archived files, “is that your reputation in the service?”

They’ve been given a small room, with full access to the archives, and both Yoongi and Yeonjun have been informed that they can take whichever file and folder they need. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Yoongi mutters, “but yes, that’s why. They don’t want to get on my bad side, because I’m apparently one of the worst-tempered cops to ever come out of the force.”

“But you’re very good with interrogations,” Yeonjun muses, “ah, that’s right, it’s not about the suspects, it’s about other cops.”

“Very nice of you to realise after working with me for months now,” Yoongi replies, “anyway, Professor Kang did come to us when the murders were originally taking place, in Seongju.” 

“Professor Kang? Was she on the case at that time?” Yeonjun tries to think back, but fails, “but she wasn’t even a professor then, was she?”

“No, she was in Seongju working with a local school,” Yoongi sighs, “I interviewed her because she was a close associate of the last murdered woman.”

“Kim Mi-yeong, the teacher?”

“That’s the one. Professor Kang, back then, was working as a student counselor, and she was also an assistant homeroom teacher for Miss Kim Mi-yeong’s class. She was one of the last people to see Kim Mi-yeong alive before she was killed.”

“Well, that’s fine, but I still don’t understand why she had come to you. Was it with a tip?”

Yoongi hangs his head in shame. In truth, if he had just listened to her all those years ago, instead of making fun of her or whatever it was that they did, they would not have had three more bodies on their hands. In truth, the responsibility for these last three murders rests with Yoongi himself. He was the one who should have taken her testimony, and instead, he had just laughed at her and called it a day. “She had seen someone with a bicycle the previous night, and came to the station to tell us about it.”

“And you just ignored her report?” Yeonjun screeches, so loud that Yoongi can practically hear the windows in the station rattle ominously, “you do realise, the level of fuck-ups we’re seeing here, sunbae?”

“You don’t need to remind me about it,” Yoongi grunts, “I keep thinking about it every time we have to investigate this monster. We fucked up, okay? And there’s nothing I can do about it now, so we have to leave it.”

“Is that all?” Yoenjun holds up a file, “I found Kim Mi-yeong’s original file. Geez, the man was a monster.”

“I know, I was there on the scene,” Yoongi sighs, “I think that was my first assignment as a detective. Fresh out of the Police University.”

“And they gave you the Seongju Killer?” Yeonjun looks impressed, “must have had a great record while in university, huh?”

“No, you idiot, there was no ‘Seongju Killer’ when I was assigned to Daegu. They just gave it to me because Daegu is my hometown, and I wanted to stay closer to my parents. The murders started happening way later.”

“And what, you were told to move to Seongju?”

“Not really, we all had to work with the Task Force they made. I think even Professor Lee was there, although I didn’t interact with him much.” Yoongi sighs, “after Kim Mi-yeong, there were a series of robberies, and we had to arrest a bunch of people for it. What I am hoping for is for the Seongju Killer to have been there, so we get his priors, and we get his fingerprints.”

“The Seongju Killer left no fingerprints.”

“That’s what you think,” Yoongi points out, “but NFS might be able to pull a partial print from all the murders this man has done. We just need to find out about the people who were arrested twelve years ago.”

—

Apparently, Jeongguk and Jimin have told everyone in the Seoul Prosecutor’s Division about her being sick, so Jung Hoseok shows up with a junior prosecutor in tow, one who wears oversized glasses and keeps looking at the ground instead of the hospital walls. She doesn’t blame the guy.

“You know the prosecution service and the police force are going to put you in witness protection, right?” Hoseok doesn’t waste a single moment, getting to business as soon as he steps into the room. She rubs at her eyes. Being in the hospital, with no one to talk to and only her phone for company, has given her a headache. Still, she looks at the man, looking outrageously handsome and entirely out of place for the hospital, dressed in a tailored suit with an expensive watch on his wrist. She feels like he would not be out of place on a runway. 

“Wow, you look like that, and you’re talking to me?” She replies, putting her glasses on, “how not nice of you, Prosecutor.”

Hoseok laughs, rolling his eyes at her, “you look really ugly, though. And what’s with the enhanced security? I was checked thrice by the sullen-looking guard outside this room. And they know who I am.”

“Ugh, don’t tell me. I’ve already been told this by at least three people,” she groans, “and yes, I know that they’re putting me in witness protection. I hate it.”

“No one likes the idea of being in witness protection, Professor, but we have to do it, otherwise there are high chances of retaliation against you,” Hoseok sighs, “I’m so tired.”

“Tell me about that. I hate being cooped up in here,” she laughs, gesturing at the bouquets, “I think the whole police force came here to give me bouquets.”

“Not just the police force, even my boss, the head of Seoul Central Prosecution Service, was talking about your contributions.” Hoseok pulls a face, “god, why do they keep talking about you as though you’re dead?”

“Because I might as well be,” she sighs, “have you read the letter?”

“No, I haven’t, the police don’t share evidence this early,” he shakes his head, looking at the young man, still looking at the floor, “just go and get us some drinks from the vending machine outside. What will you have, Professor?”

“Just get me a cup of coffee,” she tells the young prosecutor, who then escapes, looking very thankful, “when was this guy attached to you?”

Hoseok sighs. “He’s not a bad junior, you know. He’s just very, very shy.”

“Almost painful.”

“Well, there you have it,” Hoseok laughs, “have they told you where you’re going to be kept?”

“No idea yet, but they’re sending a portrait artist over to help me do a sketch.” She takes a sip of water, looking at Hoseok while she says this. Hoseok looks pensive, immersed in thought about the things that she’s just told him, “have you heard about him?”

“I don’t have the time to know everyone on the police force, darling,” Hoseok makes a face. His junior makes an appearance while she’s mid-laugh, setting down their drinks and running out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him, “who is it?”

“Kim Taehyung.”

“The modernist painter?” Hoseok rolls his eyes, “you do realise, he paints weird shit that no one realises what they are? And they’re making him paint a sketch?”

“They’re making him do a sketch of the perpetrator for me,” she grins, “why, you wanna stay here to observe or something?”

“No, I probably should not. Work will give me so much grief if they found out that I was in here watching you give instructions to a sketch artist.” Hoseok checks his phone, “looks like I can petition for you to not be relocated, just have extra protections.”

“Can you do that?” She leans forward, “wow, the perks of being an up-and-coming prosecutor, huh?”

“The perks of being a young, up-and-coming prosecutor are a lot, but I need to have an excellent win rate to ensure I get to enjoy these perks for a long period of time,” Hoseok kisses her cheeks, “I’m going to go ask my superior if it can be done. If it can’t, just wait, and I’ll kill Min Yoongi for you.”

“You don’t have to,” she laughs, “he’s not that bad.”

“He’s not that bad?” the other man gasps, “I’m filing a complaint. You’ve lost your mind.”

“Sir,” his junior peeks inside, his oversized glasses almost falling from his nose, “the district chief is asking for you to sit in on this meeting.”

“Ugh, duty calls,” Hoseok gives her another exaggerated smack on the cheek, “I’ll go and talk to the chief prosecutor if he will allow you to live in your original home with extra protection. Or you can, like, yell at Min Yoongi until your voice gives out.”

“Either or?”

“Either, or,” Hoseok laughs, “how frightfully droll. See you soon, love.”

He gives her another smack on the cheeks, and walks out of the room. No doubt yelling instructions at his junior outside. She shakes her head, sighing, and leans back into the hard mountain of pillows that someone (Seokjin) has set up for her. 

“Hello?” A polite knock on the door alerts her to the presence of another person in the room, and she looks up to look directly into the eyes of the new arrival. Kim Taehyung, apparently. She cocks her head to one side, gesturing for him to sit down. 

Taehyung doesn’t talk a lot, for which she is very, very grateful, because it allows her the time to sit down and think about the events that have led up to this. The letter is now in the hands of the NFS, who are no doubt spending all their energies into finding out if there are any fibres on the letter that he had sent him. 

Him. 

She hates herself for not pushing, for being the person who knew so many things, and yet, did not push for something to happen. If she had only pushed the Seongju Task force all those years ago, then there would have been three people who would not have died in vain. 

“Here, take a look,” Taehyung holds up the finished sketch. She stares at it. The same cruel turn of mouth, the same sharp features. He would have been a lot younger when she had seen him, but that was immaterial now, really. 

After Taehyung had taken his leave, she sinks into a fitful, disturbed sleep. Tomorrow, they’d discharge her from the hospital, and she still had no idea where she would go. Until the investigation is finished, Min Yoongi had told her, you’re going to be taken to a safe place until the investigation is over. Seokjin had told her the same. She doesn’t want to trust them, but with two policemen stationed outside her room at all times, the prospect of having a man from her worst nightmares, coming to see her, seems highly unlikely. 

—

He stands on the rooftop of an under-construction apartment complex next to the hospital building. From here, he has an unencumbered view of her room, and has had it for days now. She’s had so many visitors come to see her, it’s frankly unfathomable for him. 

Prison life was hard, my dear, he thinks, but I endured it all. For the sake of my goal, and because I wanted to see your face one more time. 

Both Choi Ae-sun and Kim Mi-ae had left their backwater hick of a town and settled abroad, places where he could not have gone, even if he wanted to. And he really didn’t feel the need to go hunt those two down. They were idiotic schoolgirls when he had decided to follow them, snivelling kids who had their heads full of silly cotton-pink dreams, kids who burst into tears at the slightest provocation. He still remembers the two of them running away from him, even though he hadn’t even approached them. I was just walking with that cycle behind them. Nothing more. And they still got spooked. 

But her? She had stood her ground, even in the middle of a rainstorm, and looked at him for long enough to commit all his features to memory. If he had been anyone else, he would have blushed at the memory of her piercing gaze. All it took was a moment, and she knew who he was. Didn’t know his name, but she knew his face. 

—

She would be so good. He thinks of all the hypothetical situations, of having Professor Kang underneath him, driving into her the point that he, a man, was ultimately better than her, a woman. She was brilliant, really, but nothing compared to him. He would chain her to his bedroom window, and force her to carry his children. It wasn’t even a shameful idea, because he knew she would be ideal for it. 

Fuck. He can see her sleeping, tossing and turning in that tiny hospital bed. Was she dreaming of me? Probably. He was getting excited now, watching her. He would like to take her as she was sleeping, put his seed inside of her as she lay, unaware of what he had done. 

The man takes his cock in his hands, now proudly erect, and begins to jerk himself off. He likes this, masturbation. He likes thinking about forcing her to carry her children. The thought makes him excited. She would put up a fight, yes, but so had them all. And he was stronger than all of them. As he should be. 

He comes all over his hands, and wipes the residue off of himself. Was I getting carried away? No, he wasn’t; this was something that he had been working towards, for all those twelve years. The memory of her face and the desire to take revenge on her and her ilk had been his sole thread of life in that hell they called prison. For all these years, he had imagined the ways he would bring her to heel; under himself, chained to his bed. She would be forced to give birth to his children, and he would not care. 

The man looks through his binoculars again, focusing on her face. Even in sleep, she seemed to be anxious. 

Fuck, I’m getting hard again. 

—

“I’ve narrowed it down to three,” Yeonjun holds up three separate sheets of paper, “people who were sent to prison around the time that the Seongju Murders stopped, and people who were sent away for approximately twelve years.”

“You’ve found three?” Yoongi takes the papers from him, “that’s more than what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“A big fat zero.” Yoongi had not even thought that there would be anything for them to recover from the archives, “I thought all we’d find would be a pile of shit. This investigation has been incredibly frustrating so far.”

“Well, fortunately, this is not a pile of shit,” Yeonjun hands him the papers, “take a look at this one.”

“And now we have a lead.” Yoongi reads through the papers, “have you read these papers?”

No, I haven’t. Not as well as I’d like to, that is,” Yeonjun says, “should I read them through?”

“No, just go call the Police Chief for me, please,” Yoongi says, “or anyone from the major crimes division. I need to talk to them.”

When Yeonjun’s gone, Yoongi clears out the table that he was working on, and lays out the three sheets of paper, trying to focus on them. The man had to be from here, didn’t he? Otherwise, there would be no way for him to fly for so long under the radar. Not with the veritable swarm of police officers they had roaming in the county after the seventh victim died. He had to be someone who was from here. 

Yoongi sighs. Yeonjun was taking too long. Was he being held up by the senior officers? He thinks back to Daegu. He was born in Daegu. He was raised in Daegu. He lived here for eighteen years, and after graduating from the Police University, he went right back in here to work as a detective. Daegu? He knew Daegu. He knew the counties surrounding it, he knew the geography, the landscape, the people. 

What if the Seongju Killer was someone I knew?

Yoongi doesn’t want to think about him, but he still does; Changmin, Min-ki, In-su. What if it was one of them? Yoongi has had lost contact with the people he called friends a long time ago. Changmin had called him a fucking pig when he heard that Yoongi was going to become a policeman. Min-ki had said nothing, but In-su had told him, don’t think too much about it, Yoongi. You know all about his uncle, right? Changmin doesn’t know how to differentiate, man. He thinks the police are all the same. Yoongi had said nothing, just wanted to shove In-su backwards, yelling at him, well, my parents are fucking poor, In-su, have you ever thought about that? Have you, my parents are poor, and I have no way of paying for my university. So it’s either this, a fully paid uni, or I spend the rest of my life trying to pay out my student loans. Worse still, I don’t go to university, and become forever known as a high school grad. You want that for me, In-su? Do all of you want me to fail in life?

So Yoongi had taken the scholarship, waved good-bye to his parents and older brother, and had left. None of his friends had come to see him off, and he didn’t care. He really did not care one bit. Except for the last minute, Yoongi hadn’t cared, and then he had broken down sobbing in the bus. 

What if it was one of them? What do I do then? Yoongi thinks about it, about being the person to arrest his friends, even if they had all left him behind, and he cannot breathe. He doesn’t want to think about Changmin or Min-ki or In-su doing all those heinous acts, and he certainly doesn’t want to be the person to arrest them. 

“Inspector Min?” The police chief knocks on the door, “Detective Choi said you had something to ask of  us.”

“Yes,” Yoongi stands up, "I need information on three ex-convicts.”

“Ex-convicts?” the man looks surprised, “you need to look at ex-convicts?”

Yoongi sighs, looking at Yeonjun, hoping he’ll take notice of his discomfort. “Well, yes,” Yeonjun smiles, “I think what my superior here wants to say is that is there someone senior that we can consult regarding the multiple arrests made twelve years ago, during a series of break-ins?”

Yoongi nods. I was one of the people on the case, and yet I remember nothing of it. I’m a poor excuse for a detective, aren’t I?

“Oh, the string of robbery cases?” The man smiles, “sure enough, one of the detectives on the case back then still works here. You can talk to him.”

Yoongi sits back in his chair as the man disappears off to find the person responsible, Yeonjun in tow. He looks at the names: Oh Dae-su, Lee Woo-jin, Kim Seung-yong. Oh Dae-su, arrested on a random Wednesday, trying to rob a young married family. Lee Woo-jin, caught while trying to rob an old woman at knifepoint. Kim Seung-yong, part of a small-time robbery gang. The only people who were given significant enough sentences were Oh Dae-su and Lee Woo-jin. Kim Seung-yong was shut away for ten years, not twelve. 

Yoongi holds up the pictures of Oh Dae-su and Lee Woo-jin to the light, trying to imagine them after a span of twelve years. When does the sketch artist get done with his work? 

His phone pings. A text from Namjoon, who’s sent him a question, how far along?

Almost done here, Yoongi replies, do you have the sketch? From the sketch artist?

What sketch?

Never mind. I’m going to ask Seokjin. 

Yoongi sighs, texting Seokjin, give me the sketch. 

The reply comes within a minute, Seokjin’s sarcastic tone bleeding through the glowing phone screen, oh wow, being this demanding? Haven’t even bought me dinner yet, you freak. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, Seokjin, this is not the time. Who did you send to Professor Kang to get the sketch?

Kim Taehyung. 

Oh great. Now the sketch for one of the only suspects in a countrywide manhunt is going to be a modernist nightmare. 

Don’t be rude, Yoongi. Taehyung can be surprisingly capable when he wants to be. 

When he wants to be. He never wants to be serious about anything. 

Do you want the sketch now or do you want to get it seven hours later through official channels like normal, Yoongi?

Fine. give it to me. 

Yoongi locks his phone, and looks back at the three sheets of paper. Oh Dae-su had a similar build to his father, with the same round face and wide eyes that Yoongi has associated with his father. The typical Daegu man, if it weren’t for his eyes. Those eyes looked entirely devoid of empathy, like every other convict that Yoongi has seen before. He knows this kind of man. Lee Woo-jin, on the other hand, had much sharper features, with an almost cruel turn of mouth. His eyes were much kinder, however, wide dark brown, and Yoongi thinks that Lee Woo-jin would have been popular with the ladies if he had not been a convict. 

He can hear the footsteps of at least three people running towards the small room, and Yoongi sighs. Once the investigator comes here, we can find out about the person who was caught and put on trial twelve years ago. 

His phone chimes. Seokjin sent him a message, you owe me a meal for this, you know. 

Yoongi says nothing, opening the attached picture that Seokjin had sent him. The same sharp features, the same warm brown eyes. The same cruel turn of mouth. His heart stops in his throat. He knows this man. In fact, he’s seen the face of this man only three minutes prior. He knows this man. 

Lee Woo-jin. 

His face stares at Yoongi from the page, and his heart, already in this throat, relaxes for the first time in a while. I’m no longer chasing a ghost. I know who I need to catch. 

“Sunbae,” Yeonjun says, rushing into the room, “the detective here says that the only person who was released a few months ago, was—”

“Lee Woo-jin,” Yoongi finishes his sentence, “we have the culprit. Let’s go.”

—

She’s bored. It’s been twelve hours since she’s woken up, and she’s bored. The sole guard standing outside her room won’t talk to her, instead choosing to remain mute and still like a pillar, and Seokjin hasn’t come to talk to her. She doesn’t even want Seokjin to come here. I want Min Yoongi, she realises, with no small amount of horror, I want Min Yoongi by my side right now. 

It’s idiotic, really. He’s annoying, kind of stupid when it comes to psychological research into criminal minds, and he hates her ass. Hell, he’s talked about it on national television. Called me a hack, someone who made their deductions based on theories, and not hard evidence. She should not want him there with her. 

But she wants him. It’s unfathomable, but she likes how solid Min Yoongi’s presence is; how reassured he makes everyone feel. And if he considers her as an annoyance, well, she can do nothing about it. But I’m still important to the investigation, right? I’m not an annoyance now. 

Her phone rings, and it’s Seokjin on the other end, “Professor Kang,” he says, out of breath, like he’s been doing a marathon run, “Yoongi and Yeonjun are making their way back to Seoul, so make sure you stay awake for a while.”

“Where were they gone?” She asks. Both Yoongi and Yeonjun? A new breakthrough in the case? Why wasn’t I told? 

“They went to Daegu, trying to find out about a lead.” Seokjin’s voice drops an octave, but he’s still panting into the other end, “there were people arrested for a series of robberies, just after the death of Kim Mi-yeong. Yoongi and I thought that the Seongju killer could have been one of them. He would have gone to prison for an extended period of time, and it makes sense why he was inactive for so long.”

“I knew it,” she says, “do they have a suspect? Finally?’

“Yes, finally,” Seokjin sighs, “anyway, the guard is about to be relieved, so whatever you do, don’t open the fucking door for anyone. The damn hospital is already underfunded and empty as it is, so, whatever you do, don’t open the fucking door.”

“It’s a hospital, Seokjin, it’s going to be busy no matter what time of the day, or night, it is,” she laughs, “and don’t worry, I’m not that stupid.”

“You can be insanely stupid when it comes to getting your thesis statement,” Seokjin says. In other circumstances, he would have laughed at her, but there’s no laughter in his voice, “look, Kang, they’ve left Daegu two hours ago, which means that they’re going to be there soon. Stay safe.”

“I will.” Seokjin cuts the call, and she’s sitting there. Alone. She doesn’t want to think about it. I’m alone in here, and Yoongi was right about me being a liability to any team I join. Fuck. 

The hospital’s overhead lights are harsher than usual, and every part of her room is illuminated in stark white. It gives everything a more sterile look, somehow. She’s not opposed to it. In fact, she enjoys it a lot. 

There’s slight shuffling outside her door. She checks her phone. Midnight. Was the guard being relieved this soon? Who is standing there instead of him? 

She wants to go check, to look for it herself, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits up in bed, thinking. Robbery suspect, caught and sent to prison for twelve years. It fits the timeline. She takes a look at her phone again, looking up the people that were caught. No pictures. Of all the times to protect the suspect’s  identity, now is not the best time, Korea. 

The shuffling continues, and the light flickers, once. Twice. A shiver runs down her back. She knows this feeling. She’s had this feeling twice before, once twelve years ago, the other time being a week ago. She knows this feeling. It’s written in her bones, so intimately that she fears it’s intertwined with her soul. 

The door slides open, and he enters. She knows this face. Twelve years may have passed, but the cruel turn of mouth remains the same. 

“Hello, Professor.”

—

Yoongi floored the accelerator, and Yeonjun is hanging on for dear life as he weaves in and out of traffic at frankly, alarming speeds. He needs to get to Seoul. He needs to get to her, and he needs to catch Lee Woo-jin as soon as he can. He’s going to rest easy only after sending him to fucking prison for the rest of his fucking pathetic life. 

“Aren’t you going a bit too fast?” Yeonjun says, holding on for dear life, “Professor Kang is safe.”

“She’s been on Lee Woo-jin’s radar ever since she had the misfortune to look at his face twelve years ago,” Yoongi seethes, “I’m going to fucking break the sound barrier if I have to, Yeonjun. I don’t care.”

“This is madness!” the man yells at him, “come on, Sir, what the hell are you doing? She’s there with a police guard and she’s fine.”

“I need to be beside her right now!” Yoongi screams, “you don’t get it Yeonjun, I need to be by her side right now. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“You’re fucking insane, sunbae,” Yeonjun sighs, “blurring lines between professional and personal because of her. At least grow some balls and confess to her after this.”

“I will.” Yoongi says, voice determined. He doesn’t tell Yeonjun the other thing that he’s been thinking about. 

I will, if I can. 

—

She is still sitting in bed, looking straight at the man who had terrorised a whole province twelve years ago, and almost plunged Seoul into terror as well, for months on end. And he had been hunting her too. Now he’s here. 

Is this how I die? She thinks for a moment, and forces herself to get rid of these thoughts. I’m not going to die here. I’m a professor. I’m an educator. I don’t care. I’m not going to die. 

“How did you manage to slip inside?”

He gestures to his outfit, identical to what the guard outside had been wearing. She wants to yell, and call for help, but he’s just going to escape. She needs to keep him engaged for as long as she can, until help comes. 

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Professor,” he says, taking a seat on a chair beside her bed, “I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Lee Woo-jin, Professor. But I’m sure you know my name.”

“I don’t know your name at all,” she scoffs as a reply, “and I don’t care to know, either.”

“Oh!” Instead of the expected, angered reaction, the man gives her a wide smile, “I figured you would say that, Professor. My name is, of course, Lee Woo-jin. You don’t know me, but I know you, you see. I’ve spent a lot of my time following you and your work.”

“From where?”

“Ah, well, not necessary to know,” he smiles, his cruel mouth extending thinly over his face, and she hates herself. She hates herself for being a sitting duck, for being helpless in the face of adversity. I would like for a gun right now. “But I did follow your work, you know. I spent a lot of time and energy while I was in there. Following your work. It took a lot of time. You have been exceptionally busy.”

“Thank you,” she says, not feeling very thankful, “I don’t know what to say.”

The man catches her sneaking a glance towards the door, and he smiles, “don’t worry, Professor. No one is going to come looking for you. Not anytime soon.”

“Kim Seokjin will,” she says, defiant. ‘And so will Min Yoongi.”

“Neither of them figured out who I was, even though I was standing right in front of them for all this while,” the man laughs, “no one figured out who I was.”

“I did,” she replies, relishing at how his gleeful smile falls away to reveal a blank face, “I figured you out, Lee Woo-jin. If there was anyone who figured you out, it was me.”

“And you would not have been able to do anything, if it weren’t for a stupid coincidence!” He yells, face half an inch from hers, “you had to rely on a coincidence to figure out who I was. And Kim Seokjin couldn’t figure me out, Professor.”

“So?” she asks, “why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Assault and kill all those people.” She replies, “twelve years ago, in Seongju. You remember them, right? Kim Mi-yeong, you killed her.”

“Why did I do that?” He cocks his head, “why, I needed to show them their place, obviously.”

“Show them their place?”

His mouth twists into a sneer, “nasty fucking sluts. Women are always like that, you know. Opening their legs for any and every man. They deserved what happened to them.”

“And you were what, the judge, jury, and executioner of their sentences, right?” She laughs, mentally filing away. Narcissism. Possible traits of psychopathy. Inability to view women beyond a narrow misogynistic worldview. She’ll probably not be alive to write it all down, but she hopes someone will. Maybe one of my students. If I am lucky enough. 

“Oh, yes, I was,” he laughs, “and those two idiots, too. Sluts in training.”

“You mean the schoolgirls you were following on that stormy night?”

“Yes, they were schoolgirls, but before that, they were whores in training. Going to town to look at boys and men and laughing and flirting with them,” he seethes, “I would have done them a favour. They wanted to sleep with men that badly? Well, they would have gotten their wish.”

“But they didn’t, did they?” she smiles at him, “and besides, flirting is normal for children of that age.”

“Normal?” he raises an eyebrow, “okay, tell me your thoughts on this, Professor.”

She shakes her head, “I don't think I will.”

At this moment, her phone rings, buzzing against her lap. She takes a discreet look at the screen, Min Yoongi. 

“Hah!” he laughs, almost bent over, so she extends a finger to swipe and accept the call. One more tap, and the feed from Yoongi’s side is muted. He can hear her, she cannot hear him. 

“Lee Woo-jin,” she says, and he sits up and listens, “you’ve wasted a lot of time looking for me. Why?”

“Why? Because you intrigue me, Professor,” Lee Woo-jin takes a seat, “I don’t typically care about women that much.”

“I can see it.”

“And yet, I find myself intrigued by you, you see,” he smiles, “you keep talking about how we should tackle rising crime rates and how we should go about our lives and how we should pay attention to criminal reform. You are an insufferable bitch.”

“You would not be the first person to say that to me.”

“But I would be the last,” he grins, standing up and leaning over her. From this distance, she can see the lines etched into his face, no doubt from twelve years of prison time. She knows what he means by those words. He’s saying something, but the loud buzzing in her ears have drowned his voice out entirely. She’s going to die here. He’s going to assault her, and then he’s going to kill her. She’s going to be the fucking eleventh victim. 

Before his hands can reach for her throat, she grabs a hold of the glass jug and smashes it over his head. Water and blood gush out, and shards explode all over the floor, one getting embedded in her arm. Ignoring the screaming pain in her body, she throws him off of her, still bleeding, and tries to yank the saline out of her hands. 

“You fucking bitch!” He yells, grabbing her arm, “you think you can run from me?”

“Help!” she yells out, loud enough to wake the entire hospital, “someone fucking help! He’s going to kill me—”

His heavy hand smacks her across her face, clamping down in an effort to shut her up. He’s struggling, she realises, and she bites down hard on his hand, using the leverage to land a heavy kick across his torso. Nothing happens, but his hand slips from her mouth, and she begins screaming bloody murder again. She has only a little bit of energy left, and she needs to get out of here. Where’s the nearest staircase? She doesn’t know. 

“Help!” she yells, and the door yanks open, and there are Yoongi and Yeonjun and Seokjin, guns raised. He tries to get a hold of her hair, but Seokjin kicks him across the face, and Yoongi wrenches him off of her. He holds her in his arms, shaking and bleeding, 

It’s all over very quickly after that. Seokjin and Yeonjun are wrestling with the man on the floor, and there is a small army of medical personnel, trying to stem the blood from her arm. Yoongi ignores the man entirely, holding her so tightly in his arms she doesn’t think he’s ever going to let go. She sees the man, the same man she had seen for the first time, all those years ago, on a village road, being taken by the police, raging and howling, and for the first time in a decade, she can breathe slightly easily. 

—

All men are born, all men die. No man is god. History is repeated, over and over, and every time, people; ordinary people, rise to the occasion. 

With Yoongi wanting to close this chapter, he gets to work.

She stayed strong after that first encounter. This villain tortured her mentally. Twelve long years of silence then he surfaces again? She leveraged his obsession upon meeting him and somehow gets a confession.

Date No. 4: The Blue Dress Shirt

You don’t expect to see Yoongi midweek.

Yoongi’s kind of an end-of-week thing. It was either Saturday dinner or Friday in the club.

But then this text comes through and it throws you off. In a good way.

Yoongi: Wanna meet up?

Of all days, you don’t expect this on a Wednesday, or as it is sometimes referred to, hump day. Well, technically, everyday is hump day as far as your thoughts on Min Yoongi are concerned, because there isn’t a single day that has gone by in which you didn’t want to hump— 

Yoongi: If you’re free for lunch? I’m around Yongsan too..

Ohhhh… right.

You stare at the screen like you’ve misread it. Sure, you might have told him when you were texting last Sunday that you had a gig all week in an office around Yongsan. But he never mentioned he was going downtown, too.

Even as you fire off a quick, “Cool! Let’s meet.” You still can’t wrap your mind around this very thought: A mid-work lunch isn’t a flirt. It’s not a prelude to sex. It’s real life, reserved only for people you want to see when the sun is up.

And Yoongi is definitely categorized in people you want to see all day. All night, even, if you had it your way.

He’s already there when you arrive, seated by the window.

When he stands to greet you, and you see the full look. You have to physically stop yourself going awooga awooga. He looks… so damn good in a blue dress shirt that just fits him across the chest so well. Blue might just be your favorite color on him. His hair is parted neatly, silver earrings catching daylight instead of club strobes. He looks like he could walk into a boardroom and lead people.

Definitely the kind of man you could imagine next to you in the middle of a weekday, not just the end of one. And now it’s real life. 

“You like the adult cosplay?” he asks, slipping an arm around you for a quick hug.

“I do, yeah.” You pause, regroup, then add with a small smile, “You look like someone who has a lot of meetings and signs stacks of contracts.”

He smiles, eyes sweeping over you, from your nude stilettos to the pencil skirt and the ribbed blouse with the sweetheart neckline. When your gazes meet again, you catch the flick of his tongue against his bottom lip before he steps aside and pulls out your chair. He ain’t that subtle when he eyes the tops of your tits.

Finally, when you’re both seated. “You look great.”

Oh god.

“Thank you,” your cheeks warm. “...I like the glasses.”

“Oh these?” He pushes the specs higher on his nose bridge. “I have astigmatism.”

You suppress a chuckle. He has no clue how SEXY the glasses are on him.

“So how’s it going?” You ask, hanging the strap of your bag on the table hook.

“Met with a couple of labels earlier,” he says, taking the folded napkin on your plate. He shakes it open once, then reaches forward to set it gently across your lap before adding, “Namjoon and Hobi are shopping for new management and they roped me into helping them out with it.”

For a second, you just stare at him. It’s such a simple thing, the way he lays the napkin across your lap, but it makes you feel oddly cherished—like a proper lady for once. No one’s ever done that for you.

“I hope it goes well,” you say. “So where are they anyway?”

“They already left. They’ve got a gig tomorrow in Daegu.”

“Your hometown.”

“Yeah. I might go down to support.” He pauses, then adds with a lazy shrug, “Depends how tired I am later.”

You give him a look that says you don’t buy it for a second. “Really…”

“Alright, no, I’m not,” he admits, laughing under his breath. “It’s too far and I’d rather sleep.”

“That’s the Yoongi I know…” you tease.

And it hits you. You do know him, at least a little. After just a few dates, you’re starting to pick up on his personality, his dry humor, the way he softens when he talks about the people he cares about, the tiny tells when he’s fibbing.

It’s nice. This feeling of slowly figuring someone out.

Lunch is usually your favorite meal of the day. Today is no exception. You ask Yoongi what he wanted to eat. He told you to just order whatever you want. 

“I don’t know what I like better, the aglio olio or the bolognese.” You think out loud, scanning the menu.

“Order both. You can always get the leftovers to-go and have it for dinner later.”

You shake your head and decide to just get the aglio olio. Ordering two pastas might be too excessive. When he tells his order to the waiter, it’s a burger… and a bolognese, “so you can have a taste.” 

He orders some appetizers to share, too: tempura mushrooms and french fries. 

While munching on the starters, he asks about your project. You vent about the wardrobe disasters, the unprofessional models, and he just listens. Chin propped on his hand, he nods when you get a little emphatic and shakes his head when he can tell something really pissed you off. 

Gosh. This Min Yoongi. He’s just built different, isn’t he? You remind yourself of what Tae told you. To just let Yoongi wine and dine you and even spoil you a bit. You have to admit, it is kinda nice.

At some point, he nudges his plate toward you. “Wanna eat my mushroom?”

You almost choke because your mind went to the gutter as it always seems to with him.

He adds, maybe to clarify, because your fuckin’ face betrays you: “You ate yours too fast to have actually enjoyed them.”

You laugh, embarrassed, but take one anyway. “You watch me eat now?”

“I pay attention,” he says, quietly amused. “Is it that bad?”

Ughhhhh. You’re this close to hurling yourself on his lap and ravishing him.

Once your entrees are served, the table is full. The horror-stricken look across your face is immediately appeased by his gentle grin. “It’s fine, we’ll get the rest to go.”

Your pasta is a burst of salt and oil and garlic. You think you made the right choice.

Across from you, Yoongi flattens his burger by pressing the top bun down with the tips of his fingers. It’s so cute the way he does it. He then takes the smallest nibble, and a tiny spec of bbq sauce stains the corner of his cheek. You think he’d notice but he looks outside and chews thoughtfully.

You don’t know why, but your eyes are locked in on that itty bit of sauce on his face. He gazes back at you, realizing you’re staring.

Without thinking you reach over, swipe it with your thumb and casually bring your finger to your lips before returning to your pasta like nothing happened. He gapes at you owlishly. You just smile, chewing your noodles.

For someone who looks as formal as can be, Yoongi surely is a messy eater.

At some point, while reaching for a fry, he gets a smear of mayo on the side of his hand and then just licks it off, tongue dragging across his skin like it’s not about to cause a tear in your brain.

The gulp you gulped must have been heard amidst the restaurant chatter and clinks of silverware. 

Gosh, wow. His tongue is umm… yeah. What were the lyrics to his song again?

Regardless of your increasingly deluded thoughts and rapidly deteriorating self-control, everything about this lunch date with Yoongi is so stupidly domestic: him letting you steal food off his plate, teasing each other between bites, sharing stories about your day. And soon enough, something in your heart starts to loosen. 

Maybe that’s why you blurt it out.

“So, Yoongi…” You clear your throat, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “What’s this? I mean, my Kakao’s filled with cat memes, we’re on the phone all the time, and now we’re meeting in the middle of our workdays. Honestly, it feels… not casual?”

He tilts his head, eyes on you, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. Then, without a word, he slides his hand across the table. Palm up. A simple, unhurried invitation.

No hesitation, you place your hand atop his, and his fingers curl around yours, warm and secure. It’s not the first time you’ve held hands, but it feels brand new under the light of day.

“I don’t really do casual,” he admits quietly.

You blink.

“But I think casual may be what you’re used to,” he says evenly, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb, knowing what he said, his observation, might pierce something in your chest.

“You’re not wrong,” you say, lips twitching. “I just–never thought I was ready for, you know.”

“And that’s okay. No person should ever pressure you into something you’re not ready for.”

“But Yoongi…” you call out, as if you’re afraid he’d slip away because of your confession. “Like, I do want to try, at least.”

Yoongi’s mouth breaks into the prettiest smile. “So maybe we meet halfway?”

You quirk a brow. “And how do you propose we do that?”

He holds your gaze, eyes unmistakably sincere. “If you’d let me, I can show you what it feels like to be with someone who stays the night, even makes you breakfast in the morning.”

Just the thought warms you right up.

“…But you have to wait, just a little bit.”

“For what?”

“For us to really get to know each other. You don’t even know my middle name yet.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have one, come on.” He shakes his head.

Your laugh slips out, soft and a little disbelieving. “You’re really making me work for it, huh?”

“C’mon,” he says, thumb still tracing lazy circles on your hand. “I got you. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Cool.”

The moment stretches, sparkly and stupidly tender.

He leans back, still holding your hand. “Can you do me a favor though?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to make me fall for you any sooner than I should? I still have a reputation to keep.”

“Okaaay,” you mumble, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’ll try.”

When lunch ends, you walk out together, sunlight spilling across the pavement to paint your linked silhouettes. You part ways at the junction. Yoongi goes left and you turn right. 

You both mumble shy goodbyes, and share a quick hug before you go. You don't know why you feel a little embarrassed now. Maybe it’s because you’re both sober and you had a talk, but like all these silly girly feelings are overwhelming you in the best way. 

He walks backwards with a dopey grin, hands shoved in his pockets, as he watches you cross the other way.

“Be careful!” you call out, terrified, when he almost backs up into a sign post.

He scrunches his nose and finally turns around to make his way back to his car.

Meanwhile, you round the corner with the dumbest grin on your face. 

You shake yourself out of your thoughts and try to get back to work mode. You’re thankful that lunch ends up being a welcome distraction from the chaos waiting back at the studio, but it’s still a busy day. As you head back, you run through your plan in your head:

Prepare outfits for three layouts, all women.

First theme: modern skylines. They said the colorway has to be inspired by city streets and silhouettes. Should be easy.

That powder-blue Matin Kim coat will pair nicely with the beige silk sh—

—SHIT!!!

You’re suddenly yanked sideways into a narrow alley, stumbling straight into a solid chest. Your scream jams in your throat. 

Oh my god, this is it, you’re going to die, you’re—

“Hey, hey—”

It’s Yoongi. Thank fuck. But still, what the fuck?

“Yoongi!” You slap him hard across the chest. “I thought I was getting mugged, shit!”

“In broad daylight?” he says, wincing at your hit, rubbing the spot you assaulted.

“You never know these days!” You’re panting, hands braced on your knees, pulse trying to punch through your sternum. “Fuck, my heart is racing—”

“I’m so sorry. Shit, shoulda thought this through.”

That sentence finally penetrates the adrenaline fog. You straighten slowly, noticing for the first time how he’s boxed you in gently against the brick wall of this ridiculously narrow side street. His face is a little apprehensive, brows knotted in regret.

“…Think what through?” you ask slowly, breath still shaky as you try to decipher all this.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Just wanted to kiss you goodbye.”

Asdlkfjsd;ljf??

Your heart goes from erratic to completely flatline. You stand upright like Frankenstein booting up, shoulders rigid, eyes bulging from its sockets.

“Yoongi?”

“Y/N?” He places his warm palms on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing comforting little circles.

“But you said…”

“I know what I said.”

“So…?”

“Yah! You kept pouting throughout lunch and you expect me to just ignore it?” he reasons, all whiny and heavy in his satoori. “And I just—can I?”

You nod so fast it’s almost comedic and fuckin’ finally, he kisses you. Your eyes widen slightly before it flutters shut and you’re fully immersed in the moment. Yoongi’s lips meet yours with the gentlest, softest press before it becomes a little more firm. Then, he catches your top lip in a light pull, just enough to tease and send tingles down your spine, before he eases back. 

“Okay,” he whispers, smiling like a little devil. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Mkay,” you mumble mindlessly, as a loading icon spins over your head. 10%

Just like that Yoongi walks away with a lopsided smirk, leaving you in an alley with your heart doing cartwheels and your lipstick a little smudged. And you’re thinking that after all those nights he didn’t kiss you, on a moonlit porch or a heated dance floor, this stupid broad-daylight one, three meters away from a garbage chute, might still be the perfect first.

Three days later, a raunchy video is playing on your phone screen. Your other hand is hidden underneath your panties. You need relief and fast.

Suddenly a text notification descends from the top of your screen. 

Yoongi: what u up to?

You yank the vibrator from your pussy and fling it across the room. Shit! Does he have spidey senses for when you’re like super hot & bothered?

You: nothing much. Yoongi: u free tom? You: yeah y?

All along the vibrator continues to bzz bzzz bzzz against your carpet and you really should turn it off, but your eyes are glued to the screen. The ping comes quickly and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his reply.

Yoongi: Let’s touch some grass

To be continued... [Date no. 5]

A/N: Okay y'all better touch some grass I'm serious. Heh.

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

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Date No. 3: The Flat Earther Tee

When Yoongi texts on Friday to hit up his friend’s gig in a club downtown, you think okay, yes, maybe this is the night the tides turn. Clubs are sweaty. Clubs are loud. Tongues do be coming out in clubs! Yessss!

You show up in one of those trendy black off-shoulder tops with asymmetrical, distressed hemlines. The strap of your lacy lilac top peek from your shoulder. For bottoms, you got cargos and platform Converses. Honestly, it’s giving Kuromi-chic and you feel cute as hell, okay?

Speaking of cute.

At the bar, you spot Yoongi dressed head to toe in black, loose tee splashed with white typography, black baggy jeans, two silver hoops glinting under the dim light, and silver chains around his neck. 

Ughh. He looks fresh as hell!

And you’re actually kind of matching. Heehee.

“Hey,” he says when you reach him, voice warm but low enough you have to lean in and get a whiff of his scent. “Sup?”

“I like your hair.”

He scrunches his nose, scratching it with his index after. “Thanks. I had time to mess with it earlier.”

“Looks good.”

Taking your hand, he brings you to a cordoned off area. He goes straight for the bar and asks if you’d like a martini, which is what you ordered on your first date. He remembered!

He cannot be this perfect, really. But your mental tabulation of his stellar qualities is telling you otherwise.

Fit: check. Cologne: check. Attention to detail: check.

Later on, you’re eating some light fare and enjoying your drinks in a quieter corner of the bar while waiting for Doom & Hope’s set to start.

You chat, nothing too deep. Just regular stuff about work, what you had for lunch, this new show. This and Thats that are casual, but very much needed as you get to know each other.

You did remember Tae said to ask Yoongi this specific question and gauge his reaction. So, here goes.

“So,” you start conspiratorially, swirling your drink with the plastic stirrer that came with it. “Why are you single?”

He breaks into a smile full of gum and enamels. “No game, remember?”

“Nah, don’t give me that. What’s your deal?”

He leans back, shrugs, “I’m kind of a hermit. I rarely go out.”

“Why not?”

“Eh, I just keep to myself most days. Me and my music.”

“But still, you meet people, right? Work, grocery runs, socials?”

“Totally.” He nods with a wry smile. “People look at me and immediately think, ‘Wow, he must love small talk.’” 

“Okaaaay?”

“Uh huh, my DMs be wild.” His expression stays flat just long enough to make you question him, then he chuckles. “I’m joking. No one messages me. They know I don’t answer.”

You smirk, taking a sip. “And yet you’ve been sending me memes…”

He hums, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Guess I have been doing that, huh?”

A short beat passes, and now he is looking at you with calm curiosity.

“Well,” he says finally. “You’re one to talk. Why are you single?”

“I date, but…” You trail off, but decide you can just be upfront with him. “You do know what people use Hookie for, right?”

“What do you mean?” His mouth quirks into a curious pout.

“Yoongi…?”

He blinks, genuinely lost. “What? It’s just another app, like Tinder or Bumble, isn’t it?”

You almost choke on your drink. “No. Hookie is for… shit, how do I explain this—umm, if one might need, you know, a one night stand. It’s kind of its whole niche.”

“Oh.” His brows lift. Then again, longer, “Ooohhhh.”

“Yeah...”

A beat of silence settles as you both process this new information. 

On his side, probably, irked that his friends did him dirty.

But for you, everything suddenly clicks into place. Of course he didn’t know. It explains why he’s been the way he is with you: polite, measured, never pushing, never trying to get handsy every five seconds. 

It dawns on you that this self-professed non-dating, people-hatin’ hermit actually swiped right to give dating you a solid try. Huh.

You watch as he takes a slow sip of whiskey, thinking. When he sets the glass down, his top lip is still wet, catching the light.

“Well,” he asks, adjusting a ring on his index, “is that still what you want from me… just a quick fuck?”

The way the profanity sounded coming from him is stupidly sexy, but why does he look… worried? There’s a small crease between his brows that you impulsively want to kiss away.

You shake your head. “No,” you say, a little breathless. “I like getting to know you. I want… way more than that.”

Because the truth is, you’re in too deep now and your days of one and done might be over.

His friends’ set is electric. The bass hits like a heartbeat, and when their song Sexy Nukim drops, the room practically thrums with it.

The sound wraps around the crowd, a melody so sexy and sultry and just impossible to ignore. 

You and Yoongi are caught right in the middle. The lights dim a little as the visual effects machines envelop the club in smoke and strobe. 

You catch a vibe and you start to sway without meaning to, letting the rhythm find you. It’s a slow, easy motion at first. You circle your hips, the back of your thigh just grazing his. You look over your shoulder, sweeping your hair aside to bare your neck.

Yoongi watches you move, lip caught between his teeth. But he doesn’t move yet. He shakes his head, smirks, like you’re doing something both hilarious and dangerous. Even in the dark, there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he is hungry, but still holding back. And you’re fully determined to pull out all the stops to test his restraint.

The music swells again, and he’s nodding to the beat. You force your eyes ahead at the performers, but your body has a mind of its own.

Your back meets his chest and finally fuckin’ finally you feel his touch—fingers ghosting along your waist, sliding against the strip of skin where your clothes don’t meet. His hands splay across your stomach, pushing you back slightly before his thumb curls itself on the belt loop of your jeans, as your bodies start moving to the rhythm together.

The bass drops. Your hips roll. His follow. 

He angles his body forward just enough that you feel him with every shift. His palms slide lower, fitting perfectly against the curve of your hip, guiding your movements.

You might not be a dancer, but you know how to work your body. You try it. You roll against him once, twice, and then slower, dirtier, and shit, Yoongi is matching your pace so fuckin’ well. You dip low when the bass thumps, and he’s right there with you, knees knocking the back of yours. Your bodies are fused, skin on skin, sweat against sweat, friction building with the music. You’re sure he can feel it. How feral this is making you.

The tempo of the song seems to swim inside your veins. When you arch back, ass brushing his front more deliberately than before, you hear it, a soft groan spilling from his beautiful mouth. You echo it, unable to control yourself.

You turn around to link your hands at the back of his neck, your chest against his. There’s a curve on his lips that you haven't seen before. It’s a snarl, almost, and he nods, lip bitten, as if he knows all your filthy thoughts and he’s thinking them, too. 

Oh you’re so fucked when he slots his thigh between your legs. You’re both moving now, a slow grind that isn’t even pretending to be dancing anymore. 

Your nails rake against his scalp, his sweat drenching your fingers. The squeeze on your hip is wanting but also a warning, though his eyes trail the glistening skin on your neck like he is mesmerized.

When you tug his messy long hair, he hisses through his teeth. His eyes are onyx, deep pools of desire and you’re wet and drowning. There’s no question now. He wants you, too.

Feeling more brazen, you pull him closer, nosing the slick heat of his neck. You probably inhale every single pheromone he is emitting because what you do next can only be described as primal. You drag your tongue across his skin, licking the salt and spice like a fuckin’ animal.

“Ah, shit—” he rasps, caught off guard by your actions. And you are, too because that rough gruff against your ear nearly ruins your panties.

“Yoongi,” you breathe out his name and it feels like the confirmation that you’ve gone mad.

It’s almost sick, the desire to kiss him in the middle of this oasis of bodies, raw beats the soundtrack of your lust because you know he needs it as bad as you. You tilt your head, seconds from closing the distance, from finally knowing what he tastes like…

But the song ends and the spotlight flares towards the stage as the performers say their ending ment. Yoongi releases you from his embrace as he looks up at his friends and claps, and that’s your cue to do the same. 

Moment over.

Speaking of his friends.

Namjoon and Hoseok, otherwise known as Doom Boy and Hope World, are actually nice guys.

You say this, because they are sitting in front of you in this limo, doling out shots like it’s going out of style.

Truth be told, you don’t remember much about the conversation, but it was light and breezy because y’all were just driving around Seoul drizzunk.

By the time you reach your house. You decide: oh, you really like Yoongi’s friends. Even though in less than 24 hours they’ve already unwittingly cockblocked you twice.

Yoongi walks you to your door, hand warm against the small of your back. This time, the hug lasts longer and his hand dips lower, suspiciously close to your ass.

He still has his arms around you when he drawls in his smoky satoori, “You looked so fuckin’ hot tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmh, was the luckiest man out there.”

It’s the alcohol sloshing in your brain that makes you say: “You can be the luckiest one in here, too… if you want.” You hook your finger on the chain around his neck, pulling him in.

He grins, wide and syrupy, like he’s letting your words warm him up, before he tongues the inside of his cheek.

“Baby,” he rasps and you might have come just from that alone. “I want this too, but I want you to remember every single thing I’m gonna do to you.” He tucks a stray tendril behind your ear,  then cups your jaw. “Next time, yeah? When we’ve had less to drink.” 

He leans in, presses a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, and murmurs, rumbly and deep. “Take care of yourself for me, mkay?” 

Before you can protest, he’s squeezing your hip once before he retreats to the car.

You close your door, forehead against the wood. He’s edged you all night, and now you’re left with no choice. You’re taking his advice to take care of yourself, battery-powered assist included.

Meanwhile, in the 📱 Boy Scouts GC

Jin: pay up, kids Namjoon: fck hold on i dont remmber my paswrd Hobi: sent ✅ Yoongi: tf Namjoon: she so fine hyung Hobi: fr, it should be a crime to look that fine Yoongi: 🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽 somebody explain before i Jin: we bet on who’d find the lucky lady to get you out of your hermit era Jin: you’re welcome 😘 Yoongi: i literally met her on an app ??? Jin: behold. exhibit a:

(screenshot attached — From a chat with Namjoon and Hobi six months prior. There’s a photo of Jin grinning with the glam team from his “Bachelors” shoot, captioned: “The girl, 2nd from the left. Wdyt?” It’s you.)

Yoongi: typing… Jin: yoongi… let hyung tell you a story

[Interlude: 6 months ago]

🗓 June 2025📍 Whitespace Studio, Gangnam-gu, Seoul

You’ve been on your feet since sunrise, adjusting hems, fixing collars, chasing stray flyaways. You’ve met nine of Seoul’s most eligible bachelors (supposedly, and according to readers of the magazine, at least). Finally, you’re down to the last one.

Kim Seokjin. The restaurateur-slash-model-slash-everyone’s-type. He greets the crew with a polite bow that somehow captivates the entire room. You’re all tired having done this thing for hours, but he brings in a crate of strawberries from his farm and some pastries from his bakery and the mood shifts just like that.

“Hi, I’m Jin,” he says when you hand him the pressed jacket. “Sorry, I’m a little sweaty. I was running late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, crossing your arms. “You still look disgustingly eligible. And showing up with food? You’re really out here tryna one-up the rest, huh?”

He grins, eyes crinkling. “Happy to know it worked.”

He wears the jacket in one fluid motion, through his arms and over his chest. You step back to check the line of the blazer then you fuss with lapels a bit. Satisfied, you say, “There. Now you look like Seoul’s 6th most eligible bachelor.”

“Fifth!” he blurts, half-embarrassed, half-proud. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know? Living up to Top 5 bachelor expectations.”

“Tragic,” you say, deadpan. “Beautiful, successful, unattached man can’t catch a break.”

You suddenly hear the sound of windshield wipers, before you realize it was him laughing. The makeup artist approaches both of you and starts applying lip balm on his lips.

You say bye and he winks. You think he’s just being friendly, another charming client to cross off the list. When he asks for your number in case he needs a stylist for other projects, you don’t think twice before typing it into his phone.

[Jin’s POV]

He’s supposed to focus on the shoot, angles, light, remembering not to blink when the flash hits, but all he can think is, she’s kind of great. You, the stylist with bright eyes and an easy-going energy. He enjoys it, the way you joke without fawning, the casual banter. It’s refreshing.

When the photographer calls for a break, he watches you rearrange a rack of suits. You hum to yourself, oblivious to the fact that Jin knows that melody, too, because his best friend wrote it.

“You like that song?”

“Yeah, I heard it on the radio and I can't get it out of my head. Why?”

“No reason,” he says, smiling too quickly.

But in his head, a thought sparks. Yoongi’s song, hummed by who could potentially be Yoongi’s girl. Same quiet humor. Same edge that hides warmth. Honestly, you look like you might be his type. 

It’s been a while since he had that bet with Namjoon and Hoseok. Underneath the jokes, he really does want to help Yoongi be happy again. And so Jin imagines being the author of this cute little story. Introducing you, how awkward Yoongi would get, how you’d tease him into talking anyway. Fun dates, good banter. It’s a love story for the ages!

Jin nearly says something, I have this friend you might get along with, but the photographer’s calling him back before he can decide if that’s weird.

Instead, he asks for your number, promising himself to text for future projects.

You wave as you leave, telling him, “Good luck with the bachelor thing.”

He smiles, a little distracted, wondering for a fleeting second if he should just keep you to himself. But no, he’s a good hyung. He follows his first instinct and texts Yoongi about you, tacking your number at the end of it. In his haste, what he doesn’t realize is the tiny red text that appears underneath the bubble. The message never actually sends.

Weeks pass. Work piles up. When he finally remembers to ask about it, Yoongi just shrugs, distracted and dismissive as always, and Jin laughs it off. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.

And like most things, it fades, just another almost in their busy lives. There are dinners, deadlines, music, tuna, inside jokes. He forgets to finish the story.

Until one slow night at a pub, Namjoon teases Yoongi about “his monk era” or was it “shriveling dick” and before Yoongi knows it, they’re all huddled over the beat-up olive Galaxy phone, drunk as hell, but full of good intentions.

Jin signs Yoongi up for the app and picks the best photo in his gallery. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figures it’s harmless fun, just a way to nudge Yoongi out of his rut.

But without realizing it, he’s setting the story back in motion.

To be continued... [Date no. 4]

A/N: Hehehehe 😈 Maybe in date no. 4...?

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Date 2: The Tan Cardigan

Yoongi: Hey. Dinner tonight? Remember that sushi place I told you about…

You stare at your phone for a full minute.

He’s alive… and he just invited you to dinner?

Well, shit. You do love sushi!

For a second, you think about going next door to consult your neighbor-bestie for something cool to respond with, but decide you don’t want to make Yoongi wait, lest he finds another chick to eye-fuck over Kikkoman. NO WAY.

You: Bet :)

And with that simple response, you proceed to plan your day–shave, exfoliate, pluck, tone, moisturize. By the time sunset comes, you’re smooth, and plump and juicy in all the right places, so utterly ripe for the picking.

Your uber drops you off in front of Amai, the japanese restaurant in Seongsu Yoongi told you about. The owner, his friend Kim Seokjin, is a known restaurateur and you actually remember featuring him in a magazine you moonlight for. The article was about the hottest bachelors in Seoul and his enigmatic presence and luscious lips definitely belonged in the roster. At the shoot, he was warm and polite, and now you guess it runs in the friend group. You wonder if he’ll remember you if you see him.

You walk in wearing a burgundy dress. Form-fitting. Designer. Because while you joke about being out of Yoongi’s league, you are still a fashion expert and you have access to goods from pull-outs and local couturiers you’re friends with.  

Underneath, you’ve got the expensive lingerie on. Lacy, skimpy, and white, because you think he’d appreciate the color.

The lady at the front of house asks for your name, and you spot it written underneath the VIP list as she skims it with her index. She ushers you inside and into a table on the far right. You decline when she asks if she can start you off with something to drink, opting to wait for your companion for the night.

Yoongi arrives a few minutes later, and fuck does he look like an editorial spread in motion. He is donning a tan cardigan with metal spikes dappled all over, brown dress pants that look like they were made for him, and black hair soft around his face. The aura is +1000000∞. You’re actually stunned.

He nods when he sees you and his smile is blinding. Suddenly, it feels like you’re the only person in the room as he approaches.

“Hey,” he goes in for a quick hug. You welcome it, pressing your cheek slightly against his. His cologne assaults your senses in the best way possible. It’s different this time, more juicy and tart but still grounded in woodsy undertones.

“How are you?”

“I’m good.” he slides into the chair in front of you. “Thanks for coming out. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Yeah, I was looking forward to it. Been craving for sashimi.”

“Let’s satisfy your cravings then…”

“Are you sure?” You ask, fingers playing with the pendant of your necklace.

You catch his eyes wandering below your collarbone, and he coughs, subtly facing away, to mask the shyness. Still. Gotcha. This night might be it.

“We can try,” he says with a raise of his brow, raising his hand up to signal the waiter.

Dinner is as scrumptious as the man you’re seated with and between munches of freshness and dips of soy, you dig deeper into each other’s life passions.

The subject of a mixtape he released some years back comes up and you expect a confident brag, but instead, he looks almost boyish.

“It’s nothing crazy,” he says, scrunching his nose as he shakes his head.

“Can I listen?”

“I’ll send you the link,” he mumbles, picking up his phone from the table. After a few taps, your phone buzzes with the message and you click the link automatically without thinking.

Mixing with the chatter inside the restaurant, the intro beats fill the tiny space between you, powerful and punchy, but also traditional? Before you can even process the auditory eargasm you’re experiencing, Yoongi reaches halfway across the table as if to stop the sound from escaping from your device.

“Hajima…” His ears are flushed pink. “When you get home. Not here, please.”

You bite back a laugh, nodding. “Sorry, sorry. I was just excited. What I already heard sounds fire though.”

Something flickers in his eyes then. Relief, embarrassment, a combination of both. “Thank you,” he mumbles, poking his unagi and shoving a piece towards his mouth.

“What’s the vibe of your mixtape?”

“Honestly, I just wanted to get the noise out of my head. I was, what–26, I think, and I was scared of ‘growing up.’ I think I still am in some ways.” He pauses before continuing, “And I guess I was mad at the world for being so fucked up, so I needed to say my piece and be done with it.”

“Did you get it all out?”

“Oh yeah, ‘twas cathartic as hell.”

“Good. I get it. There are days I still feel like I’m cosplaying as an adult.”

He glances up, mouth quirking. “Nah, for real? You don’t look it. You look like you’ve got it together. Self-assured, confident… hot.”

“Oh?” Your heart might have actually stopped.

“You called me that last time. You should know what I think of you, too. It’s only fair,” he says, looking away a bit and you catch the pink painting his cheeks before he takes a sip of water.

What’s not fair is the devastating realization that, as he talks, you catch the faintest lisp decorating his consonants. It’s adorable, it’s endearing, it’s sooo god damn cute. All these juxtapositions about this man? The duality is crazy. 

Halfway through the dragon roll, someone calls out from across the counter.

“Yoongi-yah! You actually showed up.”

You look up, and a man in a crisp white shirt and black apron walks over, a confident smile cutting across his face. He’s handsome, almost cinematic as he approaches. You remember him from the photoshoot with the same features, but a different energy this time. More relaxed, an air of mischief surrounding him as he walks to your table.

“Hyung,” Yoongi greets, deadpan but you can tell he’s fond. “I made a reservation, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t believe it,” Kim Seokjin says, leaning one arm against your table.

You giggle, and Seokjin’s eyes dart toward you and recognition thankfully flashes. “Wait. I know you. You styled me for that shoot, right?”

Yoongi looks between you, eyebrow raised. “You two know each other?”

Jin nods, and his grin widens. “She was the girl I…”

A weird look is exchanged between the both of them, and you know they’re trying to communicate in telepathy as typical besties would. You should be annoyed, but the interaction is actually very amusing between these two dorks.

Yoongi’s mouth forms an O and nods, before his lips curve downward, dimples on his chin. He picks up his chopsticks like he can will the conversation elsewhere. You let him, but you’ll bookmark the question for another time. “So,” he nods towards you, “which rolls do you like best, so we can tell the chef and he can fuck off.”

“Your hyung is the top 5 most eligible bachelor in this very nation, Yoongi-yah. You should pay me more respect.”

You try not to laugh, caught between curiosity and the sudden tension in the air. “The spicy tuna’s really good,” you offer, and Yoongi nods, pretending to be deeply invested in your answer.

But Seokjin isn’t done. “You know,” he says conspiratorially, lowering his voice, “I was one of the masterminds behind his dating profile.”

“Hyung.” Yoongi’s tone is calm but carries that quiet warning that makes Seokjin grin harder.

You smile, unable to help yourself. “Oh, you’re the reason he’s on the app?”

“Guilty,” Seokjin says, raising his hands. “I stand by my work, though. It got him you, didn’t it?”

Yoongi exhales, defeated, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips now. “Thank you for the food, hyung. But please go check on your kitchen before I use this beautiful candle to set your apron on fire.”

“Fine, fine.” Seokjin straightens, still grinning. “Nice seeing you again.”

“Same.”

Jin pats the back of Yoongi’s neck as he retreats to the back and Yoongi shakes his head, muttering something about “never coming here again.”

When he drives you home, it’s a bit of deja vu. The city glows through tinted windows, buildings disappearing as you’re nearing your quiet suburb. You wait for him to reach out, to do something that takes this connection to the next level.

But still he doesn’t. 

You reach home and when you step out, he places a hand gently on your back as he walks you to your door. You almost vibrate out of your skin with the first real contact you’ve had with him all night.

When you reach the door, you turn, expectant. Instead, he says, “Thank you for going out with me. Had a real good time tonight.” He’s almost too polite, you want to slap him.

Before you can say anything clever or please just kiss me already, he hugs you. His scent is fast becoming familiar and you’re not mad at it. Does it placate you? No. But there’s something about this man that is making you just go with his flow.

“Goodnight, pretty.”

And just like that, he dips.

You stand on your porch, dress clinging to your skin, heart thudding, wondering what kind of rapper says goodnight, pretty and blushes over his own music.

You’re starting to think Min Yoongi might actually be rarer than a Chanel No. 5 box clutch.

The next afternoon, your bestfriend and neighbor Kim Taehyung makes himself at home on your couch as you regale him with stories about your two dates with Yoongi. You tell Tae everything there is to tell about your digital conquest. He is sexy, he is sweet and he is driving you crazy. You haven’t stopped thinking about him since last night.

“Ice on his wrist and he’s a nice guy?” he says, lifting his gams to cross them on your coffee table.

“Yeah,” you sigh, dropping beside him. You hand him the bowl of butter popcorn, and he immediately digs in.

“So what’s his deal?”

“I dunno.” You grab a handful of popcorn for yourself. “Maybe he’s just… normal?” The word feels weird in your mouth. All the guys you’ve been with before him are decidedly not, but it’s never been an issue because you never intend to see anyone after one night.

Taehyung hums like that’s impossible. Not one to mince words, he shrugs. “Normal? No one’s normal, babe. Maybe he’s just not that into you.” A crunch. An ouch. “You know what, maybe he’ll be more into me. What’s his @?”

You throw a kernel at him and it bounces against his glasses. “Fuck off, Tae. You already have your slew of whores. Paws off the only decent guy in Seoul who’s asked me out.”

He smirks, brushing a piece of popcorn off his shirt. “You sound like you're in love already.”

You scoff, but it comes out weaker than you’d like. “Please. He hasn’t even kissed me yet.”

“Wow.” He leans back, grinning. “And you didn’t maul him first? Growth.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You nudge his leg with your foot, and he laughs, a deep, familiar sound that fills your living room.

The movie you were pretending to watch flickers across the screen, forgotten. You stare at the bowl in your lap, suddenly aware of the strange ache in your chest, the way it feels to want someone who seems determined not to want you that way.

Taehyung glances at you, less teasing now. “He’s got you thinking, huh?”

You sigh again, sinking into the couch. “Yeah. I just… I don’t get it.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“He’s just so different.”

Taehyung arches a brow. “Like secretly-married different or emotionally stable different?”

“The second one, definitely.” You smile a little despite yourself. “He’s nice. Like, actually nice. Doesn’t try anything.”

“And you hate it.”

“I don’t!” you protest, but your voice betrays you halfway through. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s just… I don’t know what to do with a guy who doesn’t hit on me.”

He hums, stretching his legs across your lap. “You got so used to fuckboys, you forgot what real men are like.”

You let out a long breath, watching the TV glow flicker across his face. “You think so?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Just curb your enthusiasm a little bit, and let the man wine and dine you. You deserve it.”

The conversation stick with you as you continue with the movie in comfortable silence. You lean back against the couch, then your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

A message from Yoongi. You push Tae’s legs away with a force that almost knocks him tf out.

You swipe to Kakao and find a meme. It’s a cat hiding behind a wall, only its eyes visible: “Me pretending I’m not waiting for your text.”

You stare at it for a second before a smile breaks across your face. God dammit.

Taehyung leans over your shoulder. “Who’s that?”

You hold your phone away. “None of your beeswax.”

He grins. “Oh, it’s him. I can tell by your dumb little smile.”

You mumble the softest “shut up” in the world.

But yeah, you’re still smiling.

That night, you listen to his mixtape. You tell yourself it’s research, but three tracks in, you’re gripping your phone like it might combust. 

Because apparently Min Yoongi, cardigan-wearing, soft-spoken, “please, not here” Yoongi, raps about turning people on with his tongue technology. Allegedly.

You don’t even know what to do with that information except… file it away for scientific fact-checking. Except there’s been nothing to fact-check. Zero signs of the tongue in question, or any desire to use it anywhere near you.

And yes, you loathe to admit that despite the lack of sexual advances from him you are incredibly horny for the man. Ergo: you may have touched yourself to a certain song. Actually it’s not even a song-song. It’s called 140503 At Dawn, some kind of interlude in his mixtape that starts with a groan so deep and guttural it took the freeway straight to your cunt.

So when he texts on Friday to hit up his friend’s gig in a club downtown, you think okay, yes, maybe this is the night the tides turn. 

Because Friday is Saturday’s freaky twin.

And because clubs are sweaty. Clubs are loud.

Tongues do be coming out in clubs! Yessss! 

You can’t. fuckin’. wait!

To be continued... [Date no. 3]

A/N: Is something finally going to happen on the 3rd date??? <3

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human xo

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Date No. 1: The Black Button-Up

You meet Min Yoongi on a hook-up app.

Or, technically, you meet his friends’ idea of him, because halfway through your lychee martini in a bar in Itaewon, he tells you, almost shyly, that he didn’t actually make his own profile.

Your ears perk. Catfish alert?

The bar’s dim, all amber light and vinyl grooves. A lamp’s glow casts a warm halo over the table, turning your drinks into little points of light. The table is small, just enough for two. The booth is a little tight so your closeness is unavoidable. Your knees brush, and in this proximity you’re able to appreciate his arms, sleeves rolled just enough to show pale wrists and a silver watch. It’s a fuckin’ Rolex.

“They said I needed help,” he explains, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not really good at meeting people.”

Huh.

Seeing the gears turn in your head, he quickly adds, “I read it though, the profile. I mean, there’s nothing there that’s untrue. I promise.”

He says it so earnestly that you can’t even think he’s lying. But what’s sus is that this man, this fine shyt, in his perfectly pressed black button-up and dark jeans that fit like they were tailored, is telling you he can’t pull somebody so much so that his friends are staging a digital intervention? Min Yoongi looks too put-together, too composed, too hot to be wasting his time on a fuckin’ app. 

You, on the other hand, are not above a good, quick lay. A few hours ago, you saw his photos and thought, okay, he’s probably one of those cocky, low-effort types who made being a rapper his entire personality. But since he looks like he can dick you down real good, you bite. 

You’ve been on the app game long enough to know what you’re doing. You like it for the most part. The thrill, the flirting, the freedom of no strings attached. You’ve got a healthy sex life and you’re not shy about it. You’re a modern woman who likes sex. Sue you.

Still, every once in a while, when you’re scrolling through half-naked mirror pics or the classic male holding up a bass fish pose, you think maybe it’d be nice to have someone real someday. A homie you can actually bring home and not throw out the door at 3 a.m. But you haven’t met him yet. Not one person in Seoul is decent enough to survive dinner with your parents, which is probably why, for all your experience, you’ve never actually had a boyfriend.

But what you do have is a type. And it’s this guy times a trillion. You’ve always had a thing for feline eyes and bony fingers (both of which you immediately clock in that one pic of him holding a black mic).

Sitting beside him now, his voice low, his smile small but charming, he’s nothing like the overconfident fuckboy you assumed he’d be. He’s polite, careful with his words. Almost, dare you say, old-fashioned, like the whiskey he is nursing.

God you’re so confused!

“You’re my first match,” he admits, eyes flicking up from his lowball to meet yours.

Your stomach does this stupid flip, but you scold yourself, because this is a line, right? It absolutely has to be. This is not your first rodeo, but is he really saying this is his?

“First? Really now?” You clarify, one eyebrow shooting up to your hairline.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Didn’t think anyone would swipe right.”

LMFAO, please. He’s ridiculous! “You can’t be serious, Min Yoongi.”

“Deadass.” His smile tilts. “My friends tell me I have no game.”

You scoff. “Right. Because hot men who look like blind box collectibles are known to struggle on apps.”

He laughs under his breath, his arms rubbing against yours as his shoulder bobs. “So you think I’m hot?”

“I think you know you’re hot.”

“Mm.” He takes another slow sip and even in the dim lighting you notice his ears are burning red.

“I also said you kinda look like a Labubu.”

“Not the first time I heard that, so…”

You’re not sure if it’s the gin, the low purring sound he just made, or the way his tongue licks his lower lip, but your thighs press tight. He looks delectable and you’re more than ready to get a taste tonight.

But you try to reset your brain before it fries itself, keeping the banter going. “I’m curious. What would the real Min Yoongi have written if his friends hadn’t hijacked his phone?” you ask, swirling your straw.

He takes a beat to think of his response. “That I’m not just a rapper. I like to think of myself as a well-rounded musician more than anything, and… that I’m good with my hands.”

“Oh?”

“I make beats. I play instruments. What did you think I meant?”

“Oh my god,” you try to stifle your smile, leaning forward to let your hair cover your face. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

When you look sideways, though, his gums are pink and he’s smiling, too. 

Conversation flows easily after that. 

You watch the way the light catches the line of his jaw, sharp but softened by that damn smile. There’s a warmth to him that doesn’t match the black shirt, like he’s too gentle for his own cool aesthetic.

You talk about his music, about how he writes to clear his head. He asks about your work, expresses interest when you mention magazines and brands you work with. If his passion is in music, yours is fashion. He asks thoughtful questions, almost like he’s really trying to get to know you, not just filling the air with words before the inevitable, as how nights like this usually go.

“Okay music man,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “What kind of stuff do you make? Anything I’ve heard on Spotify?”

“Depends,” he replies, raking his fingers through his silky inky locks. “Mostly hip-hop. But I like taking something old, traditional melodies, random sounds, street noise, bits of conversation, and blending them into something that feels new, fresh.”

“That’s kinda sexy,” you blurt before your brain catches up. Maybe it isn’t, but his raspy voice makes everything sound like it is.

“Which part?” he teases.

“All of it,” you buckle down anyway. “Ever sneaked in something personal? Like you know being intimate with someone and hid it in a track?”

“Mm,” he hums, clearly amused. “You have a very vivid imagination, Miss Y/L/N.”

“And you’re not denying it.”

He smiles, enigmatic, before shifting gears slightly, to your mild dismay. “I don’t perform much these days anymore though. I like composing, everything from producing to lyrics, more on the back end—ah, you probably find this boring.”

“No, no,” unintentionally, your hand curls against his thigh. 

He glances at your cerulean tips glinting under the bar lights over his trousers, a small grin playing on his lips.

You squeeze his thigh, and when he doesn’t flinch, you decide you’d leave your hand there for now. “Trust me, this is very interesting. Any artists I would know?”

“I recently wrote for this new rapper named P-dogg...”

“Wait… I thought rappers wrote their own shit?”

He gapes at you like you’re a genius. “That’s what I thought, too. But, eh, he’s a nice dude. And for the most part, his story is similar to mine. Struggled with the same shit, you know. Grew up poor, parents didn’t really get the hustle...”

Then he shifts the discussion to you. “What about you? You said you were a stylist?”

“Yeah. I’m a freelance fashion consultant. I do shoots, campaigns, sometimes event styling.”

“You like it?”

“Love it,” you reply. “It’s chaos I enjoy.”

“You do look like someone who thrives in chaos.”

“You callin’ me a hot mess?” You furrow your brows. “Or was that a compliment?”

“It was.” He leans forward slightly that you catch a whiff of what could be Invictus if your nose doesn’t fail you, and there’s something sincere in his eyes. “You seem like you know what you want.”

You tilt your head, hand sliding higher. “Do you?”

There’s both amusement and hesitation etched in his perfect face. “Working on it,” he says softly, before grasping the back of your hand and depositing it gingerly on your lap as he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

Spine slouching against the leather backrest, you don’t know what to make of his escape. It’s really hard to get a read on him. But you’re not about to give up.

Cause that ass tho?

After another round of drinks (he opted for soda while you had another martini, dirty this time), and thirty full minutes of push-and-pull, you’re really worked up. Probably soaked down there, if you’re gonna be crass. There’s something about his pretty face that you just want to sit—

He clears his throat. You shake them nasty thots out.

Later on, he offers to drive you home and, of course, he owns a sensible SUV. His car smells like leather and a hint of something musky. It’s clean, but not zodiac killer clean. 

Throughout the drive, you keep sneaking glances at him, waiting for some kind of move, anything to signify this is about to go down like you expect from meeting someone in a hook-up app.

However, there’s nothing. He’s not dropping spicy quips or hitting on you in that dirty way you were hoping for and you’re a tad bummed.

Yoongi keeps his hands on the wheel, knuckles relaxed, focus steady on the road. He’s even humming lowly to the bubblegum pop track on the radio. 

You think about it. Of course, you can make the first move, lean over, and say something suggestive. Maybe you can place your hand again on his thigh, and if he smiles, you’ll close in on the package and give him a handy on the way back to your place. 

Hold up. That’s probably unsafe. You need to think of another approach.

But before you can form your seduction plot, he randomly asks about your favorite kind of food. You answer ‘japanese,’ and he excitedly tells you about this restaurant his friend owns which has ‘unbelievable sashimi’. Your mouth is watering and you’re not sure if it’s because of the food he is describing or the way his lips are forming a pout. He talks about the restaurant a bit more and it actually seems like he is building up to book a second date. It’s just that your mind is well and truly in the gutter so you can’t process that right now.

Minutes of casual conversation pass and your confidence wanes. This comfortable dynamic between you feels too good to break with a sleazy move on your part, even though you’re wetter than tuna and you need him to…

“Hey, is this you?”

You glance out the window, and oh, you’re home.

He shifts the car into park, and looks at you with that cute, cat-like smile again. Why’d he have to be so god damn decent?

“This was nice,” he says.

Apparently you’re mute, but the voices in your brain are loud as hell. Nice? You could scream! You were hoping to do the verb without the S in front, but you’re not so lucky.

He steps out, walks around to open your door (because apparently he’s the kind of man who does that). You accept his hand as he walks you up the steps of your house and you notice how his fingers are a little cold and clammy. Man, you’d be so willing to warm him up if he’d just let you.

When you reach your doorstep, heart pounding, expecting at least a kiss… Yoongi goes in for a hug. But you can’t even be annoyed, because it’s warm, and solid, and feels like the comfort you didn’t think you needed. His shirt feels nice against your cheek. You squeeze him a little harder, just a second longer, enough to communicate without words that you appreciated this night, too. Even if it didn’t go exactly as you thought it would.

Finally, he pulls back and says, “Goodnight. I’ll text you, okay?”

Your teeth slide against the gloss on your lower lip as you nod, fingers tightening around your clutch, while butterflies flutter in your tummy.

You’re not sure if he’ll text you. It’s been a long time since you went on a date that didn’t turn into something else. It felt almost like a proper first date and you don’t quite know what to do with that information.

As you tuck yourself into bed that night, you think that maybe, just maybe, Min Yoongi is who you need to remind you that in a world full of douche bags, you got the one sporting a Valentino.

And that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

So Min Yoongi ghosted you. Of course he did.

At least that's what it feels like.

A week passes of no texts, no follow-ups, not even a like on any of your insta posts. You tell yourself it’s cool. You’ve been on dating apps long enough to know that silence usually means disinterest. And it’s not like you were expecting miracles. The man was dressed like old money meets underground musician. He was probably out of your league from the get-go.

Saturday morning comes. You still have eye boogers when you unlock your phone to an unexpected message on Kakao.

Yoongi: Hey. Dinner tonight? Remember that sushi place I told you about…

To be continued... [Date No. 2]

A/N: So....? What did we think? 👉👈

I'm really stoked about this one, so I hope y'all are, too! <3

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human xo

And in case you’re curious, this is the pic in Yoongi’s app profile:

Swipe ➡️

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"Did that hurt?" Sukuna asks, his voice dangerously calm, a smirk on his face spreading. "Shouldn’t you ‘know your fucking place’."

Your mother screams when Sukuna stands and brushes his hands along his shoulders, knuckles bloody from the contact. Your mother is rushing to her husband's side, cradling his bleeding face and glaring up at Sukuna.

"You monster! You brute! How dare you!"

Sukuna looks at her, then at your father, who is groaning on the floor, clutching his jaw, before leaning down, hands on his thighs. “Ya gonna lay your hand on your daughter again?”

“You have no right to speak-”

“No,” she stares at her husband in shock. “I won’t, fuck.”

“Pussy too,” Sukuna snorts, standing straight and jerking toward the butler just to make him piss himself, laughing even louder. “Leave your daughter the fuck alone, both of you, or I won’t be so ‘cordial’.”

“Well I never!”

“Now you have.”

Sukuna walks out – not in handcuffs surprisingly, seems your parents at least weren’t snitches, but then frowns as soon as he sees your text.

You - Where are you?

Shit, you were gonna be real mad.

****

𝖄𝖔𝖚

You’re reading Satoru’s texts and your heart hammers in your chest, a girl who was hopelessly in love just in a month has grown feelings for another. You feel so much for Sukuna, so deeply, yet something about Satoru’s desperate texts are tugging at your fucking heart.

You’re dripping Sukuna’s cum, littered in bruises from his grip, from where he’d fucked you senseless into that bed. You’ve never felt like this, your thighs trembling, your heart split in half, from the odd guilt you feel and the euphoria in equal measures. You know Satoru’s done worse – right in front of you at that, yet it didn’t somehow free you from your thoughts.

Sukuna wasn’t there when you woke up, a stranger in his penthouse.

You sigh and call Satoru, who surprisingly picks up fast.

“Are you all right?”

“You care?” You can’t help but say it harshly, sighing and shutting your eyes then. “I am fine, Gojo. Promise.”

“Well considering you didn’t write me once and… you saw my…”

“I saw them,” you lean back on the couch, toying with the edge of the big shirt Sukuna threw on you. “I was busy.”

“Busy, hah,” he laughs without humor over the phone. “Busy getting fucked by your psycho boxing instructor?”

“Yeah,” Satoru pauses, and your eyes shut, cursing internally. “I was getting fucked by him.”

“So you… you’re not…”

“A virgin, no. Guess you can’t use that insult – you could use whore now though, if you feel like it,” he says nothing instead. “You have no right to be upset.”

“Yeah I fucking know,” he laughs again, a harsh sound in your ear. “Okay so you fuck someone, does he at least make you cum?”

“Why would you care? As if you’d have done anything for me if we were together. Should thank you for not, by the way.”

“You don’t know what I’d do, haven’t you heard those girls cum?”

“Yes I have, your welcome for fucking somewhere other than your house where you can hear.”

“Right,” he sighs now, a loud sound. “Have fun?”

“I did actually,” you swallow down the guilt – he doesn’t deserve your guilty feelings, your hurt heart. “So she’s not there?”

“No, and I didn’t invite her either yesterday.”

“Didn’t tell her to go, did you?”

“I… are you coming home today?”

“Sometime, yeah, I know we have the event tonight but how am I going to cover this bruise up?”

“I can have someone come professionally cover it, I offered you a makeup artist before if you remember.”

“I guess that’ll work…” You trail off again, taking a breath. “You said you wanted me to come home.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I just… it was as if we… I wanted…”

You pause and try to let him speak, wishing you didn’t care, wishing your heart wasn’t aching – for what? 

“Just come home.”

“You let me know it’s your home Gojo – I don’t have a home.”

Your tears slip through before you can think to stop them, the fact smacking you sharp in the face, you’re so happy to be with Sukuna, to be in his home, but it’s not yours. Perhaps the boxing ring is the closest thing you have to feeling that way, that felt homey for you to come to, even the home you grew up in didn’t feel that way, nor your apartment you had for a few years.

“Can me and you just fucking talk? Without him?”

“We’ve had time to talk,” you swallow nervously. “I’m feeling a bit of happiness, will you just let me, if you don’t completely hate me?”

“Just come home soon, okay?” He hangs up, leaving you as fucking confused as you’ve ever been, looking at the phone when it rings.

But this is from your mother.

“Hello?”

“You had the man you’re cheating on Gojo with beat up your father!?”

“What?”

“I know it was you who sent him, you dumb little whore!”

“I don’t know–” She’s screaming the worst things at you, making you start to feel sick. “Stop yelling please.”

“What a fucking discgrace, first you have Gojo threaten us, now your lover beats your dad’s face in!? What sort of whore are you having these men dumb enough to fight us over you. Worthless girl.”

“Mom I didn’t do anything-”

“I wish I had another child, fuck anyone but you would do,” your tears fall at her cruel words.

“I wish I had good parents,” you finally speak up, breaths making your chest rise and fall, tears hot and stinging. “I wish it was anyone but you, terrible, miserable, cruel fucking woman.”

“Don’t you dare-”

“Don’t you dare ever call me again, I don’t ever want to even see you.” You hang up quickly when Sukuna’s opening the door, pausing as he sees your tear streaked face.

“Shit… Let me…”

“I asked you not to do that,” you’re sniffling as he shuts the door, setting the keys on the counter, walking right for you. “You could have went to prison!”

“I’d get out,” his jokes don’t work, and he notices, frowning again as he stares at you, brushing your messy hair back. “I had to do something, you expect me to let someone fucking hit you?”

“It will just make stuff worse for me, I know you care but – mnh!” Sukuna brushes his thumb against where you’re hurt, making you suck in a breath.

“He did that, and this,” he touches where your lip just healed, making it tingle underneath his thumb. “I don’t listen to what anyone fucking tells me, and I’m sorry – but I won’t listen to a girl who’s getting abused defending her abusers.”

“Yet I asked you to!” You shove at him now, glaring even through your tears, Sukuna cups your face, leaning low.

“Guess what? I’d do it again,” you gasp, eyes locking with his – an impossible, insane red. “I told you I’d burn down the fucking world for you.”

“You c-can’t,” he turns you around then, wrapping his huge arms around you, cock pressing on the curve of your ass. “Why me?”

“Because it’s you,” he bites your neck, earning your sharp hiss. “God it’s all I can think of since I first saw you, how fucking pretty you were, how broken. How I want to fit these beautiful, broken pieces back together.”

“You’re insane,” you whisper, when he turns your face to him.

“I punched him twice,” you shake your head just a bit in his strong hold, his other hand gripping you between your thighs. “Wanted to kill him, wanted to beat your shitty ass mom.”

“Sukuna!”

“I hate them, I hate anyone who hurt you,” his fingers brush you over that soft shirt until it’s soaked, and you’re writhing for his touch. “And I hate that they made you think you deserved it."

His voice drops to a low whisper against your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making your tummy clench with need. “I know you care, I just… you don’t understand how deep it runs and… I am being a dis-”

“You don't fucking deserve it, and you never did."

His words leave no room for argument, as he’s touching your cunt, wrecking your mind to the point you’re arching against him, whining out desperately. “Kuna…”

“Love when you call me that dumb nickname,” his teeth sink into your neck before he’s bending you over the arm of the couch with a firm push, leaving you breathless when he hovers over you with his heavy weight, his knuckles coated with the dried blood from your dad.

“That’s…”

“Sorry I didn't wash my hands yet,” he laughs and turns your face towards him, breaths mingling together.

His hands yank that big shirt you're wearing up over your ass, the curve of it making him groan. “Mnh…”

"I'm not sorry for what I did," your hands grip the pillow he’s got you pressed against, his body heavy as he presses you down, you hear his zipper sliding down, cunt already responding to it. "I'm not sorry I beat his face in. I'd do it again."

Sukuna’s pressing the wet, slicked head of his cock against your entrance, you’re arching back for more, earning his desperate groan, arms wrapping around your waist to drag you down. Your cunt is struggling to take his shape, eyes rolling back just feeling the stretch.

“I need to be inside you,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes dark as they study you. You’re soaking him, drool spilling from your cunt as he just presses, swiping it up and down, the wet noise echoing in your ringing ears. “Can you take me brat?”

“Mhm, but I m-mad,” he chuckles. “Not funny!”

“You’re just too fuckin’ cute,” Sukuna doesn't prepare you, doesn't wait, drives into you in one brutal, deep stroke that makes you scream out, him moan as you wrap him so goddamn tight. “Oh fuck… stretching her out, huh?”

You cry out, your fingers digging into the arms that wrap you now, face pressed down toward the couch cushions as he gives you just a moment and starts to move inside of you. Mean, possessive strokes that suck the breath from your lungs, tip dragging along your walls, stuffing you so full you can’t think.

“Deserved every fucking hit for touching you,” Sukuna’s voice is dark, his hand coming to rest on your head, entangling in the nape of your neck, lips moving across your jaw. “Deserved worse.”

“You can h-hit everyone who h- hiccup!” He’s fucking you too good, angling his cock so it ruins your snug little hole, still sore from last night – a sweet, addictive ache that rushes through you.

“I can, hah…” He’s gripping you with his bloodied hand, capturing your lips and slamming inside again, filling you until he’s bulging inside your tummy, the one still pressed on the arm – the pressure too much. “I will kill anyone who hurts you.”

You swallow, tears threatening to spill, unable to do anything other than arch back and whine out, eyes rolling back in your skull. Tears do spill, with drool, when he slips your hand down to your own clit. “Mnh, why do you care s-so much for me?”

He pauses, pulling out and lifting you in his arms, your hand falling off as you cling to him tightly. Sukuna’s guiding his cock back inside slower now, studying you with his eyes unreadable – if only you could know what he was thinking. Why he deems you so special that he’d do anything – do too much for you, but he’s pressing you right on the nearest wall, holding you there.

“You ask dumb questions, brat,” his words are soft, cock stuffing you full, his hands digging into the plush of your ass, dragging you down harder as your nails grip his shoulders. “I already told you, I won’t let someone hurt you.”

Your thighs press against his hips, his grip on you tightening until he leaves marks, eyes catching yours – his thrusts are slower now, easier on you, you’re so tight still you can feel the pop of the ridge on his cockhead, every raised vein down his shaft on your gummy walls.

“Feek s’fuckin’ perfect, made just f’me, huh? All me.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper drunkenly already, the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel, your voice trembling and shaky. “Please…”

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” his words are rough, but the way he caresses your face is delicate. “Fill you up with as much cum as you need, all of it.”

His lips capture yours, and suddenly none of it matters – your mom’s nasty calls, Satoru’s call, it all just fades as he fills you and fucks your thoughts away.

Addictive.

Sukuna is addictive.

*****

𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖚

Seeing you after your night out, littered with marks when you walk in with some brand new dress Satoru’s never seen, his heart sinks in his fucking chest. He knew what you did, that you gave Sukuna your virginity – the thing he told you he never wanted, but what a fucking lie it was.

Satoru wanted you the moment he fucking saw you at the engagement party, he just wanted to give you that freedom, and now you have it, you’re using it. If he didn’t care he’d be happy for you if anything – not feeling this sick jealousy creeping underneath his skin, mixed with the sheer desperation to get even the smallest hint of you.

Your lips underneath his? He didn’t care where they were, if they were sucking Sukuna off or not, didn’t care if your cunt was full of Sukuna’s cum and stretched out – he’d pump more inside you. It’s driving him insane, the need that’s been building, that increased from that night when he took you away from your parents, and now he just got that nasty fucking call.

Sukuna beating them up? He doesn’t blame him actually – he wanted to, but the problem was he knows now things will be worse for you. And yeah, Satoru fucking cares. Imagine him, caring for a human being? He didn’t know he was even capable of it, and here she is wobbling and all bruised from this fuck ass Sukuna.

“You look like you had fun,” he manages to say, you’re blushing as you shut the door. “Too much.”

“Yeah I need to go get fixed up,” you hesitate, pausing in front of him, opening your mouth as if to say anything, but then closing it. “So she’s not here?”

“No,” his answer is quiet, the clock ticking on the wall loud suddenly, the only sound aside from the whirring of the fan overhead and your breaths. “You know he beat your dad up.”

“I know,” your eyes close. “I told him not to.”

“So he didn’t listen?”

“Don’t act like you’d listen to me,” you scoff and shake your head. “No, he shouldn’t have done it, but… he did. And he was honest.”

“You think I didn't wanna beat the shit out of him?” You shake your head.

“No, I don’t think you did. Why would you?”

“Why? I watched… I heard…” Satoru turns, emotions hitting him hard. “Sukuna’s not the only person who gives a fuck.”

“Well that’s a very new development,” you sniffle just a bit, making him turn back to look at your glassy eyes and swollen lips trembling. “I don’t know what to believe from you, what’s jealousy, what’s a game. If you cared, how could you have acted like that, the day in the office?”

“I needed you to give up,” he laughs without humor, walking up to you and leaning low, a hand on the wall behind you. “You did give up, didn’t you?”

“Now you wish I what, held on longer? You don’t even know I’m sure – I wrote you a note in there. Bet you threw the lunch out.”

“I ate it,” you blink in clear confusion. “I read the note.”

“You read that, and said nothing?” Your tears stream down your cheeks, still marked from that hit, Satoru swipes at one gently, his huge hand cupping your face. “You probably laughed at it.”

“I didn’t laugh,” his voice is soft now, as he feels the regret from it all eat him alive. He never planned to care for you during this, he never planned to feel anything – he actively avoided it, but now all he can think of is that note. “You said you felt things when we kissed.”

“I did,” your lip trembles under his thumb. “You said you felt nothing.”

“I did say that,” he sighs now. “Was your cunt wet, your heart racing? Did you ache right here?”

His hand presses your tummy, heat seeping through, your chest rises and falls with your shallow breaths. “It doesn’t matter what I felt, does it? I was no different from Jennifer, Chloe, whoever you could find. In fact – you wanted them.”

“And you think I don’t want you?”

“I know it,” you press your hands to his chest, pausing for a moment. “I asked you if you cared a bit to let me be happy.”

“He’s psychotic.”

“So are you,” he laughs then, shaking his head.

“Yeah I guess so,” he eases back reluctantly, every nerve ending was screaming to lift you up, to kiss and fuck the thoughts of Sukuna away. “I’ll have the makeup artist cover your hickeys up too.”

“Yours are where you can’t see,” your hand slips to his abdomen, he sucks in a breath as you lift that shirt, revealing the purple bruises and touching them.

Satoru almost cums from a caress on a goddamn hickey.

His hand grips your wrist tightly as you look up at him under your lashes, not the shy unsure look, there’s just a little something different there already. “I have a few of these too.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” he slips your sleeve down, revealing a bite mark right on your shoulder. “I’d be mad he bruised every bit of your skin – but I’d do it too.”

“You wouldn’t, you don’t want to mark me,” he smirks, thumb brushing over the bite, making you tremble, goosebumps rising. “You’re just mad I fucked someone.”

“Yeah I’m mad, but oh sweetheart,” he leans down, lips hovering over the bite on your neck, your hands cling to his shirt, head tilting to the side. Satoru’s hand slips up your spine slowly, lips barely a breath away from your skin. “I’d mark you even worse than he did, your pretty tits would be covered, your waist, your hips. Every cute little slutty inch.”

You say nothing, whining softly, your dilated eyes fucking destroying him as he pulls back, leaving you blinking – it takes everything to do it, against every damn instinct he has. “Gojo…”

“Call me Satoru while we’re out tonight, yeah? Especially when the cameras are on us, they’re gonna ask hard questions about your boxer.” You nod and he drags himself away, shutting his eyes. “You smell like his cologne.”

“I’ll wash up…” You brush past him ever so slightly, Satoru’s hands clench into fists.

He wants to fucking kill Sukuna, but moreso he wants you to look at him the way he saw you looking at Sukuna yesterday, with that damn look in your eyes. Yet he doesn’t deserve that – he didn’t deserve anything from you, fuck he deserves to hear you get railed by him every night.

Just because he knows that doesn’t mean he stops craving it until it drives him insane, jerking it just hearing you in the shower later like a desperate freak. It’s what you make him.