bonononie

explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing

—

—

It’s morning when Jimin gets a call. 

Shifting in sheets that aren’t his, he sleepily blinks once before eyeing the blue light with a squint, wondering who dares wake him up before his natural rise. What time even is it anyway? It’s gotta be an ungodly hour if his circadian rhythm is disturbed. 

Still, he grabs his cell from the nightstand, flinching at the movement behind him and inwardly slinging out curses. 

Because waking him up is one thing. 

But if anyone disturbs Taehyung he’s gonna give them hell—

Min Yoongi: Incoming Call

Shit.

Jimin yanks the covers off, rushing out of bed and snapping Tae awake anyway. For what? Don’t fucking know, but they’re ready. Wherever. Whatever. They already stayed up clutching their phones until they physically couldn’t keep their eyes open. 

Because as much as Yoongi assured him nothing would happen, Jimin still couldn’t let go of his car keys.

Answering slow, he feels his chest winding and winding, eyes locked with Taehyung while they both wait on edge, “…Yoongi?”

“Yeah.”

Thank the fucking stars. 

Yoongi’s okay. He’s on the line. He made it to morning or whatever fucking time it is, and he’s doing exactly what he said he would.

And it’s enough, enough, enough.

Burns zing up the corners of Jimin’s eyes, and he swipes hard as Taehyung moves, likely to hear what’s happening and even more likely to just be by his side. 

Jimin is grateful for either one. But he tries to keep composure as he croaks, “You better have woken me up for a reason.”

The slight hum on the line induces a wobbly smile. “You slept?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin shakily laughs, wiping liquid relief from an eye before Taehyung’s thumb brushes tenderly over the other. His gaze is thankful while continuing, “We did but not much.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sniffling, Jimin walks to Tae’s door, letting him into the hallway first and finally drinking in the sight of his ass in those sweats. Because he can finally function like a normal, smitten loser again. “We’ll come over so we can—”

“No need.”

“What?” Nope. Back to panic mode. And judging from his boyfriend’s posture, Taehyung has backpedaled into that, too. “What do you mean no need?”

There’s a slight pause on the line, and small noises make their way through the speaker. It sounds like bedsheets, but it also sounds like… 

“She’s still sleeping.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

A tidal wave of relief crashes into Jimin’s ducts as he hangs his head, palming his face caught in a heavy tide of emotion. When he turns, Taehyung fairs no better, his eyes red and fingers wiping at a perfect, perfect cheek. One of them sniffles, but Jimin can’t tell if it’s him or not, because his vision is blurry and his heart is beating, beating, beating again. 

Whether you know it or not, whatever you did last night may have just changed Yoongi’s entire life.

Because Jimin knows this man through and through. Years of picking up his habits and tells didn’t amount to nothing. It’s how he was able to sense exactly when to intervene, and how he knew exactly what that hauntingly hollow tone in Yoongi’s voice meant when he busted in that day. 

The tone he hears now? The man that just spoke on the line? 

That is a Min Yoongi so in love he can’t even hide it over the phone. 

Fuck. 

Gathering himself, Jimin squeaks out, “I… I’m glad you…” What the fuck does he say? Every thought jams in his throat so hard he has to hand the phone off.

Thankfully, Taehyung perfectly continues his thoughts, voice scratching rocks under a waking river, “We’re glad you’re both safe.”

“Mm.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

Jimin huffs through a fresh batch of tears, clearing his face before grinning at Tae very seriously awaiting an answer. Honestly, at this point? It’s not far-fetched. Jimin’s seeing your future clearer than his present, and maybe he will be a fun uncle sooner than he thinks.

If only Yoongi would just get the fucking talk with your brother over with. 

But Jimin understands the hesitation. If he were in that same position, there’s no telling when he would be courageous enough to stand up to the guy. There’s a reason he’s quick to command a room, and his lifelong mission to protect his younger sister made him grow up a lot faster than everyone else. 

Still… Yoongi just deserves to be happy. And you’re the very obvious answer to helping with that. 

As much as he may have wanted some chances of his own, Jimin is grateful you found your way into his best friend’s heart. Not just anyone is invited inside, and even less people can truly be allowed to stay. 

And you’re probably the only one that has permanent residence. 

“You guys should get some sleep.”

Taehyung pouts right on cue, and Jimin can’t fight those sleepy, droopy eyes. “You didn’t answer me.”

Cute as fuck! He must be stopped. Taking the phone, Jimin speaks into the line fully recovered, shooting his cheeky partner a teasing glare, “We will if you get some, too.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Got some things to do at the studio—”

“No!” They reject together, both equally as appalled because what the fuck kinda answer is that? 

“After what happened last night? Are you crazy?”

“What happened to spending time with her? Men!” 

“He’s going on a business trip, I can’t lose to him.”

“So what?” Tae asks before they both share an even further confused look. Yoongi may be a lovesick fool but that doesn’t give him an excuse to be a dumbass! “You’re just gonna leave her alone?”

There’s a sigh on the line before Jimin plants a hand on his hip. “Not just that. You gotta rest, too, bro. If she doesn’t tell you to take it easy or at least get checked—which she will—we’re going over there to annoy you.” 

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.” Jimin cocks his head and leans closer to the phone. “At least rest easy for the next couple days. Especially if you have all this time to see each other.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your brother is leaving for his trip and Yoongi caught some unfortunate hits to his ribs. The dude basically has a free pass to spend the whole week with you, and he’s not even taking full advantage of it? Oh, the things Jimin has to say about the thin line of work ethic and relationship effort. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it for a long time,” Taehyung cuts in before Jimin can pop off, walking away into the living room. 

It’s fine. Let him figure out that you aren’t a woman he can just leave. Frankly? That would tickle Jimin to no end to see Yoongi folding his plans so fast just to be with you. 

But he spares him the tirade only because you’re fast asleep right next to him. “Thank you for calling, man.”

“Said I would.”

“I know.” 

Because above all else, Jimin is happy to hear that voice. Even if it’s obvious he’s a little banged up from last night, it’s still Yoongi. In one piece. That’s all Jimin wanted, and he can’t thank you enough,

“Don’t overwork yourself, and stay with her as long as you can.”

There’s a small laugh on the other end. “I plan on it, Chim.”

And Jimin catches on to why. “I’m holding you to that then.” 

—

—

Dawn breaks through open blinds, stretching its orange tint across a clean, spotless table. 

You don’t know what got you up so early. But when you peer into the kitchen, you tell yourself you woke up right on time. 

Because seeing Yoongi when you’re wide awake is better than any dream you’ll ever have.

Not because of his appearance, even though the sight of him sends a pang through your chest. No. It’s the way he’s quietly prepping a morning meal, using the arm on his better side that’s not sporting a nasty hit to the ribs, without you even asking. 

Bits of sunlight dance right out of your eyes.

The effort. The consideration. This man shouldn’t be lifting a finger, yet here he is cooking before you even left his bed. Isn’t this the same man that got caught up in a fight hours ago? Isn’t this the same man you almost walked out on with a frozen heart? 

Yes. But he’s also the same man that loves you. And you still can’t grasp that concept in any of the fingers playing with his tee you borrowed.

“Hi,” you whisper, telling him a thousand things. 

To which he regards before smiling soft, voice travelling over linoleum and circling around your heart, “Morning, doll.”

Damn. You hear it. Yoongi’s sore as hell. 

But instead of getting into that right away, you silently take residence by his side. Because this moment feels too delicate, and you admire his willingness to take care of you unprompted. You didn’t even know you’d eat before going back home. 

With a hand warming his back, you wait until Yoongi’s done tossing food on the stove to peck his morning-chilled cheek. “Thank you for cooking,” you murmur, admiring those beautiful brown eyes. “Sleep okay?”

“Cus of you,” your lover softly responds, eyeing your lips before gliding back up to your gaze. “You?”

Ugh. He’s gotta know those glasses are so unfair. They’ve gotten you repeatedly before, and they’re certainly getting you now. 

But you can’t help but deflate at the cuts behind those rims, while knowing there are even more bruises hiding underneath his oversized tee. How is Yoongi cooking right now? How is he even awake? “Same.” 

“Good.” 

These instant, deep shivers at his deeper morning voice will never, ever go away. But anything you wanna do about them isn’t important right now. Right now, you need to make sure Yoongi is either okay, or finds a way to get better. 

Sliding your hands down the slopes of his chest, you delicately rest one on his ribs. “Does it still hurt?” 

Yikes. That wince is enough. But Yoongi doesn’t shy away from your touch, and you appreciate the way he stays honest. “It’s sore. But I should be good.”

“You gonna get it checked?”

There’s a slight upward tilt of his lips. “Not right now.” At least the honesty persists, as much as you don’t want him following the typical manly response to hospital visits. “But I will if you want me to.”

“Please go,” you gently urge, lest you disturb the soft morning dew before it melts with the sunrise. “For me?”

Only sizzles from the stove fill the space until Yoongi nods, and his voice is just as low and tender, “I’ll go after work.”

Oh. “You’re working today?”

Just like breakfast, you didn’t expect this, either. Frankly, you figured neither of you were gonna even think about work, much less go. Sure, he’s due a hospital visit and you owe some friends immediate explanations for your absence. But other than that, shouldn’t Yoongi be resting? 

Does his craft truly mean that much? 

Well, shit. You gotta respect his work ethic, that’s for damn sure. Because you would sequester yourself to your bedroom and have endless dates with your television if you were sporting a good jab or two. This music thing must mean more to Yoongi than you previously thought. And who are you to step on that dream? 

Suddenly, all thoughts and concerns flee from the kiss on your cheek. 

“I’ll stay if you stay,” he says, turning to move the pan and scrunching his face with a grunt. Fuck. 

“I…” Shit, you were gonna go back to the house anyway. And from Yoongi’s smartass smirk, you can tell he already knew that. “Just need to check on him, too. And he doesn’t have a car right now, so. I should at least give him a ride.” 

“Figured.” In a move so domestic your head spins, Yoongi turns your body and gently pats your butt. “Now go sit. Let’s eat and figure this out.” 

—

—

As you devour a flawless meal and clean your dishes, you plan out the day. You’ll head home and check on your brother while Yoongi heads to the studio, and then you’ll rendezvous with your friends to hang out until he’s done with work. They’re already lighting up your phone like no one’s business—especially Yuri. 

Yoongi flicks the sink off before you both head to his bedroom, and you melt at the way he slowly wraps his arms around your front halfway there, all four of your legs slowing to close the rest of the distance. 

What’s he doing? This is joyfully new, but you have a pretty tight deadline. Warming his forearm and your own cheeks, you chuckle out, “We have to hustle, old man.” 

“You hustle me all the time,” he accuses into your shoulder blade, kissing its ridge and making you reconsider walking out the door entirely. “Lemme have this.” 

Your second laugh is more subdued, and you’re right between his bed and desk when you lift both hands to hold him close. “You have everything I got,” you wisp into his skin, planting your lips once, twice before you feel his arms press further in. “So this is nothing.” 

Seconds and silence slide by, the delicate veil of early morning still hovering around the room. When Yoongi doesn’t say anything, you make to turn and face him. 

But you’re stopped before your heart skips. 

“I could stay like this all day,” he admits, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “And it’d be perfect.” 

“What, you don’t wanna see my face?” You joke with a giggle. “Rude, but that’s fine.” 

Yoongi only buries his nose further, his glasses sliding against your skin peeking from his shirt. “I’m much braver right here, doll.” 

Oh. 

The leap your heart does is more of a dive, plummeting into the seafoam swirling around your feet. All the words you want to respond with jump off right after, leaving you with nothing but the clouds in your eyes. 

You don’t quite know what he means by that. But it feels like those six words hold the weight of a thousand, so you simply let another kiss on his smooth forearm linger. “Do you want me to go with you?” 

A puff of laughter warms you right through and, despite his earlier admission, Yoongi does slowly spin you around. 

And when you follow, you realize you’re much braver when you aren’t facing him, too. 

“It’s not that, babe,” he says through a dashing curve. “But the offer was cute.” 

“I take it back then.” 

“Damn!” 

Both of your laughs whoosh out and collide, sweeping as Yoongi pinches your side and you flinch towards the bed. “You fucker—!”

Before you know it, your back hits a comforter before a weight presses your stomach, emotions clashing as you’re elated and shy and immediately concerned for your boyfriend’s side. “Baby, be careful—”

Lips capture yours, sucking up your warning before a hand slides under your head. Sighing, you arch into his chest, feeling the weight of his chains slip across your breasts. 

Euphoria isn’t an adequate enough word to describe how you feel. Where there used to be flutters in your ribcage now reside strong, powerful wing beats, gusts of want and desire lifting you off the ground and launching you into clear skies. Starlight of every color exists within each kiss you share, and your fingers feebly grab his tee to keep you from falling back down to earth. 

“If we don’t go now,” Yoongi rasps before sliding his mouth against yours, “We’re never going anywhere again.” 

“I know,” you whisper, willingly letting him kiss you once more, “Is that a promise?” 

“Fuck, I wish.” 

You do, too. But you know you’re running out of time for what you need to do. And weren’t you just saying you had to respect his aspirations? Shit, you really do need to snap out of it. “Come on,” you order with a pat to his chest. “We have all week to do this. We got time.” 

Turns out, you’re still amongst the heavens. The way Yoongi’s looking at you? This is the closest you’ll ever get to being held by an angel. 

Did he get more handsome overnight? Or is it the light in his eyes sustained since his confession in the kitchen? You don’t quite know, and you may never pinpoint why, but the tug he has on your heart spans space and time. 

And you’ll run through both forever to keep meeting him again and again. 

Burns prick your eyes, but he mercifully stands before he can catch any evidence of your yearning. 

Just like that, the two of you bounce back to getting ready, with him sliding notebooks and headphones in a backpack while you change into your own clothes. As you sling your bag over a shoulder, he reaches for the closest hoodie, and you wordlessly make your way to the front door. 

You really do hope he gets looked at today. But just like the calm after a storm, you want to encourage him gently rather than shove him out. At least he seems receptive to your gentle suggestions.

But after you ask one more time and he simply nods, you lower your eyes to his kicks. “Sorry if I’m nagging. I’d just worry less if you went right away, that’s all.”

“You aren’t nagging, babe.” Your freshly bloomed lover reaches out to hold your wrist, smoothing a rough thumb over your skin. Fucking hell, you can’t help but frown at the gashes and cuts marring his knuckles. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Not just his hands, but his face. His ribs. And maybe other places you haven’t even seen yet. 

You don’t wanna leave his side. 

But you have to head out before your brother leaves. Things need to get patched up before he flies out into more stress, and you owe him an apology for walking out when he was still aching. Based on Yoongi’s physical state? Your brother could be hiding some big wounds and you didn’t even wanna talk to him. 

However. Was last night necessary? Absolutely. You cannot entertain the possible outcomes had you not tried hard enough to get through Yoongi’s door. His eyes were so dulled, his hands felt so cold. What would have happened if you didn’t force yourself inside? 

Why was that guitar smashed to pieces? 

This is also why you refuse to leave. So many questions, so many things you still don’t know. Like what all happened when you were separated? And how in the hell is this man in love with you?

“I don’t wanna go,” you confess, instantly encased in his arms and warmth. “I’d much rather keep kissing you.” 

“True,” he says with a resigned huff, shifting his glasses with an adorable nose scrunch. If only he didn’t have so many little red lines of conflict on his face. “But we both have stuff to take care of, so let’s get all that done first.”

“Ugh, fine.” Your groan is more teasing than serious, and Yoongi’s laugh is nothing but understanding. 

Damn. You still feel it. You really don’t wanna go. Be it the rawness of last night still on your skin, or the confessions still on your tongues, you just wanna stay by his side. “Sorry,” you breathe out, lacing your fingers to pepper love along his strong, reddened ridges. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna leave you right now.”

Walking out of Yoongi’s door just doesn’t feel right. Even if he’s right there and will be following you out. Is this feeling normal? Are you supposed to feel this tightly woven to someone? Because the stitching between your hearts has only gotten stronger in the tempest of last night, as if you bonded together just to hold on for dear life. 

Maybe that’s exactly what happened. And it’s exactly why you can barely take one step out of his place. 

“Then don’t.”

Not one second passes before your chin is held, and lips slide so tenderly across yours that they may as well melt into your touch. Your reaction is quickly swooped into his mouth, and everything falls away as you let him seize your every thought. Lightning from last night zips out of your limbs, your toes, your fingers clasping his loose tee. 

You might just cry where you stand.

How have his kisses gotten even better? How have you never felt this way even though you’ve done this far more times than you were ever supposed to? It should be impossible, and yet, this man finds even more ways to astound you. 

Yoongi slips a hand over your cheek, giving one more beautiful push of his lips as he confesses, “I don’t wanna leave you, either.” 

And your breath stutters onto his features. “You, too?”

Slow, he kisses your cheek, the clear rim of his specs skimming your nose. When he draws back, you look right into his eyes, wondering why he’s watching your mouth instead. 

“Me, too.” Yoongi kisses your other side with a quiet peck. “Fuck, me, too.” 

You fucking hate what you have to do, but you don’t have a choice. 

With one last lingering kiss, you both gather enough courage to set out and do what you must. 

—

—

Your house is already a flurry of activity as you enter to see your brother in the kitchen, packing his leather duffle that’s a constant companion on his trips. 

Of course. The memory of him purchasing the lavish accessory pops into your head every time you watch him scurry around, dimples ever present on his proud cheeks. It’s almost enough to make you smile yet again. 

But you can’t when the same face is currently scratched to hell. Just like Yoongi’s, if not worse. 

Fuck, is he really gonna travel looking like that? 

“Hey,” he rasps out, still fighting off slumber. “You’re back earlier than I thought.” 

“Wanted to check on you before we left.” Fuck, your voice sounds like it’s being forced through a clogged pipe. Loosen the hell up! “And dude. Put some bandaids on, yeah?” 

“Yeah, just give me a sec. Making sure I have everything before my ride gets here.” 

“Huh?” He got a ride? You’re here now so you can take him to the airport. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you?” 

“Yeah, it’s all good. I didn’t know you were coming back.” 

Shit. His body seems just as angular as it did last night. Which, quite frankly, could still be from what went down in the lot. 

Because even though you see both men banged up, you suddenly realize you don’t actually know what all transpired. 

After all, there wasn’t much talk of it after you walked into the tempest of Yoongi’s living room.

Of course, you aren’t gonna bring it up just this second. There are other things to ask about and make sure of first. “Wallet? Phone? Passport?” 

“Yup, yup, uhh.. Yup.” 

Zippers sling in the quiet morning air as you continue, “And you’re coming back on Friday, right?”

“Oh.. Nah.” When you start crossing the kitchen, your brother hauls his leather bag over his better shoulder. Honestly, no one would be able to tell the other one’s bruised with his suit on. That thing damn well covers everything except the cuts on his face and hands. “Saturday.” 

You pause in your journey to the medicine cabinet. “Wait.. Saturday? The release party’s on Friday.”

“Yeah.. I know.”

What the fuck? That’s bullshit they’re keeping him longer than they have to. Struggling to understand how corporate can keep your brother on a leash and get away with it, you urge, “Tell them to at least let you go home a day early. Don’t you wanna support your friends?”

“You mean Yoongi?”

A zing of terror zips through your eyes, freezing every vein in an instant. 

The fuck was that question? Never mind. Stay calm stay calm stay fucking calm. “Uhh, yeah, he’s one of them? But the other guys, too, right? I know you care about them and this is huge.”

Mercifully, your sibling just shakes his head and waves you off. “Don’t you think I already tried? I don’t wanna miss it but I don’t have a choice. Conference schedule is pretty tight and I’m heading the panel on Friday.”

“Is it in the morning? You can fly out after—”

“Why are you fighting so hard?”

“Why aren’t you fighting harder!”

Okay, what in the hell is happening right now? Screw optics and how this must look for you, your brother needs to be there. Him and Yoongi are the tightest of friends, the most ride or die duo you’ve ever seen. You can’t picture a timeline where he misses this monumental moment, and it’s starting to really upset you that he’s barely trying. 

“You think I’m not fighting for it?”

“I certainly don’t think you’re trying enough—”

“Alright, you know what?” Hard steps surge forward as you stand rigid, a duffle hastily dumped onto tile. “You don’t know what I’ve tried. You don’t even know if I even told him yet.”

Fucking shit. You hold his stare before turning away, tossing out the idea of bandages entirely and searing footsteps into the hallway—

“Or do you.”

Before icing over with the unforgiving frost of zero gravity space. 

Slow, you turn, not quite facing him but not backing down, either. “…Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You talkin’? What else has he been doing to you?”

Oh. Fuck that. 

Doing to you? 

Fuck all of this. This is too much to handle right now and you know you’re gonna snap if he keeps pushing because you are not having this conversation right before he leaves. You’ve already thought about this before, right? You cannot fuck with his head right before business trips because he needs to be on and locked in. 

But now he’s fucking with your temper and those are some choice fucking words pulled out of his ass. 

You don’t think you’ve ever legitimately threatened this man to his face and meant it before, and it tears a sharp corner of your heart, “You better be very careful. With whatever you wanna say next.”

The air proves too thick to slice. While your body stands aflame, your brother is iced over, brimming with an energy that damn near takes physical form. “All I’m saying is? I find out some fucking bullshit is going on—”

No no no, not now.

Reacting fast is your only instinct, brain haywire and fizzling fizzling boiling. Harsh, you spin on your heel and shout the first thing you can think of, “Oh, come on—”

“You better hope to god you’re ready for what’s coming—”

“Stop!” Fuck fuck fuck, this is so frustrating because your head is exploding and your body is screaming to just tell him already. Fuck the consequences at this point this is ludicrous. 

Doing to you? Yoongi? How dare he speak about his best friend like that how dare he accuse him without outright saying the words all you have to do is tell your brother how wrong he’s got it. 

But you can’t be the one. Yoongi said he would, and he probably took months to get to that point of strength—and healing, from what you can tell. 

This is between them. Them. You have to honor that, as much as you wanna just confess everything now and deal with it yourself. 

But goddamn your brother is pulsing with anger and it’s leaking into your own charged air. 

What does he think is happening? Does he think Yoongi’s just, what, playing you? He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. Yoongi’s been nothing but the best thing that’s ever happened to you and shit your heart hurts because…

Your brother is valid in thinking that. 

How foolish. Didn’t you guard your heart from Yoongi for the longest? Didn’t everything start because you figured you knew who he was because of his reputation? You got him all wrong, too. So how can you be mad at your brother for doing the same? 

Fuck, think. Just think before someone gets hurt. 

Because if you aren’t careful, someone—or multiple someones—will get hurt in seconds. You have to bear the pain alone right now. To protect them both, you have to keep your trembling mouth shut. 

And? You have to admit that something isn’t fair here. Not to you, not to Yoongi, but to him. Last night was rough as fuck but, while you both got to have raw, beautiful closure, the one standing in front of you had to go to sleep in an empty house. 

So chill the fuck out. 

Breathing to cool down, you tense and loosen, tense and loosen. “I get it. You’re angry, and you have a lot going on. But,” you bite down on your lip to keep going. “We’re talking about something else. We’re talking about you, and I’m still pissed you even let those guys goad you into a fight. What are we, twelve?”

Seething, your sibling takes the switch of pace. But it is not what you want to hear. “Are you seri—? What the hell was I supposed to do? That son of a bitch grabbed you—”

“I know,” you recoil. “Don’t tell me like you were there, because you weren’t.”

Finally—finally—those angry lines in his face vanish. 

But they make way for something much worse than anger. Because your older brother, someone that’s been there for you your whole life.. 

Looks absolutely stricken over the one time he wasn’t. 

Damn it. 

Regretful, you drop your shoulders in exhaustion and quiet compromise. When you continue, your voice is much softer, “But I told you: they were. Your friends, they were there because they knew you wanted that. Jimin got me away, Yoongi took me home and stayed.” 

You really have got to stop saying his name like you love him. It could start becoming too obvious. 

Shuddering, you shift your weight, folding your arms and shrinking into yourself. 

That night, despite Yoongi’s best and most gentle efforts, still clings to where that loser touched you at Dalo. You hate that you haven’t gotten over it, and you loathe the way you still rub over the same spot. Over, and over. “What did you want him to do? Leave me here?”

“No.” 

“Exactly. And he didn’t.” You adjust your stance again, making an impromptu gamble as you decide to let some truth leak out. Because your brother is owed at least this much. “And fine, you wanna know something? We do talk more because of it.”

Your brother’s head snaps up, and you brace. Because if you show any shred of weakness or hesitation, he’ll see right through your weak attempt to hide most of the truth, 

“But don’t ever accuse him of doing anything to me. That was fucked up to say and you know it.”

“Fuck.” In agreement, he rubs his hair back. “It was. I’m sorry.” 

“Trust me,” you swallow, hating that this is how things have to be for now. “You have nothing to worry about. He’s never.. Never done anything to me, anyway.” 

It’s not a lie. Everything he’s done has been with you. For you. Because of you. 

But your heart’s in anguish as it sinks. Because that expression on your older sibling’s face can only be one thing.  

Pure. Utter. Relief.

Fire singes your eyes before you can quell the flame. It’s the hardest technical truth to swallow. 

Sure, he doesn’t have anything to worry about as far as you being safe. And on top of that, he doesn’t have to worry about any fake shit because Yoongi confessed to you last night.

But as far as his best friend sleeping with and now dating his sister behind his back? That is still very much sitting right in the center of the table. 

And now you’re starting to see just how fucked all three of you are as soon as you sit down to eat the truth. 

But Yoongi said he’d be the one to tell, so he will. 

This feeling is so fucking miserable, though. 

In the end, your brother is effectively convinced, raking a hand across his head and sighing. “Jimin told me what all went down at Dalo, I just… Last night was… Fucked up.” 

“Well, yeah.”

“No. See, this is just like what you said to me. You can’t say it like you were there.”

It’s your stomach’s turn to twist. “So? You were scratched and bruised to hell, and Y…” Shut up, shut up. You’re not supposed to know about the state of anyone else. “And you were… quieter.”

“Because of what happened, dude.”

You blink. “What… What happened?”

Your brother looks at you—really looks at you. 

And suddenly, your gut flares in terror, storming in an instant across your abdomen. 

“That bitch pulled something on us.”

Your heart. 

It’s in freefall.

“Wait… What?” You can’t even form more than one syllable at a time, your legs turning gelatinous and knees starting to give out. “No… What are you…?”

What the fuck did he just say? That bitch pulled a what? 

Your sibling slowly walks toward you once again, watching like he’s just waiting for you to say anything. Do anything. 

But you’re a complete statue because all you can think about is the horror of something happening and the relief that nothing happened all at once. 

Was Yoongi too scared to mention that part? Is this why he was holding back and shaking every time he reached out to touch you? Even this morning, he was so… 

You’ve never seen him like that. Is this why? 

Your mind is swirling and crashing, overlapping each passing thought and scream running through your head. “I’m so sorry,” you hitch out, “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t wanna scare you,” he sighs out. Putting both hands on his hips, your brother stops feet away, visibly still shook as he pierces wooden planks with his stare. “But he pulled it right before Yoongi… and if it weren’t…Fuck.” 

Burns flare and slice through your eyes when he has to pause. What is he trying to say? Pulled what? 

Before Yoongi what? 

Your brother continues, and your throat tightens. “If it weren’t for some random ass sirens, I… Things could’ve been so different.” 

What the fuck is happening. What the hell are you hearing? 

“It was probably dumb as fuck. But I was so fucking angry,” he grits out, watery eyes crushed looking your way. “So fucking mad at how he was talking about you, I.. Walked right up to him and told him to fuck off.”

You can’t even breathe. 

“I still feel it,” he quietly adds, fingers pressed against his side. “Right here.” 

“Fuck,” you finally choke out, eyes on fucking fire. 

“But all I knew was to keep you all safe,” he says, with hardened resolve and a wobbly chin. “And that’s exactly what I did. I did that shit, even if that meant—” 

Tears fling out of your eyes, flowing hot down your cheeks because you wouldn’t want any of them to go out that way. Nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened and yet your body is acting as if something did and it hurts. 

Your brother is there as soon as you crumple forward, letting you bury your head in his chest and sob your heart out. For him, for his friends, and for all the time you had with the man you love so, so dearly. 

If anything happened to your brother before you came clean… If anything happened before you and Yoongi could even… 

Suddenly, you feel equal weights of guilt. For running out on your brother. And for almost walking out on Yoongi. 

You decide an apology is in order for both of them, and all the understanding in the world for Yoongi’s frosted demeanor as soon as you get him alone again.

And you are one hundred percent going to tell your brother everything once he’s back. 

The tears cannot stop, and you’re sure you are crying unimpeded in a pressed and primmed suit. “I’m so sorry,” you keep repenting like a prayer. “This is all my fault.”

“No—”

“You almost—”

“Hey, stop.” He yanks you back, both of your faces soaked with saltwater. “What did I say before? I threw the first swing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But it led to all this, I just.. I just feel so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t. Hey, look at me.” Firm but gentle, he holds you at arm’s length, forcing you to face him. “Maybe we’re both stupid, but you weren’t the idiot. I was.” 

You feel so many conflicting things in your soul. 

What would you have done if Yoongi was in critical condition? What would you have done differently if your brother was instead? Are they the same? Are the two situations really so different anymore? 

No they aren’t they aren’t they aren’t. 

“Please don’t do that again,” you shake out. “Even if it was for me, if I ever lost you, I...” 

“You know I can’t promise anything.” He furrows his brows when you eye him with anger and sadness. “But nothing like that is happening again. Especially with the same dudes.” 

“Okay.” 

A vicious tornado of emotions sends your whole body into agonizing pain. This isn’t what you expected at all, and it’s causing your limbs to lock at the bends. Too many scenarios are jangling about yet you can’t ask for specifics because that will just make it even more real. 

A nightmare is somehow better once you know it ends with you waking up. “I’m… gonna need some time to process everything.”

“I know. And I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but… You deserve to know the things I get into.” 

Ah. 

The irony is not lost on you. 

“At least, if they involve you. We learned our lesson. You were right to tell us off.”

God. You feel numb. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, suddenly immensely tired. “I think I need more sleep.”

A blaring honk sounds outside the house, and you both flinch at the noise. 

And your throat burns at the way your brother instinctively swept you behind his back. 

When you realize what it is, you know what has to come next. 

And he’s the first to react as he turns to face you again, “Alright. I’m heading out, just remember to go get my baby when she’s fixed, yeah?”

“Do you have to go?”

Wait.

The question seems to startle him as much as it does you. 

How did you blurt it right out before even registering the words? Why does your heart clench at the sight of those eyes looking so pained? 

Why does everything feel so shaky within these walls that were always your home?

“I do,” he says, voice tight. “I’m sorry.” 

And why the fuck do you feel sad he’s leaving?

“No, no, it’s.. Of course you have to.” You can’t help the lump in your throat from bobbing, the regret in your limbs as they barely move at your side. “I dunno why I asked, I guess I just..” 

There’s no response to your sniffle. 

“Sorry for yelling,” you squeak out. “I just feel really queasy.”

For a lot more reasons than one.

“We all made it out,” your brother whispers. “That’s what matters.”

“Will you… Will you at least try to be back for the party?”

The man swallows with his brows knit tight, then attempts to crack the tiniest smile. “You know I will. That’s my guy.” 

“Okay.” You nod, sniffling again. After what he just told you? You know he’ll do anything for the ones he loves. “See you there.”

Your brother rubs a comforting palm over your head before turning, heading for the door and grabbing his leather duffle. 

When he stops to glance at you one more time, you give a little wave of your hand before watching the door click shut. 

Chest caving as you collapse to the ground in tears. 

—

—

The need to call Yoongi burns so harshly your fingers damn near set your top aflame.

But he’s at work, and you can’t fuck things up right when you’re approaching the finish line. You almost did with your brother, and that gave you twelve heart attacks in the span of minutes. 

Still. Your chest aches so much that a thirteenth could very well be approaching. You don’t even realize you’re bracing the hallway wall for support until you try to stand, back sore and aching from bending so far for so long. 

What did your brother mean to say about Yoongi? What did that coward pull on them? Do you even want to know what happened? 

Fighting back tears, you reach down for your phone, shakily typing out a message only to erase it. Then again. And again. 

And again. 

Giving up, you forcefully swallow all your worries, cringing at the bitterness of the unknown and the burnt molasses of hidden truths. 

It’s going to be okay. No matter what you think or imagine in your head, they made it out, they made it out, they are all alive. 

That’s the only reason you can move forward, each step getting you from your room. To your bathroom. 

And back again. 

—

—

After showering, you feel lighter and refreshed, though the soreness between your legs has yet to leave. 

But you wouldn’t want it any other way, as it’s another reminder of Yoongi’s apparent brush with survival. His broken living room spurned the creation of your bond, your devotion to him as he confessed before you gave him your utmost trust in his sheets. 

The end is so close. As soon as this week is over, you’ll rip the last bit of peel from your pair of tangerines, baring all truths to your brother and facing the consequences. 

Finally ready, you head to your car, opening your text threads with a plan: start slow. 

Start with something that can be interpreted neutrally if anyone saw it on his phone screen, especially if your headstrong ex is in the room. 

You [12:31pm]: how are you feeling?

Yoongi [12:34pm]: 1 Attachment 

You close your door with brows furrowed. 

Yoongi’s at the hospital? 

That’s not what you expected at all. 

Your chest swells with relief knowing he’s there, but you also wanna make sure he’s feeling okay. Especially his mental state after whatever the fuck your brother just dropped on you before leaving. 

Goddamn, that’s going to gnaw at your brain until you find the right time and right amount of courage to ask about it. Because it’s very possible Yoongi won’t tell you. 

Because it’s probably something he knows you won’t like. 

Fuck. 

You [12:34pm]: Loved an Attachment

You [12:34pm]: thank you for listening🤍 still sore?

Yoongi [12:35pm]: Yeah, but not bad. Just there.

Wait. He’s not at the studio. That means you can—

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you slowly say as you pull out into the street. “I’m driving now so this is easier.”

“Course. You going to Tae’s?”

“Maybe. I’m going to Yuri’s first.” You swallow, realizing that you didn’t tell him about what you let slip before driving over. “I.. Told her. About you.”

There’s a little bit of silence on the line, just some adjustments and muffled speaker sounds. “Sorry, just writing this down. What’s wrong with that?”

You huff through your nose. Gotta be those patient forms that always take forever to fill out. “Oh. Just more and more people knowing, is all.” 

“Everyone’s gonna know eventually.” 

You hold back a small smile. Because he’s right. “Yeah. I’m just tired of this feeling.”

“Like you’re hiding something.”

It’s your turn for silence. He doesn’t know how accurately that was played out today. The only answer you can provide is a curt, “Exactly.”

“Same.”

Wings beat around your heart again. 

He wants this. Yoongi really, really wants this. And years ago, that outcome wouldn’t have even crossed your mind as an option. 

“Thank you for going, baby.”

“The guys made me.”

You hum. “Which ones.”

After a pause, you hear a puff of amusement. “All of them at some point today, actually.” 

All of them? Does that include your brother? Did they talk about the trip already?

Your laugh is bittersweet. “Well. Glad to know you can be forced by everyone else except me.”

“Hey, I was already gonna go because of you!” Yoongi quietly retorts, and you giggle at the pout in his words. “Just wanted to get a headstart on work first.”

You were right. He really does wanna go all out for his musical endeavors. 

It’s extremely admirable, and wildly attractive, but it does come to a point. “As much as I love your passion, old man, I wanna keep you upright.”

He laughs soft into the line, and you think you can listen to that specific sound on an infinite loop. “That’s fair.” 

“How long is it gonna take, you think?”

“Dunno. But I’ll keep myself busy until I’m out.”

Of course he will. You don’t doubt he won’t waste any time. Didn’t he bring journals in his backpack? You wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote ten thousand songs before being called in. “Just call me if you need anything, please?”

“Of course, babe.”

“Thank you,” you say with utmost sincerity. “If only my brother would be less stubborn and get checked, too.”

“He’ll probably do it once he gets there.”

“Did you convince him?”

“Nah. But once he knows I did, he’ll do it.”

“Figures.” You scoff. “Okay, I’m almost there. Let me know how it goes.”

“K. Bye, doll.”

You didn’t ask him what went down. But it’s not the time nor place, and you have plenty of chances this week to figure out when that would be—if at all. 

“Talk soon.” 

—

—

For a normally bustling household, Yuri’s house is quiet. 

So it’s not shocking when you walk into the kitchen and see all your friends glance your way, slowly vacating their chairs with eyes never leaving your face. Even Reia is on high alert. 

Did Yuri tell her? Did Yuri tell anyone else? 

No. She’s a talker and loves spilling, but she promised. And when she promises something, you know you can trust her to keep it. 

It’s what pours emotion in your voice as you meekly greet, “Hey, guys—”

A crushing hug closes your throat. Yuri’s the one that gets to you first, with Reia and Dominique waiting their turns to offer you healing, relieved embraces. 

“What happened?” 

“Scared us half to death.”

Dom puts you at arm’s length to give a once over, noting your face rubbed raw and eyes still a little bloodshot. Thankfully, her pupils hold more concern than disappointment. “You good?”

Your eyes wobble alongside your smile, and you think it’s enough proof. “More than that,” you still decide to whisper, and your heart beats again at her reaction. 

“Thank god. I was ready to kick your ass if you weren’t.”

Heading up to Yuri’s room, you all wait until the door is swung back before mounting her canopy bed, sitting in a tight circle as you divulge everything. 

Well. Almost everything. 

You tell them that Yoongi is the one you’ve been seeing, how you went to check on him last night in a panic, and the terrifying reason why. When you mention the fight after the basketball game, all three of your friends erupt in questions, and you have to assure them everything turned out okay. Honestly, you also do this to assure yourself, too. 

“So… Your brother’s just fine with all of this?” Reia asks, not noticing the tick of Dom’s jaw. 

“Well,” you start with a higher pitch, earning a pair of groans. “He doesn’t exactly know yet—”

“Yup. He’s gonna murder him.”

“Yeah, should we say our condolences now or..”

“How long has this been going on?” Reia fires off another question that digs into your chest. “Was he the one you were seeing the whole time?”

“Yes,” you admit with a sigh. “I should’ve told you guys from the beginning, but. The whole thing just felt so delicate. But! We just started making things official recently, so..” 

Dom turns your way. “Official how?”

Well. Here goes everything. 

With a shaky breath, and lingering feelings from the time it happened, you reveal with watery eyes, “Yoongi… Told me he loves me.”

Both Yuri and Reia react in yelps, Dom’s gaze lowering as the girls reach to grab your hands. 

Wait. What’s going on with her? She’s the one that knows the most, she’s the one that covered for you all those months ago. She has to be the one that is the least surprised at all this. 

Blinking, you note to confront her about it later. Right now, you’re too focused on trying not to cry as your friends tumble out questions and support, 

“He said it? Did you say it first or did he?” 

“How did it happen! Oh, I’m so happy for you, babe—” 

“Thank—thank you, Yuri,” you squeeze out as she hugs you close. “I couldn’t believe it, but he just.. Said it. We weren’t even doing anything, I was just.. Looking up what injuries he could have..” 

And he confessed in the most Yoongi fashion he could have. 

Looking back, it shouldn’t shock you at all. He’s always found ways to sweep you off your proverbial feet, so why would a confession plucked from the heavens be any different? 

She lets you go before wiping her eyes, Reia and even Dom now sporting watery pupils, too. 

“As much as I’m upset at you for not telling us, I’ve never been so happy for you.” When Yuri’s features crease in another sob, you sniffle along with the rest. “It’s been so long since you… And you really.. Fuck.” 

You know what she’s trying to say, and the realization has your throat constricting so tight. 

It’s been forever since you’ve had something like this, someone like this. When you and Jungkook were together, you told him that you loved him before he broke it off. 

Sure, you bought the rings together, but he never uttered those words until years after when it didn’t even matter. And all your relationships after his were complete and utter bullshit, so you don’t think you ever even heard those three words and knew them to be true. 

Yoongi was the first to ever say them so sincerely. 

And that fact makes your ducts burn and burn. 

And when Yuri finally speaks, it breaks the dam holding your real deluge back, 

“I can’t think of anyone else that deserves to be loved more than you.” 

All at once, everything streams out as you hunch forward. The pain of everything you’ve endured, the hopelessness of knowing you’d most likely end up alone, the excruciating prospect of a future that you never deemed bright, or peaceful, or comforting. 

And to think that even this man could’ve been snatched away from you in a snap? Even more tears overlap with the ones you’re shedding, and you can’t even reach out to hug all three beautiful, angelic souls surrounding you with tight arms and sobs because your limbs lock at all bends. 

It’s the exact release you need. All your friends supporting you, all the pent up anxiety of last night and today, the truth setting itself free in some capacity—all in the comfort of a plushie-laden bed you only doubted yourself in last time. 

Everything’s gonna be alright. It has to be. You’re gonna fight for the ones you love, even if a war between them is inevitable. 

It takes a few minutes of heavy silence for you all to separate, swiping and rubbing tears while letting out happy sniffles. 

When you thank them for being understanding, they assure you it’s okay. And when you say you’re going to tell your brother soon, a force from the doorway has all of you leaping from lilac sheets, 

“Tell him what?” 

Jia stands firm with a laundry basket at her hip, and Yuri scoffs at her older sister for barging in. “A knock would’ve been nice!” 

Fuck! 

You can’t tell Jia of all people. If you spill anything about Yoongi, she’s one hundred percent going to tell your brother. They’re the same age, and run in pretty tight circles, so of course you are not going to risk it. 

But you can tell her something else you’re going to tell your older sibling, so you fire out a half-truth, 

“Tell him not to pick any other fights that could get him killed.” 

Jia’s eyes zoom to your wrecked face, and she drops the laundry with haste before asking, “What happened? When? Tell me now.” 

Huh. Maybe your brother has a type, if he’s still into Jia like he said before. 

You feel a little spark in your chest as you let her know they all got in a scuffle after the basketball game, and another pang as she immediately abandons the room and clothes with a fierce declaration, 

“I’m gonna kill them myself!” 

“Don’t worry, I already hounded my brother!” You call out after her, sighing as Yuri shakes her head with a smile. “She gets like that when she’s really worried, huh.” 

“Yeah..” Your friend leans to look around you, noticing the basket left alone on the ground. “And if she’s super fired up, she drops everything and doesn’t stop until it’s handled. Clearly.” 

Maybe both older siblings really are similar. 

The firestorm of an interruption seemed to break the tension in the room, with all of you finally relaxing and catching up. When they ask you questions, you answer what you can. 

And when you divulge information that has your ears burning, their squeals and yells give you whole new reasons to live. 

—

—

After a very comforting lunch Yuri’s mom cooked, you head to the bathroom when your phone suddenly vibrates through your palm.

Huh? That’s weird. You expect the name on your screen to be Taehyung, not Yoongi. 

Not that it’s a bad thing. You’ve been waiting to hear from him, so this is a pleasant surprise. 

Closing the door to the guest bathroom, you gaze at the calming sage decor with a smile. “Hi, how did it—”

“You’re coming over later, right?”

Oh, shit. Is he okay?

“Yes, baby,” you respond with a soothing lilt, ears perked and body on high alert. 

Does he think you aren’t anymore? You both decided on the plans earlier. Surely he knows you’d never just flake on him. “I’m coming back once you’re done with work, remember?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause on the line, which makes your boyfriend’s next question jab you so far in the lungs you can’t breathe,

“…Can it be now?”

Shit. 

Just like Jia earlier, you drop every plan you have to the wayside. You’re sure that Taehyung will understand, and you already got through the biggest conversation you needed to with your friends. 

“Of course,” you whoosh out. “Lemme just say bye and I’ll go.” 

“Take your time.” A small shuffling interrupts. “It’ll take me a bit to get back.” 

“Okay. See you there.” 

The strained urgency in his voice makes your hair stand on end, so you vacate the bathroom to inform the girls that you gotta go—but not without a quick head tilt towards Dom, who follows you outside and into the afternoon sun.  

—

—

You wait until you’re next to your car on the street, turning with a concerned expression and jittery nerves, “What’s up with you? Did I do something wrong?”

Turns out, you read Dominique correctly. Her jaw locks before loosening, and it reminds you of the time she confronted you about Yoongi before. God, how much has changed since then. That feels like ages and ages ago. 

“It’s not about you,” your best friend clears the air and the tightness in your shoulders. “I’m just.. Glad he came around.”

“Yoongi?” When Dom nods, you blink. “Wait, what?”

“At your house that night.. After he left your room, we had—I dunno, a heart-to-heart.” She sighs, flicking braids over her shoulder. You note to compliment the beads she chose this time, because they remind you of summer and simpler times. “I might’ve pressured him a bit, and.. I think he wanted to tell me that he loved you. All the way back then.” 

Something in your heart stutters, and you can only repeat your last question, “What?”

“Yeah. Something about needing to do something first,” she continues, holding your gaze with perfect brows furrowed in sunlight. “But I could tell he was damn serious about whatever it was. And if he was willing to do it for you? I let it go.” 

Your mind whirls. 

Yoongi was already in love with you back then? Is that why he needed to let you go? To deal with whatever he had to do? 

One side of you breaks thinking he had to go through all that alone; the other side is screaming at his past self for not even giving you a choice. What did he go through? What did he have to do?

Now you really have to see him. Immediately. 

“Thank you, Dom,” you rush out while opening your door. “I’m just happy it’s over.”

“The hell it’s not.” Shooting you a glare that heats the oncoming breeze, she reminds, “It’s not over until your brother knows. And based on everything that’s happened? That conversation is not gonna go over well.” 

A dark, simmering boil starts in your stomach, and you’re already feeling queasy again. Tightening your door handle, you gulp hard. “I know.” 

“Trust me, I’m happy for you both. I am.” Both hands find her hips as she levels a gaze that you really, really don’t enjoy. “But I’m gonna be honest, I think this is gonna ruin their friendship for good.” 

Both of your lungs clamp shut. 

“Please don’t say that,” you beg, “I’m gonna fight for all of us. I will.” 

“I don’t doubt that, babe. Hey, uh uh, come here.” Reaching out, she gives you a tight hug just when you feel fragile again. 

“Listen to me. I don’t doubt that,” she says into your shoulder. “I’m just here to be realistic. Just don’t be shocked if that’s how it goes. We’ll be here for you no matter what, too.” 

“Okay,” you say with a scrunched face into her scent. God, she always smells so good, and it’s almost enough to calm you down. Almost almost almost. “Thank you. But I’m not giving up.” 

“That’s my girl.” She squeezes you one more time. “I love you.” 

With eyes searing over, you choke and grip her tighter. “I love you, too.” 

—

—

Yoongi’s door warms your back as you wait for him to show. 

But there’s a good chance it can just be your volcanic anxiety. 

Ever since your arrival, you’ve paced, you’ve gnawed on your lips, you’ve had to shake the nerves out of your hands. 

And over and over, you’ve strained your neck to look for your favorite cat, because you could sincerely use even a glimpse of her right now. 

While she doesn’t end up showing, Yoongi rounds the nearest corner minutes after your last desperate scan. 

Fuck, he’s so handsome. 

Even now, as he simply walks toward you with a backpack slung over his shoulder, you watch with undying yearning to feel those flowing bangs over his forehead. You’d even settle for a single touch of his cheeks, one of them currently sporting a thin bandage.

But the closer Yoongi gets, the quicker your admiration morphs into concern. There’s a deep bend in his brows that you can’t decipher, and his fist is balled pretty tight. 

Seriously, what happened? He looks so troubled that you slowly push off the doorway to ask, 

“Baby, what’s—”

A bag hits the ground before you’re swooped into a kiss so electric your lips spark. 

Him. Him, him, and more him. For the love of everything you don’t understand what’s happening but you kiss Yoongi back with everything you have, arms slinging around his strong shoulders and tugging him closer because he clearly needed this. 

And fuck if you didn’t need it just as much. Screw it if anyone sees you. This is all you want and you’ll stay right here until he pulls away. 

When he finally does, both of you swallow to catch your breaths, and your soul glimmers when his forehead meets yours. 

“Hi, baby,” you whisper to his exhales. “Missed you, too.”

Silent, your lover kisses your forehead before hugging you close, and you’re more sure of your prediction than ever. Something is bothering him. 

He doesn’t look worse, at least. But there’s clearly something off and he’s not hiding it. His lack of words is loud enough. 

“Let’s go inside,” you quietly suggest. “I would’ve gone in already but I don’t have a key.”

He nods, fishing out his keyring to let you both inside. 

When you set your bags down and slip off your shoes, it’s only seconds before you’re softly pulled into a hug again, surprising yet so, so welcoming. 

Even only after a few hours, you’ve missed the fuck out of him. Which makes all of this an outright dream. 

“Sorry,” Yoongi finally murmurs against your shoulder. “I just…”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You stroke a hand along his hair, massaging his scalp and loving how soft it feels. The windswept strands fall back into place as you keep running your fingers through. “Did you at least get your appointment?”

“Yeah, I did.” He buries his face further. “Nothing bad. Just can’t lift anything heavy for a couple days.”

“Good. That’s easy to manage,” you whisper back into his tee, feeling the chill of lingering air conditioning and body warmth all at once. “Is something else bothering you?”

“Not exactly.” Whatever that means. “I’ll tell you about it later. Just wanted this, and you.”

Oh. That’s… 

“I’m here now, love,” you assure with a melting heart, wondering what happened to cause this behavior. 

Is it because of last night? Or something that happened today? You’re anxious all over again, but from the way Yoongi’s acting, your worries are second to his. “Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head, only pulling you closer with not a word from his lips. 

And from this point on, you make a silent vow to yourself. Whatever Yoongi needs, you’re going to take care of him. 

No matter what, these next few days are all about him—a minuscule sacrifice in comparison to everything he’s done for you, whether you knew about it or not.

“I’ll make you something then. Come on.” 

When you walk, you slip your hand down his arm to hold his hand, and your lead into his kitchen is short. 

“Any requests?” You cheerfully ask as you spare a smile over your shoulder. “We can do… Something light…”

Only to see him staring back with nothing but a lingering sense of longing.

Okay. 

You need to get to the bottom of this now. 

Stopping right over linoleum, you leave no room for arguments, “Yoongi. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He blinks before his gaze meets the floor. So you’re confused when he simply, quietly.. 

Laughs? 

“It’s not that something’s wrong,” he slowly starts, a shy smile carving his features. “For the first time in my life, nothing’s wrong.” 

Your heart beats extra loud. 

“But it’s too much to explain right now.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Just know that I’m so in love with you.” 

Oh.

“And I want you to know that every day I live.”

Fuck.

Your body responds before you can say anything, lips connecting to remove any need for speech. The knowledge of them all staring death in the face last night makes this confession sear your insides, and you can’t help but kiss him like you’ll never get to again. 

Yanking him back, you spin on your heel until he flings into the kitchen, clutching your wrists before gripping your jaw with both hands. 

His mouth heats on yours, his glasses the only barrier between your skin. Everything sizzles from your head to your toes, and you both bang into a countertop before—

“Fuck, ouch.”

“Shit, you okay?”

Yoongi rubs his side with one eye pinched shut, a corner of his teeth present. “Yeah. Worth it, though.”

“Be serious,” you reprimand. Looks like he’s gonna have to take it easy, which means no going at it like animals until he’s on the mend. “No more until you feel better, yeah?”

“Says who?”

“Babe.”

His deadly pout almost breaks your resolve. “Fine.” 

But you can wait. You’re sure it won’t take long, and for this man? You’ll wait however long you need to. 

Besides, there’s plenty of things you can do in the meantime that don’t require running into hard objects. 

“Good. Now let’s…” You turn away to get started before you’re held, and pulled back into yet another embrace. 

What the hell is happening today? Your lungs and your melting pile of a brain can only take so much. It’s beautifully overwhelming how Yoongi can’t seem to let you go, because you’re the one that always loses control. 

This whole time, it’s been you that can’t hold yourself back. 

So now? Being on the other side? You don’t think you ever want him to restrain himself again. 

This time, he moves slow. Sensuously slow, and it would occur to you that he’s finding a very cheeky loophole to your plan if you weren’t so hazy-eyed. 

Whatever Yoongi’s doing, you won’t stop him. 

Your back touches a counter before Yoongi cages you in, and your lips mold together as perfectly as his body does with yours. Your unhurried strokes match his, and your minds communicate without a single word. 

There’s yearning still ever present. But there’s comfort in abundance, and a whole new level of need. 

After he pulls away, you can visibly see him drink you in from head to toe. 

“You know.. I’m good holding off on all the other shit.” Pulling you in, his lips curve as he confidently declares, “But I’m never gonna stop kissing you.” 

His hands, his lips, his words. They all have healing powers, you’re so sure of it. If Yoongi hasn’t yet realized his unending pain has blossomed into a safe haven, you need to let him know no matter what, 

“Good.”

There’s still a pining in his eyes, but he lets you free, hand skirting your hip before he walks to his room. “Gonna change then I’ll help.” 

“You don’t have to, baby,” you say as you struggle to catch your breath. “I got it.” 

Three minutes later, he’s chopping an onion anyway. 

But you’re loving how serene everything feels with the two of you prepping and dicing, thumps of knives on wood intertwining in sound before you laugh at his crying over the pesky vegetable. Maybe if he wore contacts instead of specs, he’d be better off. 

Not that his choice of eyewear is what you’re complaining about. But those glasses paired with the cream tees he’s been wearing? There will be hell to pay as soon as you get a chance at revenge. 

Your pot is set to boil for a bit, so you finally rest against the counter and start a timer on his microwave. “Go ahead,” you gesture to your very handsome cooking partner. “You can sit now.”

“Huh? We’re not done yet.”

“Oh.” Blinking, you tilt your head in confusion because you could’ve sworn you heard him yawn a couple times. “You aren’t tired?”

“I am,” he says before squeezing his eyes, rapid blinks to follow. “But I’m fine here.”

You toss and turn the food around, sprinkling a little more seasoning and hearing the bubbles and fizzes. When you stir a little more, a sudden thought occurs, halting your movements and spinning you around, 

“Are you staying there to watch my ass.”

Yoongi’s slow smile gives everything away, but he also makes up for the blatant staring. 

“Can’t deny that’s one of the things.” Pushing off the sink, he stands right next to you, slotting a hand behind your neck and angling you for a kiss. “But I meant it earlier. I just…”

You’re completely silent as you watch him slide his eyes from your face to the sizzling food. Whatever he’s thinking about, you’re gonna give him all the room to talk. 

“Just like being where you are.” 

How you went from almost running out of his door to here, you aren’t quite sure. But you’re grateful for that split second of him deciding to fight for the two of you instead of against, because you really were going to leave. 

And you may have taken much, much longer to even try going back. 

Your voice is barely heard over the aromatic smell and fizzle, “Good thing I like having you around.” When he smiles again, you let out a breath of a giggle, going back to shuffling the pan around and tilting your head to the fridge. “I put some fruit in there if you wanna eat that, too.”

“I’m down.”

“K.”

Your food is ready soon enough, and the two of you eat while talking about easy topics. Like work and your workplace dynamics, what Yoongi’s team has been working on at the studio. 

At one point, your curiosity about the album release party grows from something he says. “Speaking of. The party’s on Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I thought so,” you deflate, setting your bowl down on the table. “Sorry he can’t go.”

“Huh?”

Your body stills. “Wait. Did he not say anything? About his trip being extended?”

So much for nothing in his life being wrong. From the lost look on his face, you may have given him another reason to fold back in on himself. “No.. No, he didn’t.”

Both of you sit in silence. 

This could be nothing. Right? That means your brother is confident he can make it so there’s no point in telling Yoongi he’s gonna miss it. Or maybe he’s not trying hard enough and then not being able to say it to his face? 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I thought he told you.”

“It’s okay.” Clearly it’s not. “Not much to do about it now.”

“Yoongi… What if he knows?” At your own question, you stiffen, curling into a proverbial ball. Fear and the sick backfire of fibbing has your mouth going drier than desert air. “What if he actually knows?”

Setting down his chopsticks, Yoongi looks your way, eyes unreadable behind his specs. “If he did, do you think he’d leave us alone?”

He’s got a point. “Guess not.” 

“Mm.” Flicking his eyes to the window, he adjusts uncomfortably in his chair. “And I dunno if I mentioned this, but.. He thinks I got back with my ex.”

“Fuck, really?” 

“That’s the real reason why he hasn’t been talking to me. Maybe he thinks she’s gonna be there on Friday.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders sag, and sag. Not owning up to your relationship is one thing; Yoongi having to dwell in his previous relationship is another. “Is that… worse?”

“Kinda.” Yoongi’s eyes fall. “Much worse.”

“Shit.” Reaching across wood, you close your hand around his fingers for support. It’s the only thing you can think to do. At least, it’s what you would want if you were in his shoes. “I think you should tell him she won’t be.”

A million seconds later, Yoongi thankfully agrees. “Yeah, I will.”

You feel better. Somewhat. At least a little less nauseous about the possibility of your brother knowing. 

But it still sucks knowing that he’s actively avoiding Yoongi because of an ex he used to have. 

How bad was it back then if this is the case? What exactly happened? Is this why Yoongi went radio silent on you for weeks?

It seems like he doesn’t even wanna talk about her. So you won’t pry just yet, as much as you wanna know every single thing she’s done wrong so you can hound her through every timeline in existence. 

Instead, you talk about a much better subject, 

“We should feed my cat now.”

And you quickly laugh at the saucy glint in Yoongi’s eyes. 

—

—

Everything is set where it needs to be. Sugar’s food and water fill their respective bowls, your shoulder leans into Yoongi’s good side, and his arm rests around your back as he’s propped up by his banged up doorway. 

You remember the first time you saw him lean against the wood like this. Only that time, you were a shell of a girl, waiting with shaky breaths and shaken confidence to hear his response to your inappropriate request. 

Who would’ve thought that you’d be on the same side as him all these months later? In his arms, resting a head on his warm chest? 

When you let out a short chuckle, Yoongi turns to your smile. “Hmm?” 

“Nothing,” you wisp out. “Just thinking about us.” 

His fingers press into your side a fraction more, and you can feel him lift his head again. “Me, too.” 

Umm. 

You can say things like that. He isn’t allowed! 

You’re about to set some one-sided rules before your gift pops out of the bushes a few feet away. 

“My baby!” you quietly call, leaving Yoongi’s side to crouch down. “Come here, love. You hungry?”

She cautiously makes her way over, sniffing your hand when you leave it outstretched. After careful consideration, the little one nudges your palm, letting you glide fingers down her back as she approaches her bowls. 

“You’re so tiny,” you observe with slight pity. “We’ll get you well fed in no time—”

“Hey, Sugar! Oh, is this her? She’s gorgeous, no wonder!”

Huh? Sugar? 

Who else knows the cat’s name already?

Your neck almost strains when you look up to see who’s talking. When you notice an older lady donning a really comfy, fluffy robe, you feel like it looks super familiar before you stand. 

“Hi,” you greet before introducing yourself, extending your hand and shaking the woman’s soft, delicate fingers. “Sorry if we were too loud.”

“Call me Miss Dion. And you weren’t too loud this time, sweetie,” she says with a wink, glancing down at the kitty eating what you laid out. “Was just comin’ out to water my plants so it’s good to see you’re here, too. Looks like he finally got some sense back in that head of his.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know!”

Back? How long has she known about you? Do her and Yoongi actually converse regularly? Their banter is… Really adorable. 

It’s making you fall even more in love with the man biting his cheek in amusement. 

Wait. 

Is Yoongi Sugar? 

That is so fucking cute you could cry. 

“I’m back to take care of this guy,” you explain with a head tilt. “And the little one, of course.” 

It’s when you say this that Miss Dion notices the bandages on Yoongi’s face, concern pushing down her brows. “What happened to you, young man?”

“Nothing to worry about.” 

“You sure? I got some ointment in my kitchen somewhere—”

“It’s all good—”

“We’ll take it,” you cut him off, not looking but feeling his stare on your face. “How much do we owe you?” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” With a snuff at Yoongi and a smile your way, Miss Dion heads inside to fetch a bottle.

In the meantime, you give your lover a quiet stare before bending down to run your hands over soft fur. 

“Papa Sugar is gonna need that so he can’t argue,” you coo to your cat, cheekily ignoring Yoongi’s sputtering puff of air above your head.

“Papa Sugar? Really?”

You glance up to his smile with a mischievous one of your own. “What, you wanna be Sugar Daddy instead?”

The swirl in your belly is instant. Because Yoongi can only look out into the distance, biting his lip and failing to hide his grin.

Sigh. If only he didn’t have those injuries across his face. You’d push him back into the door and slam it shut if it was any other day. 

Patience, patience, patience. 

Those hits aren’t gonna heal with just one round of gauze. 

When you have to replace the cotton patches, at least you’ll have something to help. 

—

—

It’s not until you’re about to tuck in for the night that Yoongi approaches your side of the bed. Judging by the headphones slung around his neck, he’s about to work, so you assume he’s just coming to give you a kiss goodnight. 

But after he does exactly that, he asks you a question that warms your chest, 

“Where’s your keys.” 

“In there,” you motion to the nearest wall, bag propped right under his windowsill. “Inside pocket, I think.” 

Yoongi bends with a prolonged grunt, slowly rummaging until he finds your jangling keyring with its charms. When he grabs it, he silently sits on the edge up against your stomach, body heat permeating your tee while he fiddles with the clasps. 

God, you’re so in trouble. You know exactly what he’s doing. 

Unlike the last time he offered you complete access to his place, this time he didn’t even hesitate. And the way he secures a key amongst the loop, it’s his silent way of cementing permanence. 

That’s not another key for you to borrow.

Because that key is yours.

—

—

continued in angel, pt. 2

pitstop inbox before pt2!! | join the server!

a/n: holy crap we're doing it we are actually back in the main storyline?! how do we feel right now because i am over the damn moon diving into this story again. here's a slight pitstop before you make your way over to part two (THE CONTINUATION IS IN A REBLOG!) so take a breather before heading into the resttttttt ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!

explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, the glasses stay on??, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing

—

—

For the next few days, you’re at Yoongi’s every moment you’re free. Other than work that you have diligently not taken off, the two of you have alone time most of the week. 

And it’s more than perfect. 

You cook meals, talk about anything that doesn’t involve recent incidents, and Yoongi even lets you watch as he creates stunning instrumentals at his bedroom desk. There seems to be three projects that he’s cycling through, and one of them sounds achingly beautiful even though it’s just a series of hums. 

As far as physical work, you do anything that requires heavy lifting—even hauling groceries inside. 

Despite Yoongi’s many groans of protest, you tell him it’s no big deal at all. You want to help as much as you can, if merely to make up for all that time you could’ve helped him for three months. 

It’s right after your solo grocery run that he follows you into his kitchen with his thousandth resigned sigh, 

“Babe, you really don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, baby,” you whisper, setting everything down. When you start unloading, Yoongi stops your arms, soothing the divots left by many grocery bags. “But I want to. So let me? Please?”

You get why he’s not exactly okay with the situation. If you had to depend on him for everything, it would make you upset, too. 

But you want to show him you’re here for him no matter what. If that bothers him, he’ll just have to keep dealing with it. 

Yoongi rests his forehead against yours. “You’re too good for me.”

“And you’re too handsome for me.” Flicking his chest, you pretend to be so very disappointed as you start taking out cans and produce. “Who said you could walk around here wearing that?”

That stupid tank hugs every bit of him just right. You’re half jealous of the way it fits on him, and half in constant need to rip it off every waking second. 

Even the way you reacted when he first stepped out with it caused an immediate burst of cheek-raised laughter, and you proceeded to glare at his grin every time he got close. 

Which is probably, frustratingly, exactly why he keeps wearing them. 

“It’s just a tank!” Yoongi exclaims, laughing when you scoff into the fridge. “What’s with you and these?”

“Don’t even,” you huff. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

One wink is enough to destroy you. So you keep putting groceries away to avoid more of them. 

Fruits go here, veggies in the fridge, cat food in this cabinet, frozen treats in the freezer… Come to think of it, you could do some naughty teasing with those later—

A veiny hand cuts your thoughts, caging you against counters with an ask, “And what am I doing, doll?”

Rhetorical question once again. 

This whole week, while neither of you have instigated anything related to sex, Yoongi has tested you multiple times. Whether it be devouring the sight of you in his tees, or kissing along your shoulders after you emerged freshly showered, he has been driving you to the edge every time. 

This unashamed, barely restrained side of him is completely new to you, and you’d like to think you’re doing a damn good job of keeping yourself in check. 

Because you’ve been wanting to tear him apart until he’s a blithering, writhing mess. 

At first, you assumed it’s because of how he’s been looking lately. The shroud that’s been haunting his eyes is completely absent, giving a beautiful shine and a whole new level of attraction. 

But as the week has gone by, you’ve realized that it’s something deeper. 

It’s the fact that Yoongi’s gone beyond keeping you safe and protecting you, gone way further than just being there for you when you need him. 

And he’s doing all this while not compromising his dreams. He’s working hard for what he wants, and encouraging you to do the same with a gentle push only he can provide. 

Essentially, Yoongi’s everything you didn’t even know you needed. 

And this simple fact is the sole reason you want to take care of him in every single way, including some that will perpetually make you shy when you remember them. 

But until he fully tells you he’s ready—which he hasn’t yet—you aren’t giving in. This agonizing monster is being kept at bay with the thinnest string. The tiniest gate. The most miniscule knot. 

However. 

Your vow to hold yourself back physically doesn’t mean keeping your thoughts to yourself. So you set them free as your eyelids lower, 

“Making it really, really hard to leave you alone.”

Chains swing against your chest, conspiring with this demon to make you fold when he annoyingly purrs, 

“Good.” 

Fuck. Yoongi’s already attractive when he’s not doing anything. So when he does shit like this? When he’s practically begging for you to give in? It takes all of your inner strength to not buckle at the knees. 

“Not good,” you parry, breath short and heart rate spiking. “We said to wait until you were ready.”

Goddamn. Your fingers itch to grab at his waist, your core storms with incessant need to ride that beautiful chest. 

Mercifully, Yoongi grants you reprieve with a simple hum, sliding his hand off and sauntering away. “Playing hard to break, huh? Not bad.”

Not bad? Your pulse is through the goddamn roof! 

“Of course,” you scoff, “I’m not losing to you.” 

Laughs pop from around the corner, his absence allowing you to catch your breath and straighten your wobbly legs. “We’ll see about that, baby girl.” 

Safe. You didn’t crack and didn’t give much away.

Despite the heated moment ending too soon, your smile stretches incredibly wide. 

Yoongi has no idea what he’ll unleash as soon as he’s healed and ready. 

You’ll both see about that indeed.

—

—

On Tuesday, your brother’s car is ready, so you head to the dealership in Yoongi’s car and drive back separately to the house. 

Once there, Yoongi heads into the house before you video call and show your brother every single detail. 

Every. Single. Detail. 

“Ugh, she practically looks brand new! Do you really need me to open the passenger door again?” 

“Yes! We have to be thorough or I’m getting my money back.” 

“God, you’re so cheap,” you huff, leaning into the vehicle and showing him every leather bound surface. 

Seriously, they did a really good job. They even cleaned where your brother had all his tiny figures and polaroids and that was always a problem spot. Where did those even go, anyway? “Happy?” 

“Maybe. But looks good so far, I’ll look over her again when I’m back.” 

Of course. He’s gonna find literally any excuse to say they need to fix more. With his track record, he’ll probably even get a whole new engine from his smooth talk and persistence. “Which will be in two days, right? Friday? On time?” 

To your absolute delight, he doesn’t hesitate, sounding even more sure when he responds, “Yeah, I think I can.” When you cheer, your camera shakes like hell as his eye roll stays completely still. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

Yoongi must have cleared the air surrounding his ex. With a joyful goodbye, you hang up and head right inside to tell him the news. 

Turns out, you weren’t the only one holding massive amounts of tension because of this setback. There’s a noticeable change in Yoongi’s eyes, and your heart bleeds knowing his friend’s potential absence had been weighing on him.

He’s the bravest for choosing to have the final conversation with him alone. 

There still seems like something is bothering him, though. 

And you still don’t know how to ask. 

—

—

At least with Taehyung, you can let loose and say whatever you want. 

That fact is what allows you to breathe as soon as you pull up to Jimin’s house the next day, scanning the familiar cul-de-sac as you park in his driveway. Forever has passed since you were last here, and you can’t even remember paying a visit during the daytime. 

But Tae told you to meet him here, so you’re here. 

Food has been laid out across the living room coffee table, but none of it is touched. All you’ve been able to do is take residence on the leather couch, watching as Taehyung gnaws on a fingernail. 

“Stop that.”

“Talk to me then.”

So you do. 

There’s no hiding with him like you had to with your friends. Thorough, you give him the entire rundown of that stormy night without omission.

Throughout the entire time you talk, your best friend is laser focused. He doesn’t say a single word, and he doesn’t move one fucking muscle as you recount what happened, from the moment you fought with your brother to the excruciating minutes of screaming at Yoongi’s door. 

But something you say makes you both flinch. 

Because as soon as you mention the broken guitar pieces around his living room, a question zips through the open space, 

“What did you just say?” 

Your head whips around to see Jimin frozen in the hallway. “Yeah, he, umm. It’s completely gone now, so.. I’m gonna see if I can find him a new one.” 

That second part is something you haven’t even told Yoongi yet. It just felt right to admit to the two of them, and you watch as Jimin slowly walks toward you with eyes wide. 

Is he okay? Fuck, were you not supposed to say that after all? “Or I can get him something else—”

Toned arms embrace you tight, and you’re flung into confusion as your eyes stare at the ceiling. 

“Thank you,” you hear against your head, so soft you may as well have thought it. It’s the kind of gratitude that’s borderline uncomfortable to receive, solely because you feel like you don’t deserve something so full of meaning. 

You didn’t do anything except clean up the pieces. 

The way Jimin’s thanking you? It’s like you saved Yoongi’s life. 

And that’s too much to dwell on right now. 

“It’s okay, really,” you respond, timidly reciprocating his hug because you’re still so very puzzled. “Is there something I should know?” 

“It’s not my place to say. But everything’s gonna be fine.” 

“Okay.” That answer is cryptic as hell. “I just feel bad for throwing it all out. Maybe we could’ve gotten it repaired—”

“No.” Jimin looks you dead in the eyes before putting hands on your head. Then, shocking you to the core, he kisses your forehead before resting there. “If he has you? He’ll be fine.” 

“I guess.” Your mood turns melancholic as he slowly steps away. “He’s still pretty bruised from that night. And some of the cuts are deeper than I thought.” 

In more ways than one now, you sadly think to yourself. There’s even more things to think about surrounding that guitar. Does it have anything to do with his—

“Yoongi faired better than some of us. Rohan had to get stitches and some of the other guys needed crutches.”

Damn. You don’t doubt that. There’s no way you can completely block out the memories you have of that night. Your brother telling Taehyung to get you out of there. The way they were severely outnumbered. Yoongi refusing to look back at you, and you painfully knowing exactly why. 

“I heard about what he did,” you mournfully hitch out. “That guy.”

Jimin stills before Tae looks over at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “What did he do?”

Fuck. Does Taehyung not know about that chilling detail? Shit shit shit, you still don’t know everything yourself, so you can’t even really tell. 

Is Jimin about to reveal what your brother and Yoongi left out? 

Your wide eyes meet his before you stumble through an answer, “He, uhh.. Umm, he..”

“I’ll tell you later,” Jimin calmly breathes, to which Taehyung shifts his jaw out of quiet anger. “The bottom line is that we all made it out.”

Oh, fuck. 

Even Jimin won’t say it? 

What the hell went down that night? 

No. Focus focus focus on the good. They all made it out, and there’s nothing to worry about anymore. Probably. Dalo guy can kick rocks and perish in the pits of hell for all you care, and Yoongi was able to find himself again. Only the worst is yet to come before the skies are completely clear. 

“There’s one more thing.”

Both men turn your way, attentive immediately. 

“This time, when my brother comes back…” 

Jimin’s eyes fill right up to the brim like yours. 

“Yoongi’s gonna tell him everything.” 

—

—

But Yoongi still needs to tell you something, too. 

Outside in the setting sunlight, you stare at the key in your fingers before determination tightens your grip. 

You’re gonna ask about what happened tonight. 

And you can’t give up without an answer.

Opening the door, you’re greeted with the faint sound of a song, quickly realizing which one it is and already feeling like an intruder.

“Babe?” 

Hopefully he heard you. Just in case he wants to pause it, and just in case it’s a little too personal. 

Because that’s the one he’s worked on the least since you’ve been listening in on his sessions. For some reason, it feels like something he’d rather keep close to that beautiful chest. 

There’s no response to your yell, so you set your bag down and head to his room. “Last chance,” you joke into the door. “I’m coming in!” 

All you see are faint pink and orange hues sprawling across the room. And one passed out head of hair lying across folded arms.

Déjà vu is one heck of a concept.

Things were so different the first time this happened, and you were much more cautious with your heart when it came to this man. 

To think that you’d now take a bullet for him without a second thought isn’t even wild to consider. Because you have a strange yet unshakeable feeling that he would do the same for you. 

Just the idea is enough to shrink your throat as you take measured steps toward his sleeping form, noticing with a smile that his outfit is quite different from the last time. 

Very, very different. And much, much more revealing. 

Intrigued, you lightly shake his bare shoulder oh what the hell he is cold. “Yoongi?”

Immediately, he snaps up, glasses nudged off-kilter and strands astray in all directions. It’s only when he recognizes who you are and where he is that he rasps out a rugged greeting—the same one as last time,

“Hey, doll.”

God. The sleepy version of those two words might just be your favorite.

Chuckling, you softly spin his chair, swooping down with a kiss that seems to breathe life and energy into his veins. 

After you pull away, you adjust his specs, eyes beaming starlight into his when you announce through a smile, 

“I’m home.” 

Slowly, Yoongi nods with eyes shut. “Missed you.” 

A weight to his words compresses your chest, because it means something is still bothering him. “Missed you, too, baby.” 

When he doesn’t respond, you move to caress his slight stubble. Shit, was he rubbing his face too hard? He’s reopened a couple cuts. 

“Wait here,” you softly command. “We need to patch you up a bit.” 

To your surprise, Yoongi follows you through his room anyway, and he waits as you fetch things from the bathroom cabinet that you stocked. Wordlessly, you give him a shy smile before taking his hand in yours, leading him out to the living room.

Throughout the week, you’ve done pretty much everything you could do for him. But helping with his cuts and wounds? Every time, he’s done this part alone in his bathroom. 

So this is new. For the both of you. 

“Sit.” 

Doesn’t matter. You want to do this for Yoongi, if at least to show him that you’re not shying away from this, too. He doesn’t have to face anything alone anymore, and that includes himself. This is simply your way of telling him that. 

It’s gonna prove a bit hard to control yourself when he’s not wearing much, though. 

But you can do it. You’re a headstrong, determined, confident person who will not succumb to the way their boyfriend looks in a tank and sweats. 

Right. 

You're already nervous in your thinly-strapped top that's even more revealing than his.

Breathing deep, you walk towards him, standing between his legs and watching him look up with intrigue and curiosity. 

“I wanna do this for you, too,” you admit, straddling him when he gives you an encouraging, silent nod. “No funny business, though.” 

Fuck, his eyes already dip straight to your cleavage before roving up again. Once again, this man proves that he can do anything and you’re already threatening collapse. “Who said?” 

“M… Me,” you breath out, words hitching as Yoongi adjusts himself under your spread thighs. 

Ignore the smirk. Ignore it, for heaven’s sake, or you’re breaking your own fucking deal. 

“So hold still for me, sir.” 

A devious chuckle coats your chin as his head hits the couch, mouth at a slant that should never be paired with those glasses. 

Have mercy, you are already having trouble breathing. This is quite possibly the best worst mistake you’ve ever made, and that includes you asking him to fuck you back when you barely even spoke. 

That version of you would have fled at the sight of him now. 

But here you are, up close and more than personal, and you thank your past self for giving you every moment like this. 

As you start busying yourself with the cream, you wonder how you even got here in the first place. Truthfully, you don’t remember much about that day other than it storming right when you were halfway. The rain felt like a punishment at the time, a punishment for going where you shouldn’t and a sign to turn the fuck around. 

But now? You think of it as a blessing. Because if it wasn’t raining and you weren’t shivering like hell, you don’t think Yoongi would’ve even let you inside. 

It’s because of the heavy clouds that fateful day that all this has transpired. And you will always go back to that summer afternoon when Yoongi put sunlight back in your eyes. 

So this week has been your own chance to give some back. 

Determined, you lean forward, lightly spreading ointment on his cuts and concentrating to get every spot covered. Your focus is so zeroed in that you almost don’t feel the soothing circles of his thumb on your thighs. 

It doesn’t take long, but that’s due to your patient being the best boy. Yoongi only watches as you patch him up, breathing soft from his nose and blinking up at your face. 

Pretty soon, you’re finished, turning to set everything down on the… Not coffee table. But the floor. 

You can shop for a new one soon. 

Well. Your first task is done. Now comes the difficult one, and you kinda just wing it because overthinking has gotten you absolutely nowhere. 

“What’s wrong?”

Of course he catches onto your silence. Gulping down all your fears, you take the leap, grateful for the hands holding your hips in support, 

“If I ask you anything.. will you be honest with me?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation makes your heart jolt. “Just ask, love.”

Swallowing, you sieve through the questions and thoughts you want to make sense of, trying to figure out the best way to go about things without making it uncomfortable. 

Ah, screw it. There is no best way. “Are you hiding something from me?”

Yoongi’s brows tick. “No.”

It’s more than obvious that he wants to say more. But the fact that he doesn’t? Is actually pretty relieving. 

“What happened that night then,” you slowly ask, hating how his fingers tense on your thigh. “In the lot.”

A sigh is your first answer. 

Then silence is your second. 

The moment draws out so long you think Yoongi won’t fess up, but he finally responds to your stomach instead of your searching eyes,

“Which part.”

Fuck. He’s gonna make you say it. You really, really don’t want to, but he won’t answer unless you’re specific. 

Here it goes then. “My brother said the guy from Dalo pulled something on you.” 

Immediately, a tongue prods his cheek.

“And you did something, but that’s all I got,” you finish, folding your lips to keep anything else from spilling out like emotions or feelings or any leftover screams from when you were dragged away. 

“So ask me.”

Fuck. 

You glance up to see Yoongi staring, eyes trained on your face while the rest of his face remains unmoving. 

“I…” Shit, you already feel queasy. But he’s gonna answer, so just cut the bullshit and ask. “What did you do?”

“He had a gun.” 

What.

“And I just reacted.”

…What?

He braces for this next part, and your entire world suspends in his outstretched hands. 

“Just thought it should be me instead of him.” 

Oh. God. 

Tears form before you can say a word, your fingers shaking and balling up cotton. “You… Oh, Yoongi—”

Your head falls into your palms, every fiber of your being struggling to grasp that the end result wasn’t as horrifying as it could’ve been. Because it still almost happened and you almost lost a home. 

People have left before. Many, many times. But they all walked away for their own selfish reasons, and they didn’t come back. Yoongi’s reasons have always been selfless. Always always always, and would’ve been to the very end had he—

Warm hands slide up your arms, but you can’t stop your shakes, you can’t even fucking think straight you can’t even fucking talk. 

“Baby…” 

What’s that you said about taking a bullet for him? Chills skitter down your spine when you realize how accurate you were in thinking he would do it. Because Yoongi just did it for the only family you have. 

Ride or die has never had a better example in physical form. His love for your brother runs deeper than tree roots, and you feel the bitter leaves of guilt nicking your body on all sides.

“Listen. I didn’t know what he was doing,” he tries to clarify, voice swimming low in your ringing ears. “But I just moved.” 

Stop. You’ve got to pull it together because there’s more to ask but goddamn it already hurts. 

How can you make room for all the love that’s still pouring in for this man? How can one heart ever be enough? 

“Thank you,” you hitch out, letting tears ping onto his lap. “But I love you.” 

His fingers grip a tad tighter. 

“So please.” You finally leave the wet walls of your hands, noticing the deep, deep pools of emotion in his eyes. “Don’t ever get into that again.” 

“I know. We all know.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You swipe at your cheeks. “And the guitar?”

Shit. Yoongi reacts even worse to that. Like he half expected it but half hoped you wouldn’t ask. 

“It was a gift,” he starts, looking anywhere but at you. “From my ex.”

…What? And he kept it this whole time? 

Dark, dark poison seeps into your side as your legs lose their grip. “Oh.”

From one wild emotion to the next. This rollercoaster knocks you around a bend, and you suddenly need it to find a way to stop it in its tracks. 

Why did he keep it? Does he still think about her? Is this why he’s never mentioned her, because he didn’t want you knowing the real truth? 

This is too much. Your brain is spinning and looping and it starts to lift you from his legs but Yoongi holds you tight and doesn’t let you leave—

“There’s a reason I never let anyone in.” 

You let your eyes lift to his lidded expression, hating how some of the shadow has returned. 

“And it’s because of her.”

Shit. His hands. 

They’re trembling. 

Immediately, the ride slows to a stop. 

And your chest crumbles alongside your shoulders. You can deal with self-esteem issues or anything to do with his own self, but an ex that he can’t even speak of without anxiety? That’s a completely different story. 

Now you feel terrible for forcing it on him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Should’ve told you from the start.” 

“No.” Understanding flows through your assurance. “That’s not my business. We don’t have to talk about it.”

He gives you a soft look of gratitude as hands find your hips. “We can. It doesn’t bother me now.” 

But his hands… “You sure?” 

“Yeah.” Yoongi’s rueful smile sends a pang through your heart. “She treated me like shit, but. She can’t haunt me anymore.” 

Your throat clenches. Because now you know exactly what the hell Yoongi’s talking about. 

Those things you’ve been told, those lies you’ve been led to believe, those arguments you always seemed to lose even when you knew you were in the right. Even the way you’ve been told you won’t ever amount to much, and the way you’ve blatantly been told you’d never find anyone else. All of it reeks of pain and injustice. And oh, how you’ve been drug through the mud until you couldn’t even recognize your own fucking reflection. 

Fucking hell, if this was what Yoongi has been going through, you do wish he told you. You’d draw swords against anyone for him, and that includes the ghosts of his past thinking they could keep holding him hostage in his own fucking head. 

You’re so livid you can’t even see straight, and your words leave in smoke, “I know what you mean.”

“What?”

Your breath shakes. Because no matter how long it’s been, this is still hard. “When you go through that for so long, it’s what you’re used to, you know? So anything good that comes, it’s either hard to believe, or you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

Yoongi just stares like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

“But you?” Shit. Get the words out because he needs to hear them loud and clear. “You’ve made me realize that I can believe the good things, that I do deserve them. And I should’ve been there for you all this time because I would’ve tried and fought until you got to that point, too.”

Your vision isn’t the clearest. 

But you’re gonna remember this look on Yoongi’s face forever. 

This stricken, bright-rimmed, pained yet relieved expression will burn and sear into memory, staying etched into your heart until its last beat fades out. 

It’s love in ultimate sanctuary. 

Because it’s what you feel every second you see him. 

“I don’t know what she did to you, or what she ever said,” you conclude, cupping his cheek and wiping a stray tear. “But it’s all wrong and it doesn’t matter anymore. At all. Okay?”

Another drop needs sweeping as yours continue to freefall. Your chest is so close to his now, and you can feel the warmth of his palms as he holds you with arms so firm. 

The house in your heart has grown a garden, flowers of all shades taking root and blooming bright. You reach out and skim along their soft petals, watering them with every tear you brush from your lover’s countenance. Once, twice, a little rain shower for two. 

Out of all the people you know, Yoongi might be the strongest. 

“Everything okay, baby?”

When he finally speaks, your heart beats at his praise. Because it’s so far from what you expect, and far from what you usually tell yourself. “So goddamn perfect..”

“You think so?” You smile with your eyes, noticing the cut on his lower cheek and noting to patch that one again. “Maybe I am.” 

Finally, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t reject it. 

And Yoongi’s slow grin of pride is the best and most beautiful reward you could’ve received.

Fuck, the things you would do to see that every day. Is being in tune with yourself all you need to make him proud? Is that really all he wants for you? 

Who’s really the perfect one here? 

“You have been this whole time,” he whispers, kissing moonlight into your wrist. “Ever since you came over.” 

…What? 

This time, you do hesitate, moving away to confirm that you heard him correctly. 

Are you both on the exact same wavelength? Because how in the world is he referencing the same date and time that you were just thinking about? “...Really?”

“I’m not just saying that, doll.” Yoongi’s brows touch. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing, just what used to be everything. Your mouth bends in a sad upward curve. “I just… No one’s told me that except you.”  

“Look at me.”

You slowly peel your lids upward, mesmerized by how Yoongi’s somehow glowing in the last fading colors of dusk.  

“If you’ve never been told you’re perfect, everyone’s a fucking idiot.” 

Oh, how you love this man. “It’s true,” you shrug. “But like we were saying. Everyone else can eat shit anyway.” 

Yoongi doesn’t laugh when you do, simply moving his hands to your waist. “I meant what I said,” he continues with conviction. “You don’t see it yet, but you will.” 

God, your ears are searing right through. How is he still going? “Stop,” you pout, hand pressed against his solid chest. “No one can be that perfect.”

“I meant for me.”

Your thoughts grind to a halt. “What?”

All Yoongi does is tilt his chin higher. But it’s enough to drive you to the brink, catapulted further by his words and his look void of any teasing,

“No one will ever come close.” 

You’re already building the floor plan for a second home next door.

Does Yoongi know he can’t just say things like that and get away with it? You can only handle so much praise before your mind explodes. Truly, any amount is already hard enough to accept. Shouldn’t he be the one that understands your predicament the most? 

So unfair.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you groan, cheeks simmering and warm. “You cannot just say that and expect me to be okay.”

A huff of amusement adds more heat to your skin. “Maybe it’s why I do.”

“Of course it is.”

Smiling, his touch slowly travels to your ass, and his squeeze makes you flinch against his lap. 

“Babe?” You freeze. “What are you—”

“Angel,” he suddenly grits out in reverence, leaning forward to kiss the bare skin of your chest. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yoongi,” you gasp as his hands slip under your top. “We shouldn’t until you’re—”

“I’m good.” He breathes you in. “Promise. I just..”

Your breath catches in your throat, tugging your hands out to wrap around his hair and clutch soft strands. “Just what?”

Inhaling again, Yoongi kisses deeper between your breasts, sending shivers spiraling across your bones. “I need you so fuckin’ bad.”

“Oh.” You squirm not just in shyness, but something a lot more devious. “I need you, too, baby… But I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a quick snap, Yoongi shoves you onto his pelvis, and you yelp at the friction against his hardened tent. “I don’t even give a shit if you do.” Tugging you forward again, he breaks at your whine. “But if I wait any longer I’ll lose my fucking mind.” 

“Shit.” Bliss erupts as your legs squeeze his hips. Throwing the last scraps of your dignity, you snatch his face with both hands, core buzzing when his eyes lock with your lips, “Are you sure? I have to know because—”

“Yes, angel—”

“I’m—I’m serious, Yoongi, you don’t get it,” you say with barely held restraint, now knowing everything this man has been willing to do for you and the people you both love. There’s a dark, scary, obsidian part of you that is far from the nickname he’s giving. A little beast growling and crouching, ready to lunge. “I… I want…”

And you let it loose when you whisper exactly what you’ve been wanting to do this entire time, eyes innocent yet tongue fiendish on the shell of his ear,

“I want to ruin you.”

Fuck. 

Never. Ever. Has Yoongi’s reaction sent shivers down your skin so fast. You already consider stopping because you’re outright quaking from the things you want to do to him. The waves are coming fast and your first instinct is to run. 

But there’s an intensity in his eyes swirling so fiercely it tugs you from shore, and you barrel past all your own muddled excuses as soon as he claws into your soul,

“Do it.”

“Finally.” 

Your mouths clash hard as you swallow his tongue from above, stretching his neck over the back of the couch and melting your front onto his. Breathy sounds come from you or him, you aren’t quite certain, but you give his mouth a final shove before attacking his cheek, his jaw, the soft column of his neck. 

Shuddering at his moan when you suck a vein. 

“My baby’s so sensitive,” you taunt, mocking his words from days and days past. “Gonna have fun with you.”

“Who’d you learn all that from,” he slowly rasps back, groaning when you rake nails along his bare shoulders. “Fuck.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You push onto your knees, grabbing his head and yanking him back by those luscious locks fuck he’s already heavy lidded and wanton. Seeing Yoongi so blissed out when you’ve barely started with him? Holy shit you’re so turned on your cunt squeezes around nothing. “Too bad.” 

“What the fuck is happening.” 

Humming, your descent is quick, pressing lips deep into the skin of his throat and licking, swirling, lapping at the sweat already forming from his body’s flinches and locks. Because Yoongi is gripping the cushions of his couch and fighting for his goddamned life. 

When you feel his arms sling around your back, you sigh into his skin. And when he scratches all fingers down your shoulders, you realize exactly why he likes when you do the same.

That shit felt divine. It’s the ultimate encouragement to keep tugging on his hair, yanking his groan to the side to pepper kisses along his good shoulder. “Told you, baby,” you whisper to his silky tone. “You have no idea what’s coming.” 

Yoongi’s only response is a breathy laugh as you slide your twisting core over his sweats. “You better be fuckin’ careful.” 

“And why is that,” you ask, taunting him with another slow roll up his excruciatingly hard tent. Fuck, you wanted to take your time but you are seconds away from caving he’s already hitting your spot just right. “Why should I listen to you?” 

It takes less than a second to remember how strong he is, both arms slamming you onto his dick as he launches his hips upward. Your mewl morphs into a wicked grin when he threatens so delightfully, 

“Cus when it’s my turn, you’re fucked, doll.” 

Giggles bubble from your stomach as hands slide down his neck. Pressing your forehead against his and feeling your perspiration, too, you goad with a feigned pout, “Promise?” 

When he grins, there aren’t any words, his eyes locked on your heaving chest. Hot palms slide down to your ass, squeezing out a moan as he bites his lip. “Of course, baby girl.” 

You can’t lose to him. 

When you push your body against his neck, you revel in the way his face nestles in your bosom, glasses slightly fogged and face already flushed to hell. “It’s cute,” you purr downward, “How you think you’re even getting a turn.” 

Fucking hell, Yoongi’s eyes are so blown out they swallow you whole. 

And you welcome the abyss with open arms. “Let me.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve always taken care of me.” Gently, you caress the hair on his nape. “Let me take care of you this time.”

You watch as light beams into his gaze, and you slowly descend for a kiss, molding into him and breathing in that musk you love so much. If his eyes are the abyss, yours are the void, the monster in your belly on its haunches and ready to roar again. 

“Gonna ask one more time,” you whisper to his parted mouth. “You sure I won’t hurt you?” 

The dark chuckle you get in response rumbles your ribcage. “You already have,” he says through a devilish slant. “And it feels so fucking good.” 

Oh. You know exactly what he means. 

And this is the moment you break. 

Your deep kiss is a prelude to the ones you plant along his jaw, careful not to touch his wounds as you slide your way down his other side. The fingers you feel skating along your tee are twitching and vibrating with need, and the soft moans you hear launch arrows to your core. 

God, he sounds so pretty. Is this what he thinks about when you’re unraveling under his touch? 

It’s addicting. It’s vitalizing. You want more more more. 

Growing bolder in lust, you kiss down Yoongi’s arm, saliva coating his smooth skin before your finger impishly shifts his tank to the side. As soon as his nipple is freed, your mouth cups it hot, tongue swirling—

“What the fuck?” 

Your cunt pulses wild as Yoongi bucks forward, his head digging into the top of the couch and fingers digging divots in your hips. Arms wrap around your waist in a snap, and you keep sucking just to feel him hang on tighter and tighter and tighter. 

Then you bite. 

And Yoongi flings out a moan so loud you might come.

“Baby, hold on—”

Your fingers rake down his shoulder before squeezing around his other nub, back straining in the tight bend you’re in but it’s worth it all to hear him like this. Like he can’t even function and can’t say anything other than your name. God, it is a high it is a drug. You should’ve been taking the reins a lot more often than the one time you sucked him off so hard he—

Speaking of.

Your lips release his chest with a pop, and you feel drool slathered all over your face when your command dies on your lips, “Lemme…” 

Holy fuck, Yoongi is gone. 

Hair astray, jaw loose, brows pinched to hell and an angry flush of red flooding his chest. Just the mere sight of him this undone makes you whine, and your brain can’t even remember what you want to say. 

Chests heaving, you both simply drink each other in. Because while he looks near collapse, you fear you aren’t faring much better. You already know a strap of your tee has left your shoulder, and your senses are so overblown you know your eyes look volcanic. 

And you know for a fact you’re so fucking wet. 

“Sit at the edge. For me,” you command through heavy breaths. “Now.” 

Your neck is grabbed before you’re tugged into a kiss, and you match his manic energy before dropping to his rug. His pants are quickly stripped right after, cock springing free and already imprinting on the back of your throat. 

Well. Yoongi did say he’s gonna lose his fucking mind. May as well make that a reality. 

“Babe—”

Your mouth gulps him up before he can get the words out, cheeks hollowing and ears perking at his smattering of hisses. You don’t know what the fuck he was gonna say, and quite frankly, you don’t care. All you’re focused on is giving him your worst, swirling tongue around his tip and squeezing his base with a sure hand. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Sucks, licks, twirls are all practiced and measured, and you slide all the slick down his length before pumping him the way he likes. His heady scent enters your nose the more of him you swallow, and you feel the telltale strain in your pipe with each deep pass. 

Fuck, he is unwinding. And Yoongi being so vocal is the reason for the slick coating your thighs, because you damn near lose it when a moan leaves that mouth at a higher pitch than normal what the fuck was that? 

“Fuck, babe,” he grits through tight teeth. “So fucking—”

Curses tumble down your back in waves, slick palms hovering over your head and brushing the side of your face. Yoongi can’t decide where to keep his hands as your slobber coats and coats him, finally settling on your scalp and gripping it with need. 

Popping off and fully rising on your knees, you let him tilt your head back as he leans forward, drinking in his handsome face and loving the fact he hasn’t taken those goddamn glasses off. Strings web from your chin to his throbbing cock, and you have the boldest audacity to ask,

“What, baby?” 

He can only shake his head with a smirk. “I can’t even fucking say.” 

Body heat passes over your wet chin as you rasp out another question, “Does it feel good?” 

“The fuck?” He kisses your shiny forehead as cold jewelry taps your skin. “I can’t even think straight.” 

“Good,” you hum, sliding your palm along his wet cock and basking in his shuddering moans. Not only does he sound beautiful, but his cologne sends you spiraling even further. 

And you’re going somewhere you’ve never gone before. “There’s still this, too..” 

You haven’t done this yet. At least, you don’t think you have. But the idea came to you this week when you’ve had plenty of time to hatch menacing plans, and your body is buzzing to fulfill something you think Yoongi wants. Because who the fuck wouldn’t want this? 

Lowering both thin straps of your top, you let your breasts free, watching Yoongi shamelessly groan at the sight of them. “Just for you, baby,” you vow, squeezing both tits around his cock and feeling him twitch like mad. 

“You’re fuckin’ lying,” Yoongi growls low, words scraped from the roof of his mouth as he flings his head back. “Fuck!” 

Delighted to hell, you laugh at his slipping grip on sanity. Yes yes yes, this is where you love to see him. He deserves nothing but ecstasy after everything he’s given, and you’re here to provide. A goddess worshipping her forever love. An angel delivering sin. 

“Look at me, Yoongi,” you whine, oozing desire as he leans forward covered in lust and sweat. Your hands continue to slide your tits along his velvety veins, your essence coating them in a shine the more spit they gather. “There you go.” 

“Fucking hell, doll.” 

“You like it?” 

Yoongi reaches out to caress a nipple, and your flinch coaxes wickedness from his curve. “So fucking nasty for me.” 

You can’t help but grin, reaching to grip his cock between your tits. “Only you.” 

His lips catch yours before your breath finishes, and your eyes slip shut as you feel his palms around your jaw. His presence envelops you from all sides, and you want to exist nowhere else. The world can fall away and cease to turn on its axis, and you’d still be right here, orbiting this man in darkness in silence in triumph in joy. 

Pure emotion is what lowers your head back onto his cock, taking so much of him your throat constricts in surprise alone. When he knocks the back of your walls, your brain jangles with his guttural moan, and you choke around him so hard your eyes prick with tears. 

“Shit.” 

You stay pressed against his pelvis a second more, gasping when you come up for air and immediately latching onto his sack. Over your head, you hear your name shoot out of Yoongi’s lips, and your eyes slide high enough to see him on his last thread of coherency. 

“Doll, you gotta—you gotta stop—” 

“I don’t wanna—” 

Your entire head is yanked onto his thigh, breaths heavy and gulping in all the oxygen on the planet. Beads of sweat start to slide down your neck, and you look up to see Yoongi’s bangs clinging to his moist skin. 

Again, you find yourself coughing out laughter. Because you’re doing exactly what you set out to do. “Surprised?”  

“Not at all,” he huffs out, looking like a man completely satiated and spent. “This is all I’ve been waiting for.” 

Oh? That’s news to you. Now you really do wish you started embracing this side of you sooner. “Hope it’s what you wanted.” 

“Fucking… overachiever, fuck.” 

Grin lopsided, you fully rest your head on toned muscle. “I almost came,” you admit with not one ounce of shyness. “Sucking you off.” 

If you aren’t mistaken, Yoongi’s soul damn near leaves his body entirely. “You’re not allowed to say shit like that.” 

“What,” you wheeze out, limbs gelatinous and cunt pulsing. “It’s true.” 

“I don’t wanna hear it.” When you puff laughter onto his leg, he grins. “Had to stop you before I came, too.” 

“Help me up, please,” you breathe out, loving how Yoongi assists without pause. Your body is slowly lifted from the floor as he helps you climb back on his lap, and you immediately find purchase in his chest. “That took more energy than I thought.” 

Breathy laughs tickle your ear. “Lie down for me then, babe.”

“No,” you pout. “Wanna keep. Going.” 

Ever the giving lover, Yoongi lets you take a breather as he rubs circles on your back. “Whatever you want.” 

You turn to slowly kiss his slick neck, traveling further the more access he gives. With each tender plant on his skin, you find more and more strength, but it’s less of the manic kind and more of the outright desire to encase him in love. 

His palms slide up your back, caught in your straps before rising higher to grip your shoulder blades. When he digs fingers into your skin, you moan into his throat, licking a spot that has him purring. 

“Let me get a condom, love,” he whispers in your ear. And you oblige with a melting slide off of his thighs. “So cute.” 

It isn’t long until Yoongi returns, but you practically fuse into the couch when you notice that he’s ditched the tank, leaving his chains and the fucking glasses still? 

Oh. Cool. You’re a goner and now your shorts are drenched.

But you have to remove them anyway, so you slowly stand and make a spectacle out of your strip. Your chest beats loud as Yoongi watches from his seat, his eyes cast in heavy desire watching you slip your bottoms to the floor. You can only focus on the way he rolls protection on, because there’s no way you can hold eye contact with a demon for so long. 

When your top hits the ground next, his gravelly hum makes you feel like a god. How ironic, when he commands your every heaven and hell. 

“Come here.” 

Silent, you slowly mount him once more, pouting to his fiendish smile and narrowing your eyes. “How’d you know to leave them on.” 

Yoongi’s teeth shine as he spreads that stupid, cocky grin. And his lack of an answer has you gritting your annoyance out in pure ire, 

“You asshole.” 

Of course he only laughs. 

Bright, white need booms through your center as you grip his shoulders, positioning yourself over his dick with no hands and sliding right on oh holy fuck this part will always leave you breathless from how big he is—

“That’s so hot,” he groans to the ceiling, “Goddamn.” 

Wild, fluttering pulses erupt around his cock, and you have to breathe through the connection as you sink and sink and sink. Your thighs burn so deliciously as you adjust, and you start to wonder how long you’ll last without his help. Because your legs are fucking burning. “So big,” you hitch. “Feels too damn good.” 

“So fucking tight.” 

Both of you groan when you fully sheath, and your slow rocks are enough to send him in a cursing frenzy. Yoongi can’t stop praising you as you move against him, holding you close and breathing down your chest. There are words you’ve heard him say many times, but there’s one that snaps your attention in threes and makes your head twirl. 

What did he just say? 

“Kiss me.” 

You do exactly that, keeping your achingly slow pace and molding your whole body with his. The hard rims of his specs hit your skin as you push deeper, and you grip his slippery neck to keep yourself from falling even harder for him. 

It’s no use. You think you’ll be falling forever. 

Because your love for him is endless. 

Life is significant when you’re joined and moving as one. Sweat drips down your skin in rivulets, but you both don’t care. All you know is how deep he feels inside, how perfect you fit him, how in love you are with every determined stroke.

You tilt his head to kiss him deep, and you shudder at the way he moans and throbs beneath you, 

“You’re so…” 

“Hmm?” 

Yoongi’s eyes struggle to find your face. “I don’t even.. know.” 

“Try.” Damn, he really is fighting to stay in one piece. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this and it’s thrilling, and addicting, and everything you want. “What’s on your mind, my love.” 

“You,” he gasps. “Just you, I can’t…” 

You can’t believe what you’re witnessing. Yoongi is downright entranced. 

Is this what you looked like that first day you came over? Is this how he saw you when you completely lost yourself around him? His fucked out face alone is filling you with a fierce need to fulfill every wish he’s too scared to ask for. 

A hand moves to cut his airway, and the groan you feel under your fingers is almost as sinful as the smirk stretching across his face. 

“That’s my girl,” he manages beyond your hold, chuckling at the way you squeeze around his cock because fuck even underneath you he has so much power. “Give it to me.” 

Fuck. You tighten your hold, shoving his head up and over the couch. “You asked.” 

Planting your feet on either side of him, you give yourself more power and leverage to your bounces, lifting with each thrust and slamming down the full length of him. 

“Shit!” 

Big, sweaty hands grip under your thighs, helping you in your quest to destroy him and reaching back to slap your ass. You buck forward with each pleasurable sting, whining into his mouth when you swallow his lips, both mouths parting in pleasure with each thump of your skin against his.

“Baby, this feels—” Your arms sling around to grip the back of the couch, and you fling a moan to the ceiling as Yoongi latches onto one of your tits, hot tongue swirling around a nipple and emitting sounds that should never be heard in public. “Fuck!” 

“Taste so fucking good.” 

“Yoongi!” 

Goddamn, are you already about to come? The throbbing you feel in your cunt is so demanding you think he’s already at his wit’s end, too. 

“Angel, lemme feel you,” Yoongi breathes up to your chin. “Come for me so I can paint these tits.” 

Your groan tears the deepest part of your soul, and your whole body goes limp as your lover does the work for you, sliding you up and down his cock as his ridges hit just right. His hips thrust up to meet halfway, and you whine into his ear the harder and faster he starts to go. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes, grunting out when you squeeze him hard. “Fuck, good girl.” 

Your whine pierces straight through his couch. 

Shit, even with his help, you feel an unbearable sting in your muscles. All of them in your lower body are screaming to stop, but you want to keep going going going for him. “My legs,” you wheeze out anyway. “I need to relax for a sec.” 

With a kiss to your cheek, Yoongi offers with no hesitation, “Lie down, love.” 

Oh. Is he sure? “You gonna be okay?” 

Wordlessly, he presses you against him as your back sinks into his couch. It’s the most gentle he’s been tonight, and that turns you on so much you know he can feel you pulse around him. 

But he says nothing, eyes roaming your face before he leans to capture your lips, breaths mingling and wisping around your cheeks while he completes a perfect roll of his hips. 

“You’ve given me everything.” Sliding his glasses off, he sets them on the ground before cupping your ear. “Let me do the same.”  

Soul glimmering, you nod in silence. 

As much as you love being on top and watching him unravel beneath you, this is where you will always find home. In his arms, love between your lips as you find connection in more than just below, joining as one. 

Your world spans from the room in his heart that you’ve been blessed to have, to the end of his shadow that you will always forgive. You can’t think of anything to say now, but it’s not because you’re shy. 

It’s because you aren’t the same person you were when you first ended up here, and you think Yoongi has also changed for the better. 

That is exactly why you will fight to make everything work. 

Moonlight streams strong through the blinds, and you adore how it highlights every part of this man above your twinkling eyes. The silver lining pales in comparison to what you have in your hands, and the slight tint will never compare to his ethereal shade of blue. Every inch of him feels perfect in your folds, and his body slots into yours just right, roll after roll so heavenly you feel like crying. 

“I love you,” Yoongi whispers to your soul, and you fling yourself off the edge just to get to him, tide crashing and swirling as you hold him so, so tight. 

He groans hot against your slick cheek, no doubt feeling the desperate tug of your walls, and collapses the beautiful weight of his body on yours. 

Yes. This is what you want. Him him him and his complete loss of control. 

When you rake nails across his back, the outright whine you hear spurns you on, and you can’t help but come again, squeezing him tight and hearing him lose his mind twice. You crash into waves of your own creation, spiraling in your own whirlpool of need and want and love and desire and every fucking thing in between. 

“I’m yours,” you whoosh out, mewling in his ear as he strokes into you harder. “Come for me, love.”

It seems he completely abandons his first plan. Because you think he’s gonna pull out to unload on your chest, but you get held down so hard you scream. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, Yoongi’s never come so hard for you, thrashing as he clutches you tight. Desperate, you moan from how powerful he twitches inside, spilling into you but not the way you want. Not the way he wants. But you will get there one day and you don’t fucking care if anything happens after that, as long as you’re with him. 

Honestly? You’d be fine with… Something happening after that—

“Fuck..”

Your future thoughts are interrupted by harsh breaths, and you sling tired arms around the love of your life. 

“I’m yours, too, doll.” He grits his teeth and tightens his hold around your spent form. “That’s it. This is it for me.” 

“And I love you, too,” you heave to his deep set brows, swallowing oxygen and searching his eyes for something else. “How do you feel?”

“There’s… There’s no noise.” 

No noise?

“I…” Yoongi clutches your head with a warm palm, eyes settling into soft crescents and sparkling like celestials. “The only thing I hear is you.” 

This has to be big news for him. It has to be, given the outright relief showing on his face. So instead of questioning further, you only give your support and celebrate this win, “That’s all you need, to be fair.”

His laugh lights your soul aflame. “Thank you.” Eyes roaming along your face, he smiles. “For everything.” 

Following his advice earlier, you ask him another question you need to know the answer to, “Will you tell me if things get bad again?”

Shit. There seems to be a war in his head, and you wait with bated breath. “Gonna be honest.. I don’t know if I’ll remember to.”

Well, that’s a little scary. You tap him to sit up, and he obliges. “Why?”

Instead of sitting, Yoongi stands from the cushions, holding your hand to lift you beside him. It’s intimate to be naked just like this in his living room, but you aren’t shying away. This is your place now, too, you’d like to believe, and this is Yoongi’s way of showing it. 

When he leads, you know you’re heading to the bathroom. But you listen as he tries to explain, rolling off the condom and chucking it in the nearest bin,

“It’s.. I dunno. Like my mind just leaves and goes off the rails and I can’t stop it.” You both head into his room. “Everything I think about just comes in at once and I’m drowning again.” 

“Oh, baby.. I didn’t know it was like that.” When you stop him near his desk, you give a kiss of support to his cheek. “What about talking to someone?” 

For the upteenth time today, Yoongi is stunned. “Like a psychiatrist?"

“Hmm. Maybe, or a therapist? Depends on what you want, but I can’t remember right now. Have no think.”

Looking down, Yoongi reaches for his phone next to his keyboard, and both of you check up on the definitions while you hook an arm around his. Looks like he’d be better off with a therapist for what he’s looking for.  

“It could help,” you murmur, hoping he’s fine with your suggestion. “Maybe.”

Staring and looking through more pages and sites, Yoongi comes to his own conclusion. “I think you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Phone thudding down on his desk, he rubs your shoulder, thumb brushing and feeling beautifully warm. “Most of the time.”

Your poke to his side sets off a flinch. 

“For now, you just have to find something that calms you down.” You extricate yourself from his side and head to the bathroom, feeling the chill of night air on your bare skin. “Like something that will just.. I dunno, make you forget all the bad shit for a little while.” 

“It’s you, doll.” 

You turn to face him across the room, eyes searching for any doubt as he walks up to your planted feet. 

“This whole time, it’s always been you.” Reaching for your hips, he softly connects your front to his. “My nights are for sleeping again.”

Oh. That’s more than you can bear to know. Touched, you caress his hair, eyes teary and full. “Good. It felt like something was bothering you this whole week, but. Maybe I was just reading into it too much.” 

“You aren’t wrong.” He swallows, gaze looking towards his bed. “I… Wrote some songs. At the hospital.” When you don’t say anything, he stares at your lips. “And I really, really wanna work on them.” 

Wait. That’s it? “Oh. That’s what you’ve been working on here? I won’t keep you if you need to work on them now.” 

“Nah, I’ve just been doing the instrumentals here. If I wanna record vocals, I’d have to go to the studio.” 

This is so confusing. Does he think he can’t go? Or does he think you wouldn’t wanna go with him? “...Okay?” 

He finally regards your eyes, stunned that you’d readily let him go. “Okay?”

“Yes, silly. If it’s something you need to go do, then do it.” You feel bad if you were the reason he couldn’t do what he’s been wanting to do. Maybe you should be more vocal in your support instead of just your actions. “Just show me what you end up doing because I’m nosy.”

“Come with me.”

“Hmm?”

Yoongi pulls you close, leading both your hands around his side and your faces closer. And it’s criminal how dashing he looks in those specs with his hair falling around the rims. “To the studio. Come with me.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as your pulse quickens. “You sure, baby?”

“No one’s gonna be there for a minute,” he assures. “We still got a bit of time before anyone comes in.”

“If you’re okay with it..” Suddenly shy, you stare at the silver on his chest.“I’ve always wanted to come see you at work, so.”

“No shit?” Yoongi’s face lights up so fast you’d think the moon dipped into the room. “Let’s go then.” 

—

—

This is happening. This is actually happening. 

A whole wave of excitement drenches you as you’re brought into the studio you’ve only heard about. 

Shelves of equipment line one wall while a black sofa sits right near the door, hugging the backside of the room. On the far side, you see one huge workstation, littered with different buttons, sliders, computer monitors, and backed by a speaker system that stands in front of a long glass window. 

Oh. Sick. There’s a recording booth attached right to their room, and even that space looks pretty decently sized. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes wide as you take in your surroundings. The air itself feels new and exciting, full of promise and dreams and… one Min Yoongi smiling at you from the doorway. 

Laughing, you blurt, “What?” 

His teeth shine as he looks down, shutting the door and making his way towards you. The way he walks makes you feel many things, but above all, it lets you know how at home he feels here. How comfortable and in his element. “Nothing, doll,” he says through a grin. “Just watching you.” 

Your eyes cannot sparkle bright enough. But you let him pull you into his arms as you keep looking around. “It’s amazing,” you note with wonder. “No wonder you practically live here.”

There’s no malice or anything negative in your tone. So you’re confused when Yoongi’s shoulders drop. “Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes downcast. “I always try to make things quick.”

Your eyes snap to his. “What? No, don’t do that.” Sliding palms up his jaw, you look him head on. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, okay? I don’t care how much time you spend here, not if it’s what you wanna do.” 

You meant it earlier. He has to know you’re gonna support his dreams and aspirations no matter what. In actions, and in words. If he doesn’t know that yet? Well. You aren’t trying hard enough to drive the point home. 

Yoongi twists his face to kiss one of your hands. “Thanks, baby.” 

Oh. Baby again. Not babe. Why does him saying that make you crumble a hundred times over? “Of course. And don’t mind me while we’re here, okay? I’ll be invisible unless you need my help.” 

Looking towards the workstation, Yoongi contemplates before turning back with a small nod. “I do, actually.” 

Wait, you even get some hands-on action? Yoongi’s gonna teach you shit? Tonight is the best night ever. “Perfect, put me to work. What are we doing, producer man?” 

—

—

Yoongi bobs in the recording booth while you do the same and await his first masterpiece. 

And as he spits line after line, you hype him up, grabbing your chair arm and yelling out as he completes another rhyme. 

Fuck, he’s good and quick-witted, which is inherently a turn on for you and launching you into his magnetic stratosphere. You start getting up to bounce in place, and he raps to the rug as you keep encouraging him to continue. He can’t hear you, but he can see you, and you’re certain those flashing smiles are for your antics. 

It’s amazing how Yoongi can just do this. He’s truly a genius, and you’re starting to wonder what other artistic prowess he has. You would be fine just sitting on the back couch and watching him work any day of the week. Why haven’t you been doing this sooner? 

Well. There are two pretty damn obvious reasons.

The beat bumps and bumps after he finally finishes, and you wait the designated seconds before cutting the recording line. Something about letting it run a bit as to not cut off the backend off his recorded part.

Just like that, Yoongi’s done with two out of the three songs he wrote in that waiting room. You shout in vehement support as he grins at your bouncing, standing ovation. As he comes through the recording door, you buzz at his amused as hell question, “What are you even doing in here?”

“Uhh, hyping you up? That was so good!”

His laugh creases those beautiful, spectacled eyes. “It’s just one verse per song!”

“Just one—let me try,” you command, settling back into your rolling chair. “Run it again and watch me.”

“Oh, yeah?” A few hisses of laughter shoot out as he peers up at the overhead screen. “Let’s see it then.”

The beat starts and you try to find a good first line to rhyme with. And this is meant to demonstrate to Yoongi that he is miles above everyone in rapping, but you start to get into it, using the simplest sentences and shouts and making your lover laugh his ass off.

But he’s egging you on and bobbing his head so enthusiastically that you’re somehow finding all the right words to say, elated when he shouts and looks at you with hearts in his eyes.

Your chuckle is softer and softer as you stop. “What?”

“You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks sizzle right underneath. “You just say that because you’re happy.” 

“I am happy,” Yoongi says without hesitation, which makes your heart soar. “But you’re also perfect.” 

You cannot deal with this level of affection right now. Not when you both came for him to work on something important. Plopping into the rolling chair again, your stomach flips as it leans back a bit. “And you need to focus,” you order, rolling close and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You have one more to go, if my counts are correct.”

His eyes have a very intentional glint as he creases them at you, but he lets you steadily roll to the side as he looks at the console. “I have to move some tracks around, so this might take a sec. If you get bored, though, tell me and we can leave.”

“Not until you’re done.” 

Yoongi looks at you again, and he watches your smile. “You sure?”

When you nod, you take hold of your phone and lean into the plush but firm back of the chair. Unlocking your screen, you hum, “I’ll keep myself busy somehow.” 

“Come here.” 

Although low, Yoongi’s voice is more than enough to get your attention. Head raising, you see him angling himself towards you before rising out of his seat. 

Wait. What’s he doing? You know he’s supposed to be working. You both agreed this wouldn’t result in any funny business. But your throat remains closed and silent under those eyes. Fuck, they’re smoldering. Seriously, what is he doing? 

Leaning down, Yoongi places firm hands on your armrests, caging you in and letting his chain swing free, “I said come here.”

Well. If he doesn’t give a shit? Fuck it then.

You giggle before willfully meeting his lips, neck craning to reach him and swooning at the way his cold silver hits your throat. You’re nowhere near a bed nor couch anymore, but that’s exactly where your mind wanders for the quickest of seconds. 

Turns out, you aren’t the only one. Your mind has company. And it, along with your whole body, shivers at the next words pouring like liquid, spiced honey from that devilishly curved mouth, 

“I know we said what we said.”

“Uh huh…”

“But following the rules.. hasn’t exactly been my style.”

Your breath hitches at those mischievous eyes. “Even if they’re yours?”

Yoongi lets out a breath of a laugh, like he knew you would ask that and he’s got his answer loaded in the chamber. “Doll, there’s only one set of rules I wouldn’t break.” 

“And which ones are—”

Snatching your quick lips, he kisses butterflies into your belly before gripping your chin, holding your gaze and melting you with one syllable. 

“Yours.”

Maybe you’re about to pass away in a studio. But at least you’d have an excuse to stay in here forever now, because you could listen to Yoongi perform and record every day of your life. 

“The number of times…” He kisses you again, chaste and full. “I’ve thought about you in here…”

“Me…?” You breathe out before your eyes slip shut in another kiss. “Why?”

“One, I think about you everywhere.” He kisses your neck. “And two? Just cus I shouldn’t.” 

You suddenly get an idea. About a home studio that you certainly can put to use. But this one would have to do—

“Alright, old man,” you stop his next advance with a stiff arm. “Get to work before I make you.” 

“Ugh.” Yoongi rises with a deep chuckle. “You’re lucky I love that.” 

“I know you do.” 

“This is the last one anyway,” he notes, picking up his notebook and tapping it with a pen. “Just wanna make sure you’re fine hearing it.” 

“Of course I am, baby.” You roll up to the workstation as Yoongi loads a file into the interface. Based on the ones you already heard, you know why he’s asking you about this third track. Now you’re even more nervous to be in the room. “I’m not the one paying for the studio time.” 

His cheeks leap to the sky when he grins at the monitors, shifting things around the screen with the deftness of a professional. “Why do you seem so comfy here?” 

Your heart follows through the roof. Because you have the same feeling, but you already know the reason. It’s working right in front of you. “Because this is your home,” you respond through a smile. “And I can finally see why.” 

His hands pause as emotions race across his face. And while you think you can pick some of them out, a few of them border on melancholic. Regardless, you’re sticking to your answer, eyeing him when he faces you one more time. 

Bending, he cups your chin so, so tender. “You’re my home,” he corrects with a whisper, and your heart glows with his soft kiss to your cheek. “Now stop distracting me, brat.” 

Oh, he’s got to be joking! “What did I do!” 

Yoongi simply laughs as he checks everything over. With a tap of his fingers, he seems satisfied, so he heads into the recording room. “Just remember to do the same thing.” 

“Yeah, I got it.” 

Exhaling from your mouth, you watch as he slips on headphones and adjusts the mic. When he gives you a thumbs up, you give him a nod, hitting record and letting music flood the studio. 

And your entire body is surrounded by a desperate sense of longing, wildly different from the first two songs, and you slowly stand because you can’t do anything else. 

You understand everything now. 

Why Yoongi wouldn’t leave your side, why he was so eager to see you. You feel it now, too. This pull, this yearning, this overwhelming feeling in your chest that is tugging you closer and closer to him. There aren’t many words yet, but you understand what he’s trying to convey. 

This man can have the universe and then some. 

When Yoongi notices your tear-stained cheeks, he holds your gaze before slowly slipping his headphones down his hanging head.

It takes everything for you to stop the recording, shaking as you slowly walk to the recording room entrance. As you open the door, it feels more than symbolic, and a pang rings in your chest at the sight of Yoongi’s reddened eyes.  

So you bolt, crushing him into a hug and letting all those moments of separation and confusion and anger fall from your eyes. It’s not just a song, it’s a plea. It’s a cry for help. And you’re gonna answer it every single time. 

“I’m here, Yoongi,” you whisper. “I’ll always be here.” 

He doesn’t look when you cup his chin. 

“Baby, look at me.” He finally does, and your chest tightens so quick you choke. “It’s gonna be alright.” 

“You think so.” 

“Yes.” You smile, giving him a calming kiss that gets your point across. Then another to his cheek. And another to his forehead. Nothing heated. Nothing intense. Only the purest connection. “I’ll always lo—”

Every hair you have stands on end. 

Because a booming intercom buzzes across the room with a crackle and a snap, and all your peace flees as you snap your head to the window. 

Blanching at the person watching on the other side. 

“Yoongi, what the fuck?”

—

—

tbc :)

-

how did we enjoy the last drop!! | join the server!

a/n: AND THE WHOLE PART IS UPPPPP woohoo! thank you all for bringing such joy and love to this series that means the world to me. i cannot have asked for a cooler community, and knowing you guys have been waiting for this all this time? i could cry. even after all this time, you're still here. or you're just finding this series and joining us on this journey. thank you all for being here, and here's to... well... The Big Events. #prayForMe #willBeCryingOnMyKeyboard

++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here!

++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!

explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing

—

—

It’s morning when Jimin gets a call. 

Shifting in sheets that aren’t his, he sleepily blinks once before eyeing the blue light with a squint, wondering who dares wake him up before his natural rise. What time even is it anyway? It’s gotta be an ungodly hour if his circadian rhythm is disturbed. 

Still, he grabs his cell from the nightstand, flinching at the movement behind him and inwardly slinging out curses. 

Because waking him up is one thing. 

But if anyone disturbs Taehyung he’s gonna give them hell—

Min Yoongi: Incoming Call

Shit.

Jimin yanks the covers off, rushing out of bed and snapping Tae awake anyway. For what? Don’t fucking know, but they’re ready. Wherever. Whatever. They already stayed up clutching their phones until they physically couldn’t keep their eyes open. 

Because as much as Yoongi assured him nothing would happen, Jimin still couldn’t let go of his car keys.

Answering slow, he feels his chest winding and winding, eyes locked with Taehyung while they both wait on edge, “…Yoongi?”

“Yeah.”

Thank the fucking stars. 

Yoongi’s okay. He’s on the line. He made it to morning or whatever fucking time it is, and he’s doing exactly what he said he would.

And it’s enough, enough, enough.

Burns zing up the corners of Jimin’s eyes, and he swipes hard as Taehyung moves, likely to hear what’s happening and even more likely to just be by his side. 

Jimin is grateful for either one. But he tries to keep composure as he croaks, “You better have woken me up for a reason.”

The slight hum on the line induces a wobbly smile. “You slept?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin shakily laughs, wiping liquid relief from an eye before Taehyung’s thumb brushes tenderly over the other. His gaze is thankful while continuing, “We did but not much.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sniffling, Jimin walks to Tae’s door, letting him into the hallway first and finally drinking in the sight of his ass in those sweats. Because he can finally function like a normal, smitten loser again. “We’ll come over so we can—”

“No need.”

“What?” Nope. Back to panic mode. And judging from his boyfriend’s posture, Taehyung has backpedaled into that, too. “What do you mean no need?”

There’s a slight pause on the line, and small noises make their way through the speaker. It sounds like bedsheets, but it also sounds like… 

“She’s still sleeping.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

A tidal wave of relief crashes into Jimin’s ducts as he hangs his head, palming his face caught in a heavy tide of emotion. When he turns, Taehyung fairs no better, his eyes red and fingers wiping at a perfect, perfect cheek. One of them sniffles, but Jimin can’t tell if it’s him or not, because his vision is blurry and his heart is beating, beating, beating again. 

Whether you know it or not, whatever you did last night may have just changed Yoongi’s entire life.

Because Jimin knows this man through and through. Years of picking up his habits and tells didn’t amount to nothing. It’s how he was able to sense exactly when to intervene, and how he knew exactly what that hauntingly hollow tone in Yoongi’s voice meant when he busted in that day. 

The tone he hears now? The man that just spoke on the line? 

That is a Min Yoongi so in love he can’t even hide it over the phone. 

Fuck. 

Gathering himself, Jimin squeaks out, “I… I’m glad you…” What the fuck does he say? Every thought jams in his throat so hard he has to hand the phone off.

Thankfully, Taehyung perfectly continues his thoughts, voice scratching rocks under a waking river, “We’re glad you’re both safe.”

“Mm.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

Jimin huffs through a fresh batch of tears, clearing his face before grinning at Tae very seriously awaiting an answer. Honestly, at this point? It’s not far-fetched. Jimin’s seeing your future clearer than his present, and maybe he will be a fun uncle sooner than he thinks.

If only Yoongi would just get the fucking talk with your brother over with. 

But Jimin understands the hesitation. If he were in that same position, there’s no telling when he would be courageous enough to stand up to the guy. There’s a reason he’s quick to command a room, and his lifelong mission to protect his younger sister made him grow up a lot faster than everyone else. 

Still… Yoongi just deserves to be happy. And you’re the very obvious answer to helping with that. 

As much as he may have wanted some chances of his own, Jimin is grateful you found your way into his best friend’s heart. Not just anyone is invited inside, and even less people can truly be allowed to stay. 

And you’re probably the only one that has permanent residence. 

“You guys should get some sleep.”

Taehyung pouts right on cue, and Jimin can’t fight those sleepy, droopy eyes. “You didn’t answer me.”

Cute as fuck! He must be stopped. Taking the phone, Jimin speaks into the line fully recovered, shooting his cheeky partner a teasing glare, “We will if you get some, too.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Got some things to do at the studio—”

“No!” They reject together, both equally as appalled because what the fuck kinda answer is that? 

“After what happened last night? Are you crazy?”

“What happened to spending time with her? Men!” 

“He’s going on a business trip, I can’t lose to him.”

“So what?” Tae asks before they both share an even further confused look. Yoongi may be a lovesick fool but that doesn’t give him an excuse to be a dumbass! “You’re just gonna leave her alone?”

There’s a sigh on the line before Jimin plants a hand on his hip. “Not just that. You gotta rest, too, bro. If she doesn’t tell you to take it easy or at least get checked—which she will—we’re going over there to annoy you.” 

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.” Jimin cocks his head and leans closer to the phone. “At least rest easy for the next couple days. Especially if you have all this time to see each other.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your brother is leaving for his trip and Yoongi caught some unfortunate hits to his ribs. The dude basically has a free pass to spend the whole week with you, and he’s not even taking full advantage of it? Oh, the things Jimin has to say about the thin line of work ethic and relationship effort. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it for a long time,” Taehyung cuts in before Jimin can pop off, walking away into the living room. 

It’s fine. Let him figure out that you aren’t a woman he can just leave. Frankly? That would tickle Jimin to no end to see Yoongi folding his plans so fast just to be with you. 

But he spares him the tirade only because you’re fast asleep right next to him. “Thank you for calling, man.”

“Said I would.”

“I know.” 

Because above all else, Jimin is happy to hear that voice. Even if it’s obvious he’s a little banged up from last night, it’s still Yoongi. In one piece. That’s all Jimin wanted, and he can’t thank you enough,

“Don’t overwork yourself, and stay with her as long as you can.”

There’s a small laugh on the other end. “I plan on it, Chim.”

And Jimin catches on to why. “I’m holding you to that then.” 

—

—

Dawn breaks through open blinds, stretching its orange tint across a clean, spotless table. 

You don’t know what got you up so early. But when you peer into the kitchen, you tell yourself you woke up right on time. 

Because seeing Yoongi when you’re wide awake is better than any dream you’ll ever have.

Not because of his appearance, even though the sight of him sends a pang through your chest. No. It’s the way he’s quietly prepping a morning meal, using the arm on his better side that’s not sporting a nasty hit to the ribs, without you even asking. 

Bits of sunlight dance right out of your eyes.

The effort. The consideration. This man shouldn’t be lifting a finger, yet here he is cooking before you even left his bed. Isn’t this the same man that got caught up in a fight hours ago? Isn’t this the same man you almost walked out on with a frozen heart? 

Yes. But he’s also the same man that loves you. And you still can’t grasp that concept in any of the fingers playing with his tee you borrowed.

“Hi,” you whisper, telling him a thousand things. 

To which he regards before smiling soft, voice travelling over linoleum and circling around your heart, “Morning, doll.”

Damn. You hear it. Yoongi’s sore as hell. 

But instead of getting into that right away, you silently take residence by his side. Because this moment feels too delicate, and you admire his willingness to take care of you unprompted. You didn’t even know you’d eat before going back home. 

With a hand warming his back, you wait until Yoongi’s done tossing food on the stove to peck his morning-chilled cheek. “Thank you for cooking,” you murmur, admiring those beautiful brown eyes. “Sleep okay?”

“Cus of you,” your lover softly responds, eyeing your lips before gliding back up to your gaze. “You?”

Ugh. He’s gotta know those glasses are so unfair. They’ve gotten you repeatedly before, and they’re certainly getting you now. 

But you can’t help but deflate at the cuts behind those rims, while knowing there are even more bruises hiding underneath his oversized tee. How is Yoongi cooking right now? How is he even awake? “Same.” 

“Good.” 

These instant, deep shivers at his deeper morning voice will never, ever go away. But anything you wanna do about them isn’t important right now. Right now, you need to make sure Yoongi is either okay, or finds a way to get better. 

Sliding your hands down the slopes of his chest, you delicately rest one on his ribs. “Does it still hurt?” 

Yikes. That wince is enough. But Yoongi doesn’t shy away from your touch, and you appreciate the way he stays honest. “It’s sore. But I should be good.”

“You gonna get it checked?”

There’s a slight upward tilt of his lips. “Not right now.” At least the honesty persists, as much as you don’t want him following the typical manly response to hospital visits. “But I will if you want me to.”

“Please go,” you gently urge, lest you disturb the soft morning dew before it melts with the sunrise. “For me?”

Only sizzles from the stove fill the space until Yoongi nods, and his voice is just as low and tender, “I’ll go after work.”

Oh. “You’re working today?”

Just like breakfast, you didn’t expect this, either. Frankly, you figured neither of you were gonna even think about work, much less go. Sure, he’s due a hospital visit and you owe some friends immediate explanations for your absence. But other than that, shouldn’t Yoongi be resting? 

Does his craft truly mean that much? 

Well, shit. You gotta respect his work ethic, that’s for damn sure. Because you would sequester yourself to your bedroom and have endless dates with your television if you were sporting a good jab or two. This music thing must mean more to Yoongi than you previously thought. And who are you to step on that dream? 

Suddenly, all thoughts and concerns flee from the kiss on your cheek. 

“I’ll stay if you stay,” he says, turning to move the pan and scrunching his face with a grunt. Fuck. 

“I…” Shit, you were gonna go back to the house anyway. And from Yoongi’s smartass smirk, you can tell he already knew that. “Just need to check on him, too. And he doesn’t have a car right now, so. I should at least give him a ride.” 

“Figured.” In a move so domestic your head spins, Yoongi turns your body and gently pats your butt. “Now go sit. Let’s eat and figure this out.” 

—

—

As you devour a flawless meal and clean your dishes, you plan out the day. You’ll head home and check on your brother while Yoongi heads to the studio, and then you’ll rendezvous with your friends to hang out until he’s done with work. They’re already lighting up your phone like no one’s business—especially Yuri. 

Yoongi flicks the sink off before you both head to his bedroom, and you melt at the way he slowly wraps his arms around your front halfway there, all four of your legs slowing to close the rest of the distance. 

What’s he doing? This is joyfully new, but you have a pretty tight deadline. Warming his forearm and your own cheeks, you chuckle out, “We have to hustle, old man.” 

“You hustle me all the time,” he accuses into your shoulder blade, kissing its ridge and making you reconsider walking out the door entirely. “Lemme have this.” 

Your second laugh is more subdued, and you’re right between his bed and desk when you lift both hands to hold him close. “You have everything I got,” you wisp into his skin, planting your lips once, twice before you feel his arms press further in. “So this is nothing.” 

Seconds and silence slide by, the delicate veil of early morning still hovering around the room. When Yoongi doesn’t say anything, you make to turn and face him. 

But you’re stopped before your heart skips. 

“I could stay like this all day,” he admits, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “And it’d be perfect.” 

“What, you don’t wanna see my face?” You joke with a giggle. “Rude, but that’s fine.” 

Yoongi only buries his nose further, his glasses sliding against your skin peeking from his shirt. “I’m much braver right here, doll.” 

Oh. 

The leap your heart does is more of a dive, plummeting into the seafoam swirling around your feet. All the words you want to respond with jump off right after, leaving you with nothing but the clouds in your eyes. 

You don’t quite know what he means by that. But it feels like those six words hold the weight of a thousand, so you simply let another kiss on his smooth forearm linger. “Do you want me to go with you?” 

A puff of laughter warms you right through and, despite his earlier admission, Yoongi does slowly spin you around. 

And when you follow, you realize you’re much braver when you aren’t facing him, too. 

“It’s not that, babe,” he says through a dashing curve. “But the offer was cute.” 

“I take it back then.” 

“Damn!” 

Both of your laughs whoosh out and collide, sweeping as Yoongi pinches your side and you flinch towards the bed. “You fucker—!”

Before you know it, your back hits a comforter before a weight presses your stomach, emotions clashing as you’re elated and shy and immediately concerned for your boyfriend’s side. “Baby, be careful—”

Lips capture yours, sucking up your warning before a hand slides under your head. Sighing, you arch into his chest, feeling the weight of his chains slip across your breasts. 

Euphoria isn’t an adequate enough word to describe how you feel. Where there used to be flutters in your ribcage now reside strong, powerful wing beats, gusts of want and desire lifting you off the ground and launching you into clear skies. Starlight of every color exists within each kiss you share, and your fingers feebly grab his tee to keep you from falling back down to earth. 

“If we don’t go now,” Yoongi rasps before sliding his mouth against yours, “We’re never going anywhere again.” 

“I know,” you whisper, willingly letting him kiss you once more, “Is that a promise?” 

“Fuck, I wish.” 

You do, too. But you know you’re running out of time for what you need to do. And weren’t you just saying you had to respect his aspirations? Shit, you really do need to snap out of it. “Come on,” you order with a pat to his chest. “We have all week to do this. We got time.” 

Turns out, you’re still amongst the heavens. The way Yoongi’s looking at you? This is the closest you’ll ever get to being held by an angel. 

Did he get more handsome overnight? Or is it the light in his eyes sustained since his confession in the kitchen? You don’t quite know, and you may never pinpoint why, but the tug he has on your heart spans space and time. 

And you’ll run through both forever to keep meeting him again and again. 

Burns prick your eyes, but he mercifully stands before he can catch any evidence of your yearning. 

Just like that, the two of you bounce back to getting ready, with him sliding notebooks and headphones in a backpack while you change into your own clothes. As you sling your bag over a shoulder, he reaches for the closest hoodie, and you wordlessly make your way to the front door. 

You really do hope he gets looked at today. But just like the calm after a storm, you want to encourage him gently rather than shove him out. At least he seems receptive to your gentle suggestions.

But after you ask one more time and he simply nods, you lower your eyes to his kicks. “Sorry if I’m nagging. I’d just worry less if you went right away, that’s all.”

“You aren’t nagging, babe.” Your freshly bloomed lover reaches out to hold your wrist, smoothing a rough thumb over your skin. Fucking hell, you can’t help but frown at the gashes and cuts marring his knuckles. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”

Not just his hands, but his face. His ribs. And maybe other places you haven’t even seen yet. 

You don’t wanna leave his side. 

But you have to head out before your brother leaves. Things need to get patched up before he flies out into more stress, and you owe him an apology for walking out when he was still aching. Based on Yoongi’s physical state? Your brother could be hiding some big wounds and you didn’t even wanna talk to him. 

However. Was last night necessary? Absolutely. You cannot entertain the possible outcomes had you not tried hard enough to get through Yoongi’s door. His eyes were so dulled, his hands felt so cold. What would have happened if you didn’t force yourself inside? 

Why was that guitar smashed to pieces? 

This is also why you refuse to leave. So many questions, so many things you still don’t know. Like what all happened when you were separated? And how in the hell is this man in love with you?

“I don’t wanna go,” you confess, instantly encased in his arms and warmth. “I’d much rather keep kissing you.” 

“True,” he says with a resigned huff, shifting his glasses with an adorable nose scrunch. If only he didn’t have so many little red lines of conflict on his face. “But we both have stuff to take care of, so let’s get all that done first.”

“Ugh, fine.” Your groan is more teasing than serious, and Yoongi’s laugh is nothing but understanding. 

Damn. You still feel it. You really don’t wanna go. Be it the rawness of last night still on your skin, or the confessions still on your tongues, you just wanna stay by his side. “Sorry,” you breathe out, lacing your fingers to pepper love along his strong, reddened ridges. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna leave you right now.”

Walking out of Yoongi’s door just doesn’t feel right. Even if he’s right there and will be following you out. Is this feeling normal? Are you supposed to feel this tightly woven to someone? Because the stitching between your hearts has only gotten stronger in the tempest of last night, as if you bonded together just to hold on for dear life. 

Maybe that’s exactly what happened. And it’s exactly why you can barely take one step out of his place. 

“Then don’t.”

Not one second passes before your chin is held, and lips slide so tenderly across yours that they may as well melt into your touch. Your reaction is quickly swooped into his mouth, and everything falls away as you let him seize your every thought. Lightning from last night zips out of your limbs, your toes, your fingers clasping his loose tee. 

You might just cry where you stand.

How have his kisses gotten even better? How have you never felt this way even though you’ve done this far more times than you were ever supposed to? It should be impossible, and yet, this man finds even more ways to astound you. 

Yoongi slips a hand over your cheek, giving one more beautiful push of his lips as he confesses, “I don’t wanna leave you, either.” 

And your breath stutters onto his features. “You, too?”

Slow, he kisses your cheek, the clear rim of his specs skimming your nose. When he draws back, you look right into his eyes, wondering why he’s watching your mouth instead. 

“Me, too.” Yoongi kisses your other side with a quiet peck. “Fuck, me, too.” 

You fucking hate what you have to do, but you don’t have a choice. 

With one last lingering kiss, you both gather enough courage to set out and do what you must. 

—

—

Your house is already a flurry of activity as you enter to see your brother in the kitchen, packing his leather duffle that’s a constant companion on his trips. 

Of course. The memory of him purchasing the lavish accessory pops into your head every time you watch him scurry around, dimples ever present on his proud cheeks. It’s almost enough to make you smile yet again. 

But you can’t when the same face is currently scratched to hell. Just like Yoongi’s, if not worse. 

Fuck, is he really gonna travel looking like that? 

“Hey,” he rasps out, still fighting off slumber. “You’re back earlier than I thought.” 

“Wanted to check on you before we left.” Fuck, your voice sounds like it’s being forced through a clogged pipe. Loosen the hell up! “And dude. Put some bandaids on, yeah?” 

“Yeah, just give me a sec. Making sure I have everything before my ride gets here.” 

“Huh?” He got a ride? You’re here now so you can take him to the airport. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you?” 

“Yeah, it’s all good. I didn’t know you were coming back.” 

Shit. His body seems just as angular as it did last night. Which, quite frankly, could still be from what went down in the lot. 

Because even though you see both men banged up, you suddenly realize you don’t actually know what all transpired. 

After all, there wasn’t much talk of it after you walked into the tempest of Yoongi’s living room.

Of course, you aren’t gonna bring it up just this second. There are other things to ask about and make sure of first. “Wallet? Phone? Passport?” 

“Yup, yup, uhh.. Yup.” 

Zippers sling in the quiet morning air as you continue, “And you’re coming back on Friday, right?”

“Oh.. Nah.” When you start crossing the kitchen, your brother hauls his leather bag over his better shoulder. Honestly, no one would be able to tell the other one’s bruised with his suit on. That thing damn well covers everything except the cuts on his face and hands. “Saturday.” 

You pause in your journey to the medicine cabinet. “Wait.. Saturday? The release party’s on Friday.”

“Yeah.. I know.”

What the fuck? That’s bullshit they’re keeping him longer than they have to. Struggling to understand how corporate can keep your brother on a leash and get away with it, you urge, “Tell them to at least let you go home a day early. Don’t you wanna support your friends?”

“You mean Yoongi?”

A zing of terror zips through your eyes, freezing every vein in an instant. 

The fuck was that question? Never mind. Stay calm stay calm stay fucking calm. “Uhh, yeah, he’s one of them? But the other guys, too, right? I know you care about them and this is huge.”

Mercifully, your sibling just shakes his head and waves you off. “Don’t you think I already tried? I don’t wanna miss it but I don’t have a choice. Conference schedule is pretty tight and I’m heading the panel on Friday.”

“Is it in the morning? You can fly out after—”

“Why are you fighting so hard?”

“Why aren’t you fighting harder!”

Okay, what in the hell is happening right now? Screw optics and how this must look for you, your brother needs to be there. Him and Yoongi are the tightest of friends, the most ride or die duo you’ve ever seen. You can’t picture a timeline where he misses this monumental moment, and it’s starting to really upset you that he’s barely trying. 

“You think I’m not fighting for it?”

“I certainly don’t think you’re trying enough—”

“Alright, you know what?” Hard steps surge forward as you stand rigid, a duffle hastily dumped onto tile. “You don’t know what I’ve tried. You don’t even know if I even told him yet.”

Fucking shit. You hold his stare before turning away, tossing out the idea of bandages entirely and searing footsteps into the hallway—

“Or do you.”

Before icing over with the unforgiving frost of zero gravity space. 

Slow, you turn, not quite facing him but not backing down, either. “…Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You talkin’? What else has he been doing to you?”

Oh. Fuck that. 

Doing to you? 

Fuck all of this. This is too much to handle right now and you know you’re gonna snap if he keeps pushing because you are not having this conversation right before he leaves. You’ve already thought about this before, right? You cannot fuck with his head right before business trips because he needs to be on and locked in. 

But now he’s fucking with your temper and those are some choice fucking words pulled out of his ass. 

You don’t think you’ve ever legitimately threatened this man to his face and meant it before, and it tears a sharp corner of your heart, “You better be very careful. With whatever you wanna say next.”

The air proves too thick to slice. While your body stands aflame, your brother is iced over, brimming with an energy that damn near takes physical form. “All I’m saying is? I find out some fucking bullshit is going on—”

No no no, not now.

Reacting fast is your only instinct, brain haywire and fizzling fizzling boiling. Harsh, you spin on your heel and shout the first thing you can think of, “Oh, come on—”

“You better hope to god you’re ready for what’s coming—”

“Stop!” Fuck fuck fuck, this is so frustrating because your head is exploding and your body is screaming to just tell him already. Fuck the consequences at this point this is ludicrous. 

Doing to you? Yoongi? How dare he speak about his best friend like that how dare he accuse him without outright saying the words all you have to do is tell your brother how wrong he’s got it. 

But you can’t be the one. Yoongi said he would, and he probably took months to get to that point of strength—and healing, from what you can tell. 

This is between them. Them. You have to honor that, as much as you wanna just confess everything now and deal with it yourself. 

But goddamn your brother is pulsing with anger and it’s leaking into your own charged air. 

What does he think is happening? Does he think Yoongi’s just, what, playing you? He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. Yoongi’s been nothing but the best thing that’s ever happened to you and shit your heart hurts because…

Your brother is valid in thinking that. 

How foolish. Didn’t you guard your heart from Yoongi for the longest? Didn’t everything start because you figured you knew who he was because of his reputation? You got him all wrong, too. So how can you be mad at your brother for doing the same? 

Fuck, think. Just think before someone gets hurt. 

Because if you aren’t careful, someone—or multiple someones—will get hurt in seconds. You have to bear the pain alone right now. To protect them both, you have to keep your trembling mouth shut. 

And? You have to admit that something isn’t fair here. Not to you, not to Yoongi, but to him. Last night was rough as fuck but, while you both got to have raw, beautiful closure, the one standing in front of you had to go to sleep in an empty house. 

So chill the fuck out. 

Breathing to cool down, you tense and loosen, tense and loosen. “I get it. You’re angry, and you have a lot going on. But,” you bite down on your lip to keep going. “We’re talking about something else. We’re talking about you, and I’m still pissed you even let those guys goad you into a fight. What are we, twelve?”

Seething, your sibling takes the switch of pace. But it is not what you want to hear. “Are you seri—? What the hell was I supposed to do? That son of a bitch grabbed you—”

“I know,” you recoil. “Don’t tell me like you were there, because you weren’t.”

Finally—finally—those angry lines in his face vanish. 

But they make way for something much worse than anger. Because your older brother, someone that’s been there for you your whole life.. 

Looks absolutely stricken over the one time he wasn’t. 

Damn it. 

Regretful, you drop your shoulders in exhaustion and quiet compromise. When you continue, your voice is much softer, “But I told you: they were. Your friends, they were there because they knew you wanted that. Jimin got me away, Yoongi took me home and stayed.” 

You really have got to stop saying his name like you love him. It could start becoming too obvious. 

Shuddering, you shift your weight, folding your arms and shrinking into yourself. 

That night, despite Yoongi’s best and most gentle efforts, still clings to where that loser touched you at Dalo. You hate that you haven’t gotten over it, and you loathe the way you still rub over the same spot. Over, and over. “What did you want him to do? Leave me here?”

“No.” 

“Exactly. And he didn’t.” You adjust your stance again, making an impromptu gamble as you decide to let some truth leak out. Because your brother is owed at least this much. “And fine, you wanna know something? We do talk more because of it.”

Your brother’s head snaps up, and you brace. Because if you show any shred of weakness or hesitation, he’ll see right through your weak attempt to hide most of the truth, 

“But don’t ever accuse him of doing anything to me. That was fucked up to say and you know it.”

“Fuck.” In agreement, he rubs his hair back. “It was. I’m sorry.” 

“Trust me,” you swallow, hating that this is how things have to be for now. “You have nothing to worry about. He’s never.. Never done anything to me, anyway.” 

It’s not a lie. Everything he’s done has been with you. For you. Because of you. 

But your heart’s in anguish as it sinks. Because that expression on your older sibling’s face can only be one thing.  

Pure. Utter. Relief.

Fire singes your eyes before you can quell the flame. It’s the hardest technical truth to swallow. 

Sure, he doesn’t have anything to worry about as far as you being safe. And on top of that, he doesn’t have to worry about any fake shit because Yoongi confessed to you last night.

But as far as his best friend sleeping with and now dating his sister behind his back? That is still very much sitting right in the center of the table. 

And now you’re starting to see just how fucked all three of you are as soon as you sit down to eat the truth. 

But Yoongi said he’d be the one to tell, so he will. 

This feeling is so fucking miserable, though. 

In the end, your brother is effectively convinced, raking a hand across his head and sighing. “Jimin told me what all went down at Dalo, I just… Last night was… Fucked up.” 

“Well, yeah.”

“No. See, this is just like what you said to me. You can’t say it like you were there.”

It’s your stomach’s turn to twist. “So? You were scratched and bruised to hell, and Y…” Shut up, shut up. You’re not supposed to know about the state of anyone else. “And you were… quieter.”

“Because of what happened, dude.”

You blink. “What… What happened?”

Your brother looks at you—really looks at you. 

And suddenly, your gut flares in terror, storming in an instant across your abdomen. 

“That bitch pulled something on us.”

Your heart. 

It’s in freefall.

“Wait… What?” You can’t even form more than one syllable at a time, your legs turning gelatinous and knees starting to give out. “No… What are you…?”

What the fuck did he just say? That bitch pulled a what? 

Your sibling slowly walks toward you once again, watching like he’s just waiting for you to say anything. Do anything. 

But you’re a complete statue because all you can think about is the horror of something happening and the relief that nothing happened all at once. 

Was Yoongi too scared to mention that part? Is this why he was holding back and shaking every time he reached out to touch you? Even this morning, he was so… 

You’ve never seen him like that. Is this why? 

Your mind is swirling and crashing, overlapping each passing thought and scream running through your head. “I’m so sorry,” you hitch out, “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t wanna scare you,” he sighs out. Putting both hands on his hips, your brother stops feet away, visibly still shook as he pierces wooden planks with his stare. “But he pulled it right before Yoongi… and if it weren’t…Fuck.” 

Burns flare and slice through your eyes when he has to pause. What is he trying to say? Pulled what? 

Before Yoongi what? 

Your brother continues, and your throat tightens. “If it weren’t for some random ass sirens, I… Things could’ve been so different.” 

What the fuck is happening. What the hell are you hearing? 

“It was probably dumb as fuck. But I was so fucking angry,” he grits out, watery eyes crushed looking your way. “So fucking mad at how he was talking about you, I.. Walked right up to him and told him to fuck off.”

You can’t even breathe. 

“I still feel it,” he quietly adds, fingers pressed against his side. “Right here.” 

“Fuck,” you finally choke out, eyes on fucking fire. 

“But all I knew was to keep you all safe,” he says, with hardened resolve and a wobbly chin. “And that’s exactly what I did. I did that shit, even if that meant—” 

Tears fling out of your eyes, flowing hot down your cheeks because you wouldn’t want any of them to go out that way. Nothing happened nothing happened nothing happened and yet your body is acting as if something did and it hurts. 

Your brother is there as soon as you crumple forward, letting you bury your head in his chest and sob your heart out. For him, for his friends, and for all the time you had with the man you love so, so dearly. 

If anything happened to your brother before you came clean… If anything happened before you and Yoongi could even… 

Suddenly, you feel equal weights of guilt. For running out on your brother. And for almost walking out on Yoongi. 

You decide an apology is in order for both of them, and all the understanding in the world for Yoongi’s frosted demeanor as soon as you get him alone again.

And you are one hundred percent going to tell your brother everything once he’s back. 

The tears cannot stop, and you’re sure you are crying unimpeded in a pressed and primmed suit. “I’m so sorry,” you keep repenting like a prayer. “This is all my fault.”

“No—”

“You almost—”

“Hey, stop.” He yanks you back, both of your faces soaked with saltwater. “What did I say before? I threw the first swing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But it led to all this, I just.. I just feel so fucking stupid.”

“Don’t. Hey, look at me.” Firm but gentle, he holds you at arm’s length, forcing you to face him. “Maybe we’re both stupid, but you weren’t the idiot. I was.” 

You feel so many conflicting things in your soul. 

What would you have done if Yoongi was in critical condition? What would you have done differently if your brother was instead? Are they the same? Are the two situations really so different anymore? 

No they aren’t they aren’t they aren’t. 

“Please don’t do that again,” you shake out. “Even if it was for me, if I ever lost you, I...” 

“You know I can’t promise anything.” He furrows his brows when you eye him with anger and sadness. “But nothing like that is happening again. Especially with the same dudes.” 

“Okay.” 

A vicious tornado of emotions sends your whole body into agonizing pain. This isn’t what you expected at all, and it’s causing your limbs to lock at the bends. Too many scenarios are jangling about yet you can’t ask for specifics because that will just make it even more real. 

A nightmare is somehow better once you know it ends with you waking up. “I’m… gonna need some time to process everything.”

“I know. And I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but… You deserve to know the things I get into.” 

Ah. 

The irony is not lost on you. 

“At least, if they involve you. We learned our lesson. You were right to tell us off.”

God. You feel numb. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, suddenly immensely tired. “I think I need more sleep.”

A blaring honk sounds outside the house, and you both flinch at the noise. 

And your throat burns at the way your brother instinctively swept you behind his back. 

When you realize what it is, you know what has to come next. 

And he’s the first to react as he turns to face you again, “Alright. I’m heading out, just remember to go get my baby when she’s fixed, yeah?”

“Do you have to go?”

Wait.

The question seems to startle him as much as it does you. 

How did you blurt it right out before even registering the words? Why does your heart clench at the sight of those eyes looking so pained? 

Why does everything feel so shaky within these walls that were always your home?

“I do,” he says, voice tight. “I’m sorry.” 

And why the fuck do you feel sad he’s leaving?

“No, no, it’s.. Of course you have to.” You can’t help the lump in your throat from bobbing, the regret in your limbs as they barely move at your side. “I dunno why I asked, I guess I just..” 

There’s no response to your sniffle. 

“Sorry for yelling,” you squeak out. “I just feel really queasy.”

For a lot more reasons than one.

“We all made it out,” your brother whispers. “That’s what matters.”

“Will you… Will you at least try to be back for the party?”

The man swallows with his brows knit tight, then attempts to crack the tiniest smile. “You know I will. That’s my guy.” 

“Okay.” You nod, sniffling again. After what he just told you? You know he’ll do anything for the ones he loves. “See you there.”

Your brother rubs a comforting palm over your head before turning, heading for the door and grabbing his leather duffle. 

When he stops to glance at you one more time, you give a little wave of your hand before watching the door click shut. 

Chest caving as you collapse to the ground in tears. 

—

—

The need to call Yoongi burns so harshly your fingers damn near set your top aflame.

But he’s at work, and you can’t fuck things up right when you’re approaching the finish line. You almost did with your brother, and that gave you twelve heart attacks in the span of minutes. 

Still. Your chest aches so much that a thirteenth could very well be approaching. You don’t even realize you’re bracing the hallway wall for support until you try to stand, back sore and aching from bending so far for so long. 

What did your brother mean to say about Yoongi? What did that coward pull on them? Do you even want to know what happened? 

Fighting back tears, you reach down for your phone, shakily typing out a message only to erase it. Then again. And again. 

And again. 

Giving up, you forcefully swallow all your worries, cringing at the bitterness of the unknown and the burnt molasses of hidden truths. 

It’s going to be okay. No matter what you think or imagine in your head, they made it out, they made it out, they are all alive. 

That’s the only reason you can move forward, each step getting you from your room. To your bathroom. 

And back again. 

—

—

After showering, you feel lighter and refreshed, though the soreness between your legs has yet to leave. 

But you wouldn’t want it any other way, as it’s another reminder of Yoongi’s apparent brush with survival. His broken living room spurned the creation of your bond, your devotion to him as he confessed before you gave him your utmost trust in his sheets. 

The end is so close. As soon as this week is over, you’ll rip the last bit of peel from your pair of tangerines, baring all truths to your brother and facing the consequences. 

Finally ready, you head to your car, opening your text threads with a plan: start slow. 

Start with something that can be interpreted neutrally if anyone saw it on his phone screen, especially if your headstrong ex is in the room. 

You [12:31pm]: how are you feeling?

Yoongi [12:34pm]: 1 Attachment 

You close your door with brows furrowed. 

Yoongi’s at the hospital? 

That’s not what you expected at all. 

Your chest swells with relief knowing he’s there, but you also wanna make sure he’s feeling okay. Especially his mental state after whatever the fuck your brother just dropped on you before leaving. 

Goddamn, that’s going to gnaw at your brain until you find the right time and right amount of courage to ask about it. Because it’s very possible Yoongi won’t tell you. 

Because it’s probably something he knows you won’t like. 

Fuck. 

You [12:34pm]: Loved an Attachment

You [12:34pm]: thank you for listening🤍 still sore?

Yoongi [12:35pm]: Yeah, but not bad. Just there.

Wait. He’s not at the studio. That means you can—

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you slowly say as you pull out into the street. “I’m driving now so this is easier.”

“Course. You going to Tae’s?”

“Maybe. I’m going to Yuri’s first.” You swallow, realizing that you didn’t tell him about what you let slip before driving over. “I.. Told her. About you.”

There’s a little bit of silence on the line, just some adjustments and muffled speaker sounds. “Sorry, just writing this down. What’s wrong with that?”

You huff through your nose. Gotta be those patient forms that always take forever to fill out. “Oh. Just more and more people knowing, is all.” 

“Everyone’s gonna know eventually.” 

You hold back a small smile. Because he’s right. “Yeah. I’m just tired of this feeling.”

“Like you’re hiding something.”

It’s your turn for silence. He doesn’t know how accurately that was played out today. The only answer you can provide is a curt, “Exactly.”

“Same.”

Wings beat around your heart again. 

He wants this. Yoongi really, really wants this. And years ago, that outcome wouldn’t have even crossed your mind as an option. 

“Thank you for going, baby.”

“The guys made me.”

You hum. “Which ones.”

After a pause, you hear a puff of amusement. “All of them at some point today, actually.” 

All of them? Does that include your brother? Did they talk about the trip already?

Your laugh is bittersweet. “Well. Glad to know you can be forced by everyone else except me.”

“Hey, I was already gonna go because of you!” Yoongi quietly retorts, and you giggle at the pout in his words. “Just wanted to get a headstart on work first.”

You were right. He really does wanna go all out for his musical endeavors. 

It’s extremely admirable, and wildly attractive, but it does come to a point. “As much as I love your passion, old man, I wanna keep you upright.”

He laughs soft into the line, and you think you can listen to that specific sound on an infinite loop. “That’s fair.” 

“How long is it gonna take, you think?”

“Dunno. But I’ll keep myself busy until I’m out.”

Of course he will. You don’t doubt he won’t waste any time. Didn’t he bring journals in his backpack? You wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote ten thousand songs before being called in. “Just call me if you need anything, please?”

“Of course, babe.”

“Thank you,” you say with utmost sincerity. “If only my brother would be less stubborn and get checked, too.”

“He’ll probably do it once he gets there.”

“Did you convince him?”

“Nah. But once he knows I did, he’ll do it.”

“Figures.” You scoff. “Okay, I’m almost there. Let me know how it goes.”

“K. Bye, doll.”

You didn’t ask him what went down. But it’s not the time nor place, and you have plenty of chances this week to figure out when that would be—if at all. 

“Talk soon.” 

—

—

For a normally bustling household, Yuri’s house is quiet. 

So it’s not shocking when you walk into the kitchen and see all your friends glance your way, slowly vacating their chairs with eyes never leaving your face. Even Reia is on high alert. 

Did Yuri tell her? Did Yuri tell anyone else? 

No. She’s a talker and loves spilling, but she promised. And when she promises something, you know you can trust her to keep it. 

It’s what pours emotion in your voice as you meekly greet, “Hey, guys—”

A crushing hug closes your throat. Yuri’s the one that gets to you first, with Reia and Dominique waiting their turns to offer you healing, relieved embraces. 

“What happened?” 

“Scared us half to death.”

Dom puts you at arm’s length to give a once over, noting your face rubbed raw and eyes still a little bloodshot. Thankfully, her pupils hold more concern than disappointment. “You good?”

Your eyes wobble alongside your smile, and you think it’s enough proof. “More than that,” you still decide to whisper, and your heart beats again at her reaction. 

“Thank god. I was ready to kick your ass if you weren’t.”

Heading up to Yuri’s room, you all wait until the door is swung back before mounting her canopy bed, sitting in a tight circle as you divulge everything. 

Well. Almost everything. 

You tell them that Yoongi is the one you’ve been seeing, how you went to check on him last night in a panic, and the terrifying reason why. When you mention the fight after the basketball game, all three of your friends erupt in questions, and you have to assure them everything turned out okay. Honestly, you also do this to assure yourself, too. 

“So… Your brother’s just fine with all of this?” Reia asks, not noticing the tick of Dom’s jaw. 

“Well,” you start with a higher pitch, earning a pair of groans. “He doesn’t exactly know yet—”

“Yup. He’s gonna murder him.”

“Yeah, should we say our condolences now or..”

“How long has this been going on?” Reia fires off another question that digs into your chest. “Was he the one you were seeing the whole time?”

“Yes,” you admit with a sigh. “I should’ve told you guys from the beginning, but. The whole thing just felt so delicate. But! We just started making things official recently, so..” 

Dom turns your way. “Official how?”

Well. Here goes everything. 

With a shaky breath, and lingering feelings from the time it happened, you reveal with watery eyes, “Yoongi… Told me he loves me.”

Both Yuri and Reia react in yelps, Dom’s gaze lowering as the girls reach to grab your hands. 

Wait. What’s going on with her? She’s the one that knows the most, she’s the one that covered for you all those months ago. She has to be the one that is the least surprised at all this. 

Blinking, you note to confront her about it later. Right now, you’re too focused on trying not to cry as your friends tumble out questions and support, 

“He said it? Did you say it first or did he?” 

“How did it happen! Oh, I’m so happy for you, babe—” 

“Thank—thank you, Yuri,” you squeeze out as she hugs you close. “I couldn’t believe it, but he just.. Said it. We weren’t even doing anything, I was just.. Looking up what injuries he could have..” 

And he confessed in the most Yoongi fashion he could have. 

Looking back, it shouldn’t shock you at all. He’s always found ways to sweep you off your proverbial feet, so why would a confession plucked from the heavens be any different? 

She lets you go before wiping her eyes, Reia and even Dom now sporting watery pupils, too. 

“As much as I’m upset at you for not telling us, I’ve never been so happy for you.” When Yuri’s features crease in another sob, you sniffle along with the rest. “It’s been so long since you… And you really.. Fuck.” 

You know what she’s trying to say, and the realization has your throat constricting so tight. 

It’s been forever since you’ve had something like this, someone like this. When you and Jungkook were together, you told him that you loved him before he broke it off. 

Sure, you bought the rings together, but he never uttered those words until years after when it didn’t even matter. And all your relationships after his were complete and utter bullshit, so you don’t think you ever even heard those three words and knew them to be true. 

Yoongi was the first to ever say them so sincerely. 

And that fact makes your ducts burn and burn. 

And when Yuri finally speaks, it breaks the dam holding your real deluge back, 

“I can’t think of anyone else that deserves to be loved more than you.” 

All at once, everything streams out as you hunch forward. The pain of everything you’ve endured, the hopelessness of knowing you’d most likely end up alone, the excruciating prospect of a future that you never deemed bright, or peaceful, or comforting. 

And to think that even this man could’ve been snatched away from you in a snap? Even more tears overlap with the ones you’re shedding, and you can’t even reach out to hug all three beautiful, angelic souls surrounding you with tight arms and sobs because your limbs lock at all bends. 

It’s the exact release you need. All your friends supporting you, all the pent up anxiety of last night and today, the truth setting itself free in some capacity—all in the comfort of a plushie-laden bed you only doubted yourself in last time. 

Everything’s gonna be alright. It has to be. You’re gonna fight for the ones you love, even if a war between them is inevitable. 

It takes a few minutes of heavy silence for you all to separate, swiping and rubbing tears while letting out happy sniffles. 

When you thank them for being understanding, they assure you it’s okay. And when you say you’re going to tell your brother soon, a force from the doorway has all of you leaping from lilac sheets, 

“Tell him what?” 

Jia stands firm with a laundry basket at her hip, and Yuri scoffs at her older sister for barging in. “A knock would’ve been nice!” 

Fuck! 

You can’t tell Jia of all people. If you spill anything about Yoongi, she’s one hundred percent going to tell your brother. They’re the same age, and run in pretty tight circles, so of course you are not going to risk it. 

But you can tell her something else you’re going to tell your older sibling, so you fire out a half-truth, 

“Tell him not to pick any other fights that could get him killed.” 

Jia’s eyes zoom to your wrecked face, and she drops the laundry with haste before asking, “What happened? When? Tell me now.” 

Huh. Maybe your brother has a type, if he’s still into Jia like he said before. 

You feel a little spark in your chest as you let her know they all got in a scuffle after the basketball game, and another pang as she immediately abandons the room and clothes with a fierce declaration, 

“I’m gonna kill them myself!” 

“Don’t worry, I already hounded my brother!” You call out after her, sighing as Yuri shakes her head with a smile. “She gets like that when she’s really worried, huh.” 

“Yeah..” Your friend leans to look around you, noticing the basket left alone on the ground. “And if she’s super fired up, she drops everything and doesn’t stop until it’s handled. Clearly.” 

Maybe both older siblings really are similar. 

The firestorm of an interruption seemed to break the tension in the room, with all of you finally relaxing and catching up. When they ask you questions, you answer what you can. 

And when you divulge information that has your ears burning, their squeals and yells give you whole new reasons to live. 

—

—

After a very comforting lunch Yuri’s mom cooked, you head to the bathroom when your phone suddenly vibrates through your palm.

Huh? That’s weird. You expect the name on your screen to be Taehyung, not Yoongi. 

Not that it’s a bad thing. You’ve been waiting to hear from him, so this is a pleasant surprise. 

Closing the door to the guest bathroom, you gaze at the calming sage decor with a smile. “Hi, how did it—”

“You’re coming over later, right?”

Oh, shit. Is he okay?

“Yes, baby,” you respond with a soothing lilt, ears perked and body on high alert. 

Does he think you aren’t anymore? You both decided on the plans earlier. Surely he knows you’d never just flake on him. “I’m coming back once you’re done with work, remember?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause on the line, which makes your boyfriend’s next question jab you so far in the lungs you can’t breathe,

“…Can it be now?”

Shit. 

Just like Jia earlier, you drop every plan you have to the wayside. You’re sure that Taehyung will understand, and you already got through the biggest conversation you needed to with your friends. 

“Of course,” you whoosh out. “Lemme just say bye and I’ll go.” 

“Take your time.” A small shuffling interrupts. “It’ll take me a bit to get back.” 

“Okay. See you there.” 

The strained urgency in his voice makes your hair stand on end, so you vacate the bathroom to inform the girls that you gotta go—but not without a quick head tilt towards Dom, who follows you outside and into the afternoon sun.  

—

—

You wait until you’re next to your car on the street, turning with a concerned expression and jittery nerves, “What’s up with you? Did I do something wrong?”

Turns out, you read Dominique correctly. Her jaw locks before loosening, and it reminds you of the time she confronted you about Yoongi before. God, how much has changed since then. That feels like ages and ages ago. 

“It’s not about you,” your best friend clears the air and the tightness in your shoulders. “I’m just.. Glad he came around.”

“Yoongi?” When Dom nods, you blink. “Wait, what?”

“At your house that night.. After he left your room, we had—I dunno, a heart-to-heart.” She sighs, flicking braids over her shoulder. You note to compliment the beads she chose this time, because they remind you of summer and simpler times. “I might’ve pressured him a bit, and.. I think he wanted to tell me that he loved you. All the way back then.” 

Something in your heart stutters, and you can only repeat your last question, “What?”

“Yeah. Something about needing to do something first,” she continues, holding your gaze with perfect brows furrowed in sunlight. “But I could tell he was damn serious about whatever it was. And if he was willing to do it for you? I let it go.” 

Your mind whirls. 

Yoongi was already in love with you back then? Is that why he needed to let you go? To deal with whatever he had to do? 

One side of you breaks thinking he had to go through all that alone; the other side is screaming at his past self for not even giving you a choice. What did he go through? What did he have to do?

Now you really have to see him. Immediately. 

“Thank you, Dom,” you rush out while opening your door. “I’m just happy it’s over.”

“The hell it’s not.” Shooting you a glare that heats the oncoming breeze, she reminds, “It’s not over until your brother knows. And based on everything that’s happened? That conversation is not gonna go over well.” 

A dark, simmering boil starts in your stomach, and you’re already feeling queasy again. Tightening your door handle, you gulp hard. “I know.” 

“Trust me, I’m happy for you both. I am.” Both hands find her hips as she levels a gaze that you really, really don’t enjoy. “But I’m gonna be honest, I think this is gonna ruin their friendship for good.” 

Both of your lungs clamp shut. 

“Please don’t say that,” you beg, “I’m gonna fight for all of us. I will.” 

“I don’t doubt that, babe. Hey, uh uh, come here.” Reaching out, she gives you a tight hug just when you feel fragile again. 

“Listen to me. I don’t doubt that,” she says into your shoulder. “I’m just here to be realistic. Just don’t be shocked if that’s how it goes. We’ll be here for you no matter what, too.” 

“Okay,” you say with a scrunched face into her scent. God, she always smells so good, and it’s almost enough to calm you down. Almost almost almost. “Thank you. But I’m not giving up.” 

“That’s my girl.” She squeezes you one more time. “I love you.” 

With eyes searing over, you choke and grip her tighter. “I love you, too.” 

—

—

Yoongi’s door warms your back as you wait for him to show. 

But there’s a good chance it can just be your volcanic anxiety. 

Ever since your arrival, you’ve paced, you’ve gnawed on your lips, you’ve had to shake the nerves out of your hands. 

And over and over, you’ve strained your neck to look for your favorite cat, because you could sincerely use even a glimpse of her right now. 

While she doesn’t end up showing, Yoongi rounds the nearest corner minutes after your last desperate scan. 

Fuck, he’s so handsome. 

Even now, as he simply walks toward you with a backpack slung over his shoulder, you watch with undying yearning to feel those flowing bangs over his forehead. You’d even settle for a single touch of his cheeks, one of them currently sporting a thin bandage.

But the closer Yoongi gets, the quicker your admiration morphs into concern. There’s a deep bend in his brows that you can’t decipher, and his fist is balled pretty tight. 

Seriously, what happened? He looks so troubled that you slowly push off the doorway to ask, 

“Baby, what’s—”

A bag hits the ground before you’re swooped into a kiss so electric your lips spark. 

Him. Him, him, and more him. For the love of everything you don’t understand what’s happening but you kiss Yoongi back with everything you have, arms slinging around his strong shoulders and tugging him closer because he clearly needed this. 

And fuck if you didn’t need it just as much. Screw it if anyone sees you. This is all you want and you’ll stay right here until he pulls away. 

When he finally does, both of you swallow to catch your breaths, and your soul glimmers when his forehead meets yours. 

“Hi, baby,” you whisper to his exhales. “Missed you, too.”

Silent, your lover kisses your forehead before hugging you close, and you’re more sure of your prediction than ever. Something is bothering him. 

He doesn’t look worse, at least. But there’s clearly something off and he’s not hiding it. His lack of words is loud enough. 

“Let’s go inside,” you quietly suggest. “I would’ve gone in already but I don’t have a key.”

He nods, fishing out his keyring to let you both inside. 

When you set your bags down and slip off your shoes, it’s only seconds before you’re softly pulled into a hug again, surprising yet so, so welcoming. 

Even only after a few hours, you’ve missed the fuck out of him. Which makes all of this an outright dream. 

“Sorry,” Yoongi finally murmurs against your shoulder. “I just…”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You stroke a hand along his hair, massaging his scalp and loving how soft it feels. The windswept strands fall back into place as you keep running your fingers through. “Did you at least get your appointment?”

“Yeah, I did.” He buries his face further. “Nothing bad. Just can’t lift anything heavy for a couple days.”

“Good. That’s easy to manage,” you whisper back into his tee, feeling the chill of lingering air conditioning and body warmth all at once. “Is something else bothering you?”

“Not exactly.” Whatever that means. “I’ll tell you about it later. Just wanted this, and you.”

Oh. That’s… 

“I’m here now, love,” you assure with a melting heart, wondering what happened to cause this behavior. 

Is it because of last night? Or something that happened today? You’re anxious all over again, but from the way Yoongi’s acting, your worries are second to his. “Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head, only pulling you closer with not a word from his lips. 

And from this point on, you make a silent vow to yourself. Whatever Yoongi needs, you’re going to take care of him. 

No matter what, these next few days are all about him—a minuscule sacrifice in comparison to everything he’s done for you, whether you knew about it or not.

“I’ll make you something then. Come on.” 

When you walk, you slip your hand down his arm to hold his hand, and your lead into his kitchen is short. 

“Any requests?” You cheerfully ask as you spare a smile over your shoulder. “We can do… Something light…”

Only to see him staring back with nothing but a lingering sense of longing.

Okay. 

You need to get to the bottom of this now. 

Stopping right over linoleum, you leave no room for arguments, “Yoongi. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He blinks before his gaze meets the floor. So you’re confused when he simply, quietly.. 

Laughs? 

“It’s not that something’s wrong,” he slowly starts, a shy smile carving his features. “For the first time in my life, nothing’s wrong.” 

Your heart beats extra loud. 

“But it’s too much to explain right now.” His eyes rise to meet yours. “Just know that I’m so in love with you.” 

Oh.

“And I want you to know that every day I live.”

Fuck.

Your body responds before you can say anything, lips connecting to remove any need for speech. The knowledge of them all staring death in the face last night makes this confession sear your insides, and you can’t help but kiss him like you’ll never get to again. 

Yanking him back, you spin on your heel until he flings into the kitchen, clutching your wrists before gripping your jaw with both hands. 

His mouth heats on yours, his glasses the only barrier between your skin. Everything sizzles from your head to your toes, and you both bang into a countertop before—

“Fuck, ouch.”

“Shit, you okay?”

Yoongi rubs his side with one eye pinched shut, a corner of his teeth present. “Yeah. Worth it, though.”

“Be serious,” you reprimand. Looks like he’s gonna have to take it easy, which means no going at it like animals until he’s on the mend. “No more until you feel better, yeah?”

“Says who?”

“Babe.”

His deadly pout almost breaks your resolve. “Fine.” 

But you can wait. You’re sure it won’t take long, and for this man? You’ll wait however long you need to. 

Besides, there’s plenty of things you can do in the meantime that don’t require running into hard objects. 

“Good. Now let’s…” You turn away to get started before you’re held, and pulled back into yet another embrace. 

What the hell is happening today? Your lungs and your melting pile of a brain can only take so much. It’s beautifully overwhelming how Yoongi can’t seem to let you go, because you’re the one that always loses control. 

This whole time, it’s been you that can’t hold yourself back. 

So now? Being on the other side? You don’t think you ever want him to restrain himself again. 

This time, he moves slow. Sensuously slow, and it would occur to you that he’s finding a very cheeky loophole to your plan if you weren’t so hazy-eyed. 

Whatever Yoongi’s doing, you won’t stop him. 

Your back touches a counter before Yoongi cages you in, and your lips mold together as perfectly as his body does with yours. Your unhurried strokes match his, and your minds communicate without a single word. 

There’s yearning still ever present. But there’s comfort in abundance, and a whole new level of need. 

After he pulls away, you can visibly see him drink you in from head to toe. 

“You know.. I’m good holding off on all the other shit.” Pulling you in, his lips curve as he confidently declares, “But I’m never gonna stop kissing you.” 

His hands, his lips, his words. They all have healing powers, you’re so sure of it. If Yoongi hasn’t yet realized his unending pain has blossomed into a safe haven, you need to let him know no matter what, 

“Good.”

There’s still a pining in his eyes, but he lets you free, hand skirting your hip before he walks to his room. “Gonna change then I’ll help.” 

“You don’t have to, baby,” you say as you struggle to catch your breath. “I got it.” 

Three minutes later, he’s chopping an onion anyway. 

But you’re loving how serene everything feels with the two of you prepping and dicing, thumps of knives on wood intertwining in sound before you laugh at his crying over the pesky vegetable. Maybe if he wore contacts instead of specs, he’d be better off. 

Not that his choice of eyewear is what you’re complaining about. But those glasses paired with the cream tees he’s been wearing? There will be hell to pay as soon as you get a chance at revenge. 

Your pot is set to boil for a bit, so you finally rest against the counter and start a timer on his microwave. “Go ahead,” you gesture to your very handsome cooking partner. “You can sit now.”

“Huh? We’re not done yet.”

“Oh.” Blinking, you tilt your head in confusion because you could’ve sworn you heard him yawn a couple times. “You aren’t tired?”

“I am,” he says before squeezing his eyes, rapid blinks to follow. “But I’m fine here.”

You toss and turn the food around, sprinkling a little more seasoning and hearing the bubbles and fizzes. When you stir a little more, a sudden thought occurs, halting your movements and spinning you around, 

“Are you staying there to watch my ass.”

Yoongi’s slow smile gives everything away, but he also makes up for the blatant staring. 

“Can’t deny that’s one of the things.” Pushing off the sink, he stands right next to you, slotting a hand behind your neck and angling you for a kiss. “But I meant it earlier. I just…”

You’re completely silent as you watch him slide his eyes from your face to the sizzling food. Whatever he’s thinking about, you’re gonna give him all the room to talk. 

“Just like being where you are.” 

How you went from almost running out of his door to here, you aren’t quite sure. But you’re grateful for that split second of him deciding to fight for the two of you instead of against, because you really were going to leave. 

And you may have taken much, much longer to even try going back. 

Your voice is barely heard over the aromatic smell and fizzle, “Good thing I like having you around.” When he smiles again, you let out a breath of a giggle, going back to shuffling the pan around and tilting your head to the fridge. “I put some fruit in there if you wanna eat that, too.”

“I’m down.”

“K.”

Your food is ready soon enough, and the two of you eat while talking about easy topics. Like work and your workplace dynamics, what Yoongi’s team has been working on at the studio. 

At one point, your curiosity about the album release party grows from something he says. “Speaking of. The party’s on Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I thought so,” you deflate, setting your bowl down on the table. “Sorry he can’t go.”

“Huh?”

Your body stills. “Wait. Did he not say anything? About his trip being extended?”

So much for nothing in his life being wrong. From the lost look on his face, you may have given him another reason to fold back in on himself. “No.. No, he didn’t.”

Both of you sit in silence. 

This could be nothing. Right? That means your brother is confident he can make it so there’s no point in telling Yoongi he’s gonna miss it. Or maybe he’s not trying hard enough and then not being able to say it to his face? 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I thought he told you.”

“It’s okay.” Clearly it’s not. “Not much to do about it now.”

“Yoongi… What if he knows?” At your own question, you stiffen, curling into a proverbial ball. Fear and the sick backfire of fibbing has your mouth going drier than desert air. “What if he actually knows?”

Setting down his chopsticks, Yoongi looks your way, eyes unreadable behind his specs. “If he did, do you think he’d leave us alone?”

He’s got a point. “Guess not.” 

“Mm.” Flicking his eyes to the window, he adjusts uncomfortably in his chair. “And I dunno if I mentioned this, but.. He thinks I got back with my ex.”

“Fuck, really?” 

“That’s the real reason why he hasn’t been talking to me. Maybe he thinks she’s gonna be there on Friday.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders sag, and sag. Not owning up to your relationship is one thing; Yoongi having to dwell in his previous relationship is another. “Is that… worse?”

“Kinda.” Yoongi’s eyes fall. “Much worse.”

“Shit.” Reaching across wood, you close your hand around his fingers for support. It’s the only thing you can think to do. At least, it’s what you would want if you were in his shoes. “I think you should tell him she won’t be.”

A million seconds later, Yoongi thankfully agrees. “Yeah, I will.”

You feel better. Somewhat. At least a little less nauseous about the possibility of your brother knowing. 

But it still sucks knowing that he’s actively avoiding Yoongi because of an ex he used to have. 

How bad was it back then if this is the case? What exactly happened? Is this why Yoongi went radio silent on you for weeks?

It seems like he doesn’t even wanna talk about her. So you won’t pry just yet, as much as you wanna know every single thing she’s done wrong so you can hound her through every timeline in existence. 

Instead, you talk about a much better subject, 

“We should feed my cat now.”

And you quickly laugh at the saucy glint in Yoongi’s eyes. 

—

—

Everything is set where it needs to be. Sugar’s food and water fill their respective bowls, your shoulder leans into Yoongi’s good side, and his arm rests around your back as he’s propped up by his banged up doorway. 

You remember the first time you saw him lean against the wood like this. Only that time, you were a shell of a girl, waiting with shaky breaths and shaken confidence to hear his response to your inappropriate request. 

Who would’ve thought that you’d be on the same side as him all these months later? In his arms, resting a head on his warm chest? 

When you let out a short chuckle, Yoongi turns to your smile. “Hmm?” 

“Nothing,” you wisp out. “Just thinking about us.” 

His fingers press into your side a fraction more, and you can feel him lift his head again. “Me, too.” 

Umm. 

You can say things like that. He isn’t allowed! 

You’re about to set some one-sided rules before your gift pops out of the bushes a few feet away. 

“My baby!” you quietly call, leaving Yoongi’s side to crouch down. “Come here, love. You hungry?”

She cautiously makes her way over, sniffing your hand when you leave it outstretched. After careful consideration, the little one nudges your palm, letting you glide fingers down her back as she approaches her bowls. 

“You’re so tiny,” you observe with slight pity. “We’ll get you well fed in no time—”

“Hey, Sugar! Oh, is this her? She’s gorgeous, no wonder!”

Huh? Sugar? 

Who else knows the cat’s name already?

Your neck almost strains when you look up to see who’s talking. When you notice an older lady donning a really comfy, fluffy robe, you feel like it looks super familiar before you stand. 

“Hi,” you greet before introducing yourself, extending your hand and shaking the woman’s soft, delicate fingers. “Sorry if we were too loud.”

“Call me Miss Dion. And you weren’t too loud this time, sweetie,” she says with a wink, glancing down at the kitty eating what you laid out. “Was just comin’ out to water my plants so it’s good to see you’re here, too. Looks like he finally got some sense back in that head of his.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know!”

Back? How long has she known about you? Do her and Yoongi actually converse regularly? Their banter is… Really adorable. 

It’s making you fall even more in love with the man biting his cheek in amusement. 

Wait. 

Is Yoongi Sugar? 

That is so fucking cute you could cry. 

“I’m back to take care of this guy,” you explain with a head tilt. “And the little one, of course.” 

It’s when you say this that Miss Dion notices the bandages on Yoongi’s face, concern pushing down her brows. “What happened to you, young man?”

“Nothing to worry about.” 

“You sure? I got some ointment in my kitchen somewhere—”

“It’s all good—”

“We’ll take it,” you cut him off, not looking but feeling his stare on your face. “How much do we owe you?” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” With a snuff at Yoongi and a smile your way, Miss Dion heads inside to fetch a bottle.

In the meantime, you give your lover a quiet stare before bending down to run your hands over soft fur. 

“Papa Sugar is gonna need that so he can’t argue,” you coo to your cat, cheekily ignoring Yoongi’s sputtering puff of air above your head.

“Papa Sugar? Really?”

You glance up to his smile with a mischievous one of your own. “What, you wanna be Sugar Daddy instead?”

The swirl in your belly is instant. Because Yoongi can only look out into the distance, biting his lip and failing to hide his grin.

Sigh. If only he didn’t have those injuries across his face. You’d push him back into the door and slam it shut if it was any other day. 

Patience, patience, patience. 

Those hits aren’t gonna heal with just one round of gauze. 

When you have to replace the cotton patches, at least you’ll have something to help. 

—

—

It’s not until you’re about to tuck in for the night that Yoongi approaches your side of the bed. Judging by the headphones slung around his neck, he’s about to work, so you assume he’s just coming to give you a kiss goodnight. 

But after he does exactly that, he asks you a question that warms your chest, 

“Where’s your keys.” 

“In there,” you motion to the nearest wall, bag propped right under his windowsill. “Inside pocket, I think.” 

Yoongi bends with a prolonged grunt, slowly rummaging until he finds your jangling keyring with its charms. When he grabs it, he silently sits on the edge up against your stomach, body heat permeating your tee while he fiddles with the clasps. 

God, you’re so in trouble. You know exactly what he’s doing. 

Unlike the last time he offered you complete access to his place, this time he didn’t even hesitate. And the way he secures a key amongst the loop, it’s his silent way of cementing permanence. 

That’s not another key for you to borrow.

Because that key is yours.

—

—

continued in angel, pt. 2

pitstop inbox before pt2!! | join the server!

a/n: holy crap we're doing it we are actually back in the main storyline?! how do we feel right now because i am over the damn moon diving into this story again. here's a slight pitstop before you make your way over to part two (THE CONTINUATION IS IN A REBLOG!) so take a breather before heading into the resttttttt ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!

explicit warnings: cursing, thigh riding, cowgirl, oral (m rec), naughty studio time(??), couch sex, rough sex, giving yoongi the business, bold as fuck reader, choking, spanking, penetrative sex, kissing deserves to be here too lol, alexa play no hands by waka flocka, deep throating, hair/head tugging, nipple play, yoongi in that gd tank, yoongi in those gd glasses, teasing, titty fucking hello!!!!, stripping while he watches…. yeah, missionary, sub!3tanyoongi?????, scratching, multiple orgasms, protected sex, emotional sex, the glasses stay on??, good god they’re so hot i’m blushing

—

—

For the next few days, you’re at Yoongi’s every moment you’re free. Other than work that you have diligently not taken off, the two of you have alone time most of the week. 

And it’s more than perfect. 

You cook meals, talk about anything that doesn’t involve recent incidents, and Yoongi even lets you watch as he creates stunning instrumentals at his bedroom desk. There seems to be three projects that he’s cycling through, and one of them sounds achingly beautiful even though it’s just a series of hums. 

As far as physical work, you do anything that requires heavy lifting—even hauling groceries inside. 

Despite Yoongi’s many groans of protest, you tell him it’s no big deal at all. You want to help as much as you can, if merely to make up for all that time you could’ve helped him for three months. 

It’s right after your solo grocery run that he follows you into his kitchen with his thousandth resigned sigh, 

“Babe, you really don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, baby,” you whisper, setting everything down. When you start unloading, Yoongi stops your arms, soothing the divots left by many grocery bags. “But I want to. So let me? Please?”

You get why he’s not exactly okay with the situation. If you had to depend on him for everything, it would make you upset, too. 

But you want to show him you’re here for him no matter what. If that bothers him, he’ll just have to keep dealing with it. 

Yoongi rests his forehead against yours. “You’re too good for me.”

“And you’re too handsome for me.” Flicking his chest, you pretend to be so very disappointed as you start taking out cans and produce. “Who said you could walk around here wearing that?”

That stupid tank hugs every bit of him just right. You’re half jealous of the way it fits on him, and half in constant need to rip it off every waking second. 

Even the way you reacted when he first stepped out with it caused an immediate burst of cheek-raised laughter, and you proceeded to glare at his grin every time he got close. 

Which is probably, frustratingly, exactly why he keeps wearing them. 

“It’s just a tank!” Yoongi exclaims, laughing when you scoff into the fridge. “What’s with you and these?”

“Don’t even,” you huff. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

One wink is enough to destroy you. So you keep putting groceries away to avoid more of them. 

Fruits go here, veggies in the fridge, cat food in this cabinet, frozen treats in the freezer… Come to think of it, you could do some naughty teasing with those later—

A veiny hand cuts your thoughts, caging you against counters with an ask, “And what am I doing, doll?”

Rhetorical question once again. 

This whole week, while neither of you have instigated anything related to sex, Yoongi has tested you multiple times. Whether it be devouring the sight of you in his tees, or kissing along your shoulders after you emerged freshly showered, he has been driving you to the edge every time. 

This unashamed, barely restrained side of him is completely new to you, and you’d like to think you’re doing a damn good job of keeping yourself in check. 

Because you’ve been wanting to tear him apart until he’s a blithering, writhing mess. 

At first, you assumed it’s because of how he’s been looking lately. The shroud that’s been haunting his eyes is completely absent, giving a beautiful shine and a whole new level of attraction. 

But as the week has gone by, you’ve realized that it’s something deeper. 

It’s the fact that Yoongi’s gone beyond keeping you safe and protecting you, gone way further than just being there for you when you need him. 

And he’s doing all this while not compromising his dreams. He’s working hard for what he wants, and encouraging you to do the same with a gentle push only he can provide. 

Essentially, Yoongi’s everything you didn’t even know you needed. 

And this simple fact is the sole reason you want to take care of him in every single way, including some that will perpetually make you shy when you remember them. 

But until he fully tells you he’s ready—which he hasn’t yet—you aren’t giving in. This agonizing monster is being kept at bay with the thinnest string. The tiniest gate. The most miniscule knot. 

However. 

Your vow to hold yourself back physically doesn’t mean keeping your thoughts to yourself. So you set them free as your eyelids lower, 

“Making it really, really hard to leave you alone.”

Chains swing against your chest, conspiring with this demon to make you fold when he annoyingly purrs, 

“Good.” 

Fuck. Yoongi’s already attractive when he’s not doing anything. So when he does shit like this? When he’s practically begging for you to give in? It takes all of your inner strength to not buckle at the knees. 

“Not good,” you parry, breath short and heart rate spiking. “We said to wait until you were ready.”

Goddamn. Your fingers itch to grab at his waist, your core storms with incessant need to ride that beautiful chest. 

Mercifully, Yoongi grants you reprieve with a simple hum, sliding his hand off and sauntering away. “Playing hard to break, huh? Not bad.”

Not bad? Your pulse is through the goddamn roof! 

“Of course,” you scoff, “I’m not losing to you.” 

Laughs pop from around the corner, his absence allowing you to catch your breath and straighten your wobbly legs. “We’ll see about that, baby girl.” 

Safe. You didn’t crack and didn’t give much away.

Despite the heated moment ending too soon, your smile stretches incredibly wide. 

Yoongi has no idea what he’ll unleash as soon as he’s healed and ready. 

You’ll both see about that indeed.

—

—

On Tuesday, your brother’s car is ready, so you head to the dealership in Yoongi’s car and drive back separately to the house. 

Once there, Yoongi heads into the house before you video call and show your brother every single detail. 

Every. Single. Detail. 

“Ugh, she practically looks brand new! Do you really need me to open the passenger door again?” 

“Yes! We have to be thorough or I’m getting my money back.” 

“God, you’re so cheap,” you huff, leaning into the vehicle and showing him every leather bound surface. 

Seriously, they did a really good job. They even cleaned where your brother had all his tiny figures and polaroids and that was always a problem spot. Where did those even go, anyway? “Happy?” 

“Maybe. But looks good so far, I’ll look over her again when I’m back.” 

Of course. He’s gonna find literally any excuse to say they need to fix more. With his track record, he’ll probably even get a whole new engine from his smooth talk and persistence. “Which will be in two days, right? Friday? On time?” 

To your absolute delight, he doesn’t hesitate, sounding even more sure when he responds, “Yeah, I think I can.” When you cheer, your camera shakes like hell as his eye roll stays completely still. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

Yoongi must have cleared the air surrounding his ex. With a joyful goodbye, you hang up and head right inside to tell him the news. 

Turns out, you weren’t the only one holding massive amounts of tension because of this setback. There’s a noticeable change in Yoongi’s eyes, and your heart bleeds knowing his friend’s potential absence had been weighing on him.

He’s the bravest for choosing to have the final conversation with him alone. 

There still seems like something is bothering him, though. 

And you still don’t know how to ask. 

—

—

At least with Taehyung, you can let loose and say whatever you want. 

That fact is what allows you to breathe as soon as you pull up to Jimin’s house the next day, scanning the familiar cul-de-sac as you park in his driveway. Forever has passed since you were last here, and you can’t even remember paying a visit during the daytime. 

But Tae told you to meet him here, so you’re here. 

Food has been laid out across the living room coffee table, but none of it is touched. All you’ve been able to do is take residence on the leather couch, watching as Taehyung gnaws on a fingernail. 

“Stop that.”

“Talk to me then.”

So you do. 

There’s no hiding with him like you had to with your friends. Thorough, you give him the entire rundown of that stormy night without omission.

Throughout the entire time you talk, your best friend is laser focused. He doesn’t say a single word, and he doesn’t move one fucking muscle as you recount what happened, from the moment you fought with your brother to the excruciating minutes of screaming at Yoongi’s door. 

But something you say makes you both flinch. 

Because as soon as you mention the broken guitar pieces around his living room, a question zips through the open space, 

“What did you just say?” 

Your head whips around to see Jimin frozen in the hallway. “Yeah, he, umm. It’s completely gone now, so.. I’m gonna see if I can find him a new one.” 

That second part is something you haven’t even told Yoongi yet. It just felt right to admit to the two of them, and you watch as Jimin slowly walks toward you with eyes wide. 

Is he okay? Fuck, were you not supposed to say that after all? “Or I can get him something else—”

Toned arms embrace you tight, and you’re flung into confusion as your eyes stare at the ceiling. 

“Thank you,” you hear against your head, so soft you may as well have thought it. It’s the kind of gratitude that’s borderline uncomfortable to receive, solely because you feel like you don’t deserve something so full of meaning. 

You didn’t do anything except clean up the pieces. 

The way Jimin’s thanking you? It’s like you saved Yoongi’s life. 

And that’s too much to dwell on right now. 

“It’s okay, really,” you respond, timidly reciprocating his hug because you’re still so very puzzled. “Is there something I should know?” 

“It’s not my place to say. But everything’s gonna be fine.” 

“Okay.” That answer is cryptic as hell. “I just feel bad for throwing it all out. Maybe we could’ve gotten it repaired—”

“No.” Jimin looks you dead in the eyes before putting hands on your head. Then, shocking you to the core, he kisses your forehead before resting there. “If he has you? He’ll be fine.” 

“I guess.” Your mood turns melancholic as he slowly steps away. “He’s still pretty bruised from that night. And some of the cuts are deeper than I thought.” 

In more ways than one now, you sadly think to yourself. There’s even more things to think about surrounding that guitar. Does it have anything to do with his—

“Yoongi faired better than some of us. Rohan had to get stitches and some of the other guys needed crutches.”

Damn. You don’t doubt that. There’s no way you can completely block out the memories you have of that night. Your brother telling Taehyung to get you out of there. The way they were severely outnumbered. Yoongi refusing to look back at you, and you painfully knowing exactly why. 

“I heard about what he did,” you mournfully hitch out. “That guy.”

Jimin stills before Tae looks over at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “What did he do?”

Fuck. Does Taehyung not know about that chilling detail? Shit shit shit, you still don’t know everything yourself, so you can’t even really tell. 

Is Jimin about to reveal what your brother and Yoongi left out? 

Your wide eyes meet his before you stumble through an answer, “He, uhh.. Umm, he..”

“I’ll tell you later,” Jimin calmly breathes, to which Taehyung shifts his jaw out of quiet anger. “The bottom line is that we all made it out.”

Oh, fuck. 

Even Jimin won’t say it? 

What the hell went down that night? 

No. Focus focus focus on the good. They all made it out, and there’s nothing to worry about anymore. Probably. Dalo guy can kick rocks and perish in the pits of hell for all you care, and Yoongi was able to find himself again. Only the worst is yet to come before the skies are completely clear. 

“There’s one more thing.”

Both men turn your way, attentive immediately. 

“This time, when my brother comes back…” 

Jimin’s eyes fill right up to the brim like yours. 

“Yoongi’s gonna tell him everything.” 

—

—

But Yoongi still needs to tell you something, too. 

Outside in the setting sunlight, you stare at the key in your fingers before determination tightens your grip. 

You’re gonna ask about what happened tonight. 

And you can’t give up without an answer.

Opening the door, you’re greeted with the faint sound of a song, quickly realizing which one it is and already feeling like an intruder.

“Babe?” 

Hopefully he heard you. Just in case he wants to pause it, and just in case it’s a little too personal. 

Because that’s the one he’s worked on the least since you’ve been listening in on his sessions. For some reason, it feels like something he’d rather keep close to that beautiful chest. 

There’s no response to your yell, so you set your bag down and head to his room. “Last chance,” you joke into the door. “I’m coming in!” 

All you see are faint pink and orange hues sprawling across the room. And one passed out head of hair lying across folded arms.

Déjà vu is one heck of a concept.

Things were so different the first time this happened, and you were much more cautious with your heart when it came to this man. 

To think that you’d now take a bullet for him without a second thought isn’t even wild to consider. Because you have a strange yet unshakeable feeling that he would do the same for you. 

Just the idea is enough to shrink your throat as you take measured steps toward his sleeping form, noticing with a smile that his outfit is quite different from the last time. 

Very, very different. And much, much more revealing. 

Intrigued, you lightly shake his bare shoulder oh what the hell he is cold. “Yoongi?”

Immediately, he snaps up, glasses nudged off-kilter and strands astray in all directions. It’s only when he recognizes who you are and where he is that he rasps out a rugged greeting—the same one as last time,

“Hey, doll.”

God. The sleepy version of those two words might just be your favorite.

Chuckling, you softly spin his chair, swooping down with a kiss that seems to breathe life and energy into his veins. 

After you pull away, you adjust his specs, eyes beaming starlight into his when you announce through a smile, 

“I’m home.” 

Slowly, Yoongi nods with eyes shut. “Missed you.” 

A weight to his words compresses your chest, because it means something is still bothering him. “Missed you, too, baby.” 

When he doesn’t respond, you move to caress his slight stubble. Shit, was he rubbing his face too hard? He’s reopened a couple cuts. 

“Wait here,” you softly command. “We need to patch you up a bit.” 

To your surprise, Yoongi follows you through his room anyway, and he waits as you fetch things from the bathroom cabinet that you stocked. Wordlessly, you give him a shy smile before taking his hand in yours, leading him out to the living room.

Throughout the week, you’ve done pretty much everything you could do for him. But helping with his cuts and wounds? Every time, he’s done this part alone in his bathroom. 

So this is new. For the both of you. 

“Sit.” 

Doesn’t matter. You want to do this for Yoongi, if at least to show him that you’re not shying away from this, too. He doesn’t have to face anything alone anymore, and that includes himself. This is simply your way of telling him that. 

It’s gonna prove a bit hard to control yourself when he’s not wearing much, though. 

But you can do it. You’re a headstrong, determined, confident person who will not succumb to the way their boyfriend looks in a tank and sweats. 

Right. 

You're already nervous in your thinly-strapped top that's even more revealing than his.

Breathing deep, you walk towards him, standing between his legs and watching him look up with intrigue and curiosity. 

“I wanna do this for you, too,” you admit, straddling him when he gives you an encouraging, silent nod. “No funny business, though.” 

Fuck, his eyes already dip straight to your cleavage before roving up again. Once again, this man proves that he can do anything and you’re already threatening collapse. “Who said?” 

“M… Me,” you breath out, words hitching as Yoongi adjusts himself under your spread thighs. 

Ignore the smirk. Ignore it, for heaven’s sake, or you’re breaking your own fucking deal. 

“So hold still for me, sir.” 

A devious chuckle coats your chin as his head hits the couch, mouth at a slant that should never be paired with those glasses. 

Have mercy, you are already having trouble breathing. This is quite possibly the best worst mistake you’ve ever made, and that includes you asking him to fuck you back when you barely even spoke. 

That version of you would have fled at the sight of him now. 

But here you are, up close and more than personal, and you thank your past self for giving you every moment like this. 

As you start busying yourself with the cream, you wonder how you even got here in the first place. Truthfully, you don’t remember much about that day other than it storming right when you were halfway. The rain felt like a punishment at the time, a punishment for going where you shouldn’t and a sign to turn the fuck around. 

But now? You think of it as a blessing. Because if it wasn’t raining and you weren’t shivering like hell, you don’t think Yoongi would’ve even let you inside. 

It’s because of the heavy clouds that fateful day that all this has transpired. And you will always go back to that summer afternoon when Yoongi put sunlight back in your eyes. 

So this week has been your own chance to give some back. 

Determined, you lean forward, lightly spreading ointment on his cuts and concentrating to get every spot covered. Your focus is so zeroed in that you almost don’t feel the soothing circles of his thumb on your thighs. 

It doesn’t take long, but that’s due to your patient being the best boy. Yoongi only watches as you patch him up, breathing soft from his nose and blinking up at your face. 

Pretty soon, you’re finished, turning to set everything down on the… Not coffee table. But the floor. 

You can shop for a new one soon. 

Well. Your first task is done. Now comes the difficult one, and you kinda just wing it because overthinking has gotten you absolutely nowhere. 

“What’s wrong?”

Of course he catches onto your silence. Gulping down all your fears, you take the leap, grateful for the hands holding your hips in support, 

“If I ask you anything.. will you be honest with me?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation makes your heart jolt. “Just ask, love.”

Swallowing, you sieve through the questions and thoughts you want to make sense of, trying to figure out the best way to go about things without making it uncomfortable. 

Ah, screw it. There is no best way. “Are you hiding something from me?”

Yoongi’s brows tick. “No.”

It’s more than obvious that he wants to say more. But the fact that he doesn’t? Is actually pretty relieving. 

“What happened that night then,” you slowly ask, hating how his fingers tense on your thigh. “In the lot.”

A sigh is your first answer. 

Then silence is your second. 

The moment draws out so long you think Yoongi won’t fess up, but he finally responds to your stomach instead of your searching eyes,

“Which part.”

Fuck. He’s gonna make you say it. You really, really don’t want to, but he won’t answer unless you’re specific. 

Here it goes then. “My brother said the guy from Dalo pulled something on you.” 

Immediately, a tongue prods his cheek.

“And you did something, but that’s all I got,” you finish, folding your lips to keep anything else from spilling out like emotions or feelings or any leftover screams from when you were dragged away. 

“So ask me.”

Fuck. 

You glance up to see Yoongi staring, eyes trained on your face while the rest of his face remains unmoving. 

“I…” Shit, you already feel queasy. But he’s gonna answer, so just cut the bullshit and ask. “What did you do?”

“He had a gun.” 

What.

“And I just reacted.”

…What?

He braces for this next part, and your entire world suspends in his outstretched hands. 

“Just thought it should be me instead of him.” 

Oh. God. 

Tears form before you can say a word, your fingers shaking and balling up cotton. “You… Oh, Yoongi—”

Your head falls into your palms, every fiber of your being struggling to grasp that the end result wasn’t as horrifying as it could’ve been. Because it still almost happened and you almost lost a home. 

People have left before. Many, many times. But they all walked away for their own selfish reasons, and they didn’t come back. Yoongi’s reasons have always been selfless. Always always always, and would’ve been to the very end had he—

Warm hands slide up your arms, but you can’t stop your shakes, you can’t even fucking think straight you can’t even fucking talk. 

“Baby…” 

What’s that you said about taking a bullet for him? Chills skitter down your spine when you realize how accurate you were in thinking he would do it. Because Yoongi just did it for the only family you have. 

Ride or die has never had a better example in physical form. His love for your brother runs deeper than tree roots, and you feel the bitter leaves of guilt nicking your body on all sides.

“Listen. I didn’t know what he was doing,” he tries to clarify, voice swimming low in your ringing ears. “But I just moved.” 

Stop. You’ve got to pull it together because there’s more to ask but goddamn it already hurts. 

How can you make room for all the love that’s still pouring in for this man? How can one heart ever be enough? 

“Thank you,” you hitch out, letting tears ping onto his lap. “But I love you.” 

His fingers grip a tad tighter. 

“So please.” You finally leave the wet walls of your hands, noticing the deep, deep pools of emotion in his eyes. “Don’t ever get into that again.” 

“I know. We all know.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You swipe at your cheeks. “And the guitar?”

Shit. Yoongi reacts even worse to that. Like he half expected it but half hoped you wouldn’t ask. 

“It was a gift,” he starts, looking anywhere but at you. “From my ex.”

…What? And he kept it this whole time? 

Dark, dark poison seeps into your side as your legs lose their grip. “Oh.”

From one wild emotion to the next. This rollercoaster knocks you around a bend, and you suddenly need it to find a way to stop it in its tracks. 

Why did he keep it? Does he still think about her? Is this why he’s never mentioned her, because he didn’t want you knowing the real truth? 

This is too much. Your brain is spinning and looping and it starts to lift you from his legs but Yoongi holds you tight and doesn’t let you leave—

“There’s a reason I never let anyone in.” 

You let your eyes lift to his lidded expression, hating how some of the shadow has returned. 

“And it’s because of her.”

Shit. His hands. 

They’re trembling. 

Immediately, the ride slows to a stop. 

And your chest crumbles alongside your shoulders. You can deal with self-esteem issues or anything to do with his own self, but an ex that he can’t even speak of without anxiety? That’s a completely different story. 

Now you feel terrible for forcing it on him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Should’ve told you from the start.” 

“No.” Understanding flows through your assurance. “That’s not my business. We don’t have to talk about it.”

He gives you a soft look of gratitude as hands find your hips. “We can. It doesn’t bother me now.” 

But his hands… “You sure?” 

“Yeah.” Yoongi’s rueful smile sends a pang through your heart. “She treated me like shit, but. She can’t haunt me anymore.” 

Your throat clenches. Because now you know exactly what the hell Yoongi’s talking about. 

Those things you’ve been told, those lies you’ve been led to believe, those arguments you always seemed to lose even when you knew you were in the right. Even the way you’ve been told you won’t ever amount to much, and the way you’ve blatantly been told you’d never find anyone else. All of it reeks of pain and injustice. And oh, how you’ve been drug through the mud until you couldn’t even recognize your own fucking reflection. 

Fucking hell, if this was what Yoongi has been going through, you do wish he told you. You’d draw swords against anyone for him, and that includes the ghosts of his past thinking they could keep holding him hostage in his own fucking head. 

You’re so livid you can’t even see straight, and your words leave in smoke, “I know what you mean.”

“What?”

Your breath shakes. Because no matter how long it’s been, this is still hard. “When you go through that for so long, it’s what you’re used to, you know? So anything good that comes, it’s either hard to believe, or you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

Yoongi just stares like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

“But you?” Shit. Get the words out because he needs to hear them loud and clear. “You’ve made me realize that I can believe the good things, that I do deserve them. And I should’ve been there for you all this time because I would’ve tried and fought until you got to that point, too.”

Your vision isn’t the clearest. 

But you’re gonna remember this look on Yoongi’s face forever. 

This stricken, bright-rimmed, pained yet relieved expression will burn and sear into memory, staying etched into your heart until its last beat fades out. 

It’s love in ultimate sanctuary. 

Because it’s what you feel every second you see him. 

“I don’t know what she did to you, or what she ever said,” you conclude, cupping his cheek and wiping a stray tear. “But it’s all wrong and it doesn’t matter anymore. At all. Okay?”

Another drop needs sweeping as yours continue to freefall. Your chest is so close to his now, and you can feel the warmth of his palms as he holds you with arms so firm. 

The house in your heart has grown a garden, flowers of all shades taking root and blooming bright. You reach out and skim along their soft petals, watering them with every tear you brush from your lover’s countenance. Once, twice, a little rain shower for two. 

Out of all the people you know, Yoongi might be the strongest. 

“Everything okay, baby?”

When he finally speaks, your heart beats at his praise. Because it’s so far from what you expect, and far from what you usually tell yourself. “So goddamn perfect..”

“You think so?” You smile with your eyes, noticing the cut on his lower cheek and noting to patch that one again. “Maybe I am.” 

Finally, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t reject it. 

And Yoongi’s slow grin of pride is the best and most beautiful reward you could’ve received.

Fuck, the things you would do to see that every day. Is being in tune with yourself all you need to make him proud? Is that really all he wants for you? 

Who’s really the perfect one here? 

“You have been this whole time,” he whispers, kissing moonlight into your wrist. “Ever since you came over.” 

…What? 

This time, you do hesitate, moving away to confirm that you heard him correctly. 

Are you both on the exact same wavelength? Because how in the world is he referencing the same date and time that you were just thinking about? “...Really?”

“I’m not just saying that, doll.” Yoongi’s brows touch. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing, just what used to be everything. Your mouth bends in a sad upward curve. “I just… No one’s told me that except you.”  

“Look at me.”

You slowly peel your lids upward, mesmerized by how Yoongi’s somehow glowing in the last fading colors of dusk.  

“If you’ve never been told you’re perfect, everyone’s a fucking idiot.” 

Oh, how you love this man. “It’s true,” you shrug. “But like we were saying. Everyone else can eat shit anyway.” 

Yoongi doesn’t laugh when you do, simply moving his hands to your waist. “I meant what I said,” he continues with conviction. “You don’t see it yet, but you will.” 

God, your ears are searing right through. How is he still going? “Stop,” you pout, hand pressed against his solid chest. “No one can be that perfect.”

“I meant for me.”

Your thoughts grind to a halt. “What?”

All Yoongi does is tilt his chin higher. But it’s enough to drive you to the brink, catapulted further by his words and his look void of any teasing,

“No one will ever come close.” 

You’re already building the floor plan for a second home next door.

Does Yoongi know he can’t just say things like that and get away with it? You can only handle so much praise before your mind explodes. Truly, any amount is already hard enough to accept. Shouldn’t he be the one that understands your predicament the most? 

So unfair.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you groan, cheeks simmering and warm. “You cannot just say that and expect me to be okay.”

A huff of amusement adds more heat to your skin. “Maybe it’s why I do.”

“Of course it is.”

Smiling, his touch slowly travels to your ass, and his squeeze makes you flinch against his lap. 

“Babe?” You freeze. “What are you—”

“Angel,” he suddenly grits out in reverence, leaning forward to kiss the bare skin of your chest. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yoongi,” you gasp as his hands slip under your top. “We shouldn’t until you’re—”

“I’m good.” He breathes you in. “Promise. I just..”

Your breath catches in your throat, tugging your hands out to wrap around his hair and clutch soft strands. “Just what?”

Inhaling again, Yoongi kisses deeper between your breasts, sending shivers spiraling across your bones. “I need you so fuckin’ bad.”

“Oh.” You squirm not just in shyness, but something a lot more devious. “I need you, too, baby… But I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a quick snap, Yoongi shoves you onto his pelvis, and you yelp at the friction against his hardened tent. “I don’t even give a shit if you do.” Tugging you forward again, he breaks at your whine. “But if I wait any longer I’ll lose my fucking mind.” 

“Shit.” Bliss erupts as your legs squeeze his hips. Throwing the last scraps of your dignity, you snatch his face with both hands, core buzzing when his eyes lock with your lips, “Are you sure? I have to know because—”

“Yes, angel—”

“I’m—I’m serious, Yoongi, you don’t get it,” you say with barely held restraint, now knowing everything this man has been willing to do for you and the people you both love. There’s a dark, scary, obsidian part of you that is far from the nickname he’s giving. A little beast growling and crouching, ready to lunge. “I… I want…”

And you let it loose when you whisper exactly what you’ve been wanting to do this entire time, eyes innocent yet tongue fiendish on the shell of his ear,

“I want to ruin you.”

Fuck. 

Never. Ever. Has Yoongi’s reaction sent shivers down your skin so fast. You already consider stopping because you’re outright quaking from the things you want to do to him. The waves are coming fast and your first instinct is to run. 

But there’s an intensity in his eyes swirling so fiercely it tugs you from shore, and you barrel past all your own muddled excuses as soon as he claws into your soul,

“Do it.”

“Finally.” 

Your mouths clash hard as you swallow his tongue from above, stretching his neck over the back of the couch and melting your front onto his. Breathy sounds come from you or him, you aren’t quite certain, but you give his mouth a final shove before attacking his cheek, his jaw, the soft column of his neck. 

Shuddering at his moan when you suck a vein. 

“My baby’s so sensitive,” you taunt, mocking his words from days and days past. “Gonna have fun with you.”

“Who’d you learn all that from,” he slowly rasps back, groaning when you rake nails along his bare shoulders. “Fuck.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You push onto your knees, grabbing his head and yanking him back by those luscious locks fuck he’s already heavy lidded and wanton. Seeing Yoongi so blissed out when you’ve barely started with him? Holy shit you’re so turned on your cunt squeezes around nothing. “Too bad.” 

“What the fuck is happening.” 

Humming, your descent is quick, pressing lips deep into the skin of his throat and licking, swirling, lapping at the sweat already forming from his body’s flinches and locks. Because Yoongi is gripping the cushions of his couch and fighting for his goddamned life. 

When you feel his arms sling around your back, you sigh into his skin. And when he scratches all fingers down your shoulders, you realize exactly why he likes when you do the same.

That shit felt divine. It’s the ultimate encouragement to keep tugging on his hair, yanking his groan to the side to pepper kisses along his good shoulder. “Told you, baby,” you whisper to his silky tone. “You have no idea what’s coming.” 

Yoongi’s only response is a breathy laugh as you slide your twisting core over his sweats. “You better be fuckin’ careful.” 

“And why is that,” you ask, taunting him with another slow roll up his excruciatingly hard tent. Fuck, you wanted to take your time but you are seconds away from caving he’s already hitting your spot just right. “Why should I listen to you?” 

It takes less than a second to remember how strong he is, both arms slamming you onto his dick as he launches his hips upward. Your mewl morphs into a wicked grin when he threatens so delightfully, 

“Cus when it’s my turn, you’re fucked, doll.” 

Giggles bubble from your stomach as hands slide down his neck. Pressing your forehead against his and feeling your perspiration, too, you goad with a feigned pout, “Promise?” 

When he grins, there aren’t any words, his eyes locked on your heaving chest. Hot palms slide down to your ass, squeezing out a moan as he bites his lip. “Of course, baby girl.” 

You can’t lose to him. 

When you push your body against his neck, you revel in the way his face nestles in your bosom, glasses slightly fogged and face already flushed to hell. “It’s cute,” you purr downward, “How you think you’re even getting a turn.” 

Fucking hell, Yoongi’s eyes are so blown out they swallow you whole. 

And you welcome the abyss with open arms. “Let me.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve always taken care of me.” Gently, you caress the hair on his nape. “Let me take care of you this time.”

You watch as light beams into his gaze, and you slowly descend for a kiss, molding into him and breathing in that musk you love so much. If his eyes are the abyss, yours are the void, the monster in your belly on its haunches and ready to roar again. 

“Gonna ask one more time,” you whisper to his parted mouth. “You sure I won’t hurt you?” 

The dark chuckle you get in response rumbles your ribcage. “You already have,” he says through a devilish slant. “And it feels so fucking good.” 

Oh. You know exactly what he means. 

And this is the moment you break. 

Your deep kiss is a prelude to the ones you plant along his jaw, careful not to touch his wounds as you slide your way down his other side. The fingers you feel skating along your tee are twitching and vibrating with need, and the soft moans you hear launch arrows to your core. 

God, he sounds so pretty. Is this what he thinks about when you’re unraveling under his touch? 

It’s addicting. It’s vitalizing. You want more more more. 

Growing bolder in lust, you kiss down Yoongi’s arm, saliva coating his smooth skin before your finger impishly shifts his tank to the side. As soon as his nipple is freed, your mouth cups it hot, tongue swirling—

“What the fuck?” 

Your cunt pulses wild as Yoongi bucks forward, his head digging into the top of the couch and fingers digging divots in your hips. Arms wrap around your waist in a snap, and you keep sucking just to feel him hang on tighter and tighter and tighter. 

Then you bite. 

And Yoongi flings out a moan so loud you might come.

“Baby, hold on—”

Your fingers rake down his shoulder before squeezing around his other nub, back straining in the tight bend you’re in but it’s worth it all to hear him like this. Like he can’t even function and can’t say anything other than your name. God, it is a high it is a drug. You should’ve been taking the reins a lot more often than the one time you sucked him off so hard he—

Speaking of.

Your lips release his chest with a pop, and you feel drool slathered all over your face when your command dies on your lips, “Lemme…” 

Holy fuck, Yoongi is gone. 

Hair astray, jaw loose, brows pinched to hell and an angry flush of red flooding his chest. Just the mere sight of him this undone makes you whine, and your brain can’t even remember what you want to say. 

Chests heaving, you both simply drink each other in. Because while he looks near collapse, you fear you aren’t faring much better. You already know a strap of your tee has left your shoulder, and your senses are so overblown you know your eyes look volcanic. 

And you know for a fact you’re so fucking wet. 

“Sit at the edge. For me,” you command through heavy breaths. “Now.” 

Your neck is grabbed before you’re tugged into a kiss, and you match his manic energy before dropping to his rug. His pants are quickly stripped right after, cock springing free and already imprinting on the back of your throat. 

Well. Yoongi did say he’s gonna lose his fucking mind. May as well make that a reality. 

“Babe—”

Your mouth gulps him up before he can get the words out, cheeks hollowing and ears perking at his smattering of hisses. You don’t know what the fuck he was gonna say, and quite frankly, you don’t care. All you’re focused on is giving him your worst, swirling tongue around his tip and squeezing his base with a sure hand. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Sucks, licks, twirls are all practiced and measured, and you slide all the slick down his length before pumping him the way he likes. His heady scent enters your nose the more of him you swallow, and you feel the telltale strain in your pipe with each deep pass. 

Fuck, he is unwinding. And Yoongi being so vocal is the reason for the slick coating your thighs, because you damn near lose it when a moan leaves that mouth at a higher pitch than normal what the fuck was that? 

“Fuck, babe,” he grits through tight teeth. “So fucking—”

Curses tumble down your back in waves, slick palms hovering over your head and brushing the side of your face. Yoongi can’t decide where to keep his hands as your slobber coats and coats him, finally settling on your scalp and gripping it with need. 

Popping off and fully rising on your knees, you let him tilt your head back as he leans forward, drinking in his handsome face and loving the fact he hasn’t taken those goddamn glasses off. Strings web from your chin to his throbbing cock, and you have the boldest audacity to ask,

“What, baby?” 

He can only shake his head with a smirk. “I can’t even fucking say.” 

Body heat passes over your wet chin as you rasp out another question, “Does it feel good?” 

“The fuck?” He kisses your shiny forehead as cold jewelry taps your skin. “I can’t even think straight.” 

“Good,” you hum, sliding your palm along his wet cock and basking in his shuddering moans. Not only does he sound beautiful, but his cologne sends you spiraling even further. 

And you’re going somewhere you’ve never gone before. “There’s still this, too..” 

You haven’t done this yet. At least, you don’t think you have. But the idea came to you this week when you’ve had plenty of time to hatch menacing plans, and your body is buzzing to fulfill something you think Yoongi wants. Because who the fuck wouldn’t want this? 

Lowering both thin straps of your top, you let your breasts free, watching Yoongi shamelessly groan at the sight of them. “Just for you, baby,” you vow, squeezing both tits around his cock and feeling him twitch like mad. 

“You’re fuckin’ lying,” Yoongi growls low, words scraped from the roof of his mouth as he flings his head back. “Fuck!” 

Delighted to hell, you laugh at his slipping grip on sanity. Yes yes yes, this is where you love to see him. He deserves nothing but ecstasy after everything he’s given, and you’re here to provide. A goddess worshipping her forever love. An angel delivering sin. 

“Look at me, Yoongi,” you whine, oozing desire as he leans forward covered in lust and sweat. Your hands continue to slide your tits along his velvety veins, your essence coating them in a shine the more spit they gather. “There you go.” 

“Fucking hell, doll.” 

“You like it?” 

Yoongi reaches out to caress a nipple, and your flinch coaxes wickedness from his curve. “So fucking nasty for me.” 

You can’t help but grin, reaching to grip his cock between your tits. “Only you.” 

His lips catch yours before your breath finishes, and your eyes slip shut as you feel his palms around your jaw. His presence envelops you from all sides, and you want to exist nowhere else. The world can fall away and cease to turn on its axis, and you’d still be right here, orbiting this man in darkness in silence in triumph in joy. 

Pure emotion is what lowers your head back onto his cock, taking so much of him your throat constricts in surprise alone. When he knocks the back of your walls, your brain jangles with his guttural moan, and you choke around him so hard your eyes prick with tears. 

“Shit.” 

You stay pressed against his pelvis a second more, gasping when you come up for air and immediately latching onto his sack. Over your head, you hear your name shoot out of Yoongi’s lips, and your eyes slide high enough to see him on his last thread of coherency. 

“Doll, you gotta—you gotta stop—” 

“I don’t wanna—” 

Your entire head is yanked onto his thigh, breaths heavy and gulping in all the oxygen on the planet. Beads of sweat start to slide down your neck, and you look up to see Yoongi’s bangs clinging to his moist skin. 

Again, you find yourself coughing out laughter. Because you’re doing exactly what you set out to do. “Surprised?”  

“Not at all,” he huffs out, looking like a man completely satiated and spent. “This is all I’ve been waiting for.” 

Oh? That’s news to you. Now you really do wish you started embracing this side of you sooner. “Hope it’s what you wanted.” 

“Fucking… overachiever, fuck.” 

Grin lopsided, you fully rest your head on toned muscle. “I almost came,” you admit with not one ounce of shyness. “Sucking you off.” 

If you aren’t mistaken, Yoongi’s soul damn near leaves his body entirely. “You’re not allowed to say shit like that.” 

“What,” you wheeze out, limbs gelatinous and cunt pulsing. “It’s true.” 

“I don’t wanna hear it.” When you puff laughter onto his leg, he grins. “Had to stop you before I came, too.” 

“Help me up, please,” you breathe out, loving how Yoongi assists without pause. Your body is slowly lifted from the floor as he helps you climb back on his lap, and you immediately find purchase in his chest. “That took more energy than I thought.” 

Breathy laughs tickle your ear. “Lie down for me then, babe.”

“No,” you pout. “Wanna keep. Going.” 

Ever the giving lover, Yoongi lets you take a breather as he rubs circles on your back. “Whatever you want.” 

You turn to slowly kiss his slick neck, traveling further the more access he gives. With each tender plant on his skin, you find more and more strength, but it’s less of the manic kind and more of the outright desire to encase him in love. 

His palms slide up your back, caught in your straps before rising higher to grip your shoulder blades. When he digs fingers into your skin, you moan into his throat, licking a spot that has him purring. 

“Let me get a condom, love,” he whispers in your ear. And you oblige with a melting slide off of his thighs. “So cute.” 

It isn’t long until Yoongi returns, but you practically fuse into the couch when you notice that he’s ditched the tank, leaving his chains and the fucking glasses still? 

Oh. Cool. You’re a goner and now your shorts are drenched.

But you have to remove them anyway, so you slowly stand and make a spectacle out of your strip. Your chest beats loud as Yoongi watches from his seat, his eyes cast in heavy desire watching you slip your bottoms to the floor. You can only focus on the way he rolls protection on, because there’s no way you can hold eye contact with a demon for so long. 

When your top hits the ground next, his gravelly hum makes you feel like a god. How ironic, when he commands your every heaven and hell. 

“Come here.” 

Silent, you slowly mount him once more, pouting to his fiendish smile and narrowing your eyes. “How’d you know to leave them on.” 

Yoongi’s teeth shine as he spreads that stupid, cocky grin. And his lack of an answer has you gritting your annoyance out in pure ire, 

“You asshole.” 

Of course he only laughs. 

Bright, white need booms through your center as you grip his shoulders, positioning yourself over his dick with no hands and sliding right on oh holy fuck this part will always leave you breathless from how big he is—

“That’s so hot,” he groans to the ceiling, “Goddamn.” 

Wild, fluttering pulses erupt around his cock, and you have to breathe through the connection as you sink and sink and sink. Your thighs burn so deliciously as you adjust, and you start to wonder how long you’ll last without his help. Because your legs are fucking burning. “So big,” you hitch. “Feels too damn good.” 

“So fucking tight.” 

Both of you groan when you fully sheath, and your slow rocks are enough to send him in a cursing frenzy. Yoongi can’t stop praising you as you move against him, holding you close and breathing down your chest. There are words you’ve heard him say many times, but there’s one that snaps your attention in threes and makes your head twirl. 

What did he just say? 

“Kiss me.” 

You do exactly that, keeping your achingly slow pace and molding your whole body with his. The hard rims of his specs hit your skin as you push deeper, and you grip his slippery neck to keep yourself from falling even harder for him. 

It’s no use. You think you’ll be falling forever. 

Because your love for him is endless. 

Life is significant when you’re joined and moving as one. Sweat drips down your skin in rivulets, but you both don’t care. All you know is how deep he feels inside, how perfect you fit him, how in love you are with every determined stroke.

You tilt his head to kiss him deep, and you shudder at the way he moans and throbs beneath you, 

“You’re so…” 

“Hmm?” 

Yoongi’s eyes struggle to find your face. “I don’t even.. know.” 

“Try.” Damn, he really is fighting to stay in one piece. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this and it’s thrilling, and addicting, and everything you want. “What’s on your mind, my love.” 

“You,” he gasps. “Just you, I can’t…” 

You can’t believe what you’re witnessing. Yoongi is downright entranced. 

Is this what you looked like that first day you came over? Is this how he saw you when you completely lost yourself around him? His fucked out face alone is filling you with a fierce need to fulfill every wish he’s too scared to ask for. 

A hand moves to cut his airway, and the groan you feel under your fingers is almost as sinful as the smirk stretching across his face. 

“That’s my girl,” he manages beyond your hold, chuckling at the way you squeeze around his cock because fuck even underneath you he has so much power. “Give it to me.” 

Fuck. You tighten your hold, shoving his head up and over the couch. “You asked.” 

Planting your feet on either side of him, you give yourself more power and leverage to your bounces, lifting with each thrust and slamming down the full length of him. 

“Shit!” 

Big, sweaty hands grip under your thighs, helping you in your quest to destroy him and reaching back to slap your ass. You buck forward with each pleasurable sting, whining into his mouth when you swallow his lips, both mouths parting in pleasure with each thump of your skin against his.

“Baby, this feels—” Your arms sling around to grip the back of the couch, and you fling a moan to the ceiling as Yoongi latches onto one of your tits, hot tongue swirling around a nipple and emitting sounds that should never be heard in public. “Fuck!” 

“Taste so fucking good.” 

“Yoongi!” 

Goddamn, are you already about to come? The throbbing you feel in your cunt is so demanding you think he’s already at his wit’s end, too. 

“Angel, lemme feel you,” Yoongi breathes up to your chin. “Come for me so I can paint these tits.” 

Your groan tears the deepest part of your soul, and your whole body goes limp as your lover does the work for you, sliding you up and down his cock as his ridges hit just right. His hips thrust up to meet halfway, and you whine into his ear the harder and faster he starts to go. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes, grunting out when you squeeze him hard. “Fuck, good girl.” 

Your whine pierces straight through his couch. 

Shit, even with his help, you feel an unbearable sting in your muscles. All of them in your lower body are screaming to stop, but you want to keep going going going for him. “My legs,” you wheeze out anyway. “I need to relax for a sec.” 

With a kiss to your cheek, Yoongi offers with no hesitation, “Lie down, love.” 

Oh. Is he sure? “You gonna be okay?” 

Wordlessly, he presses you against him as your back sinks into his couch. It’s the most gentle he’s been tonight, and that turns you on so much you know he can feel you pulse around him. 

But he says nothing, eyes roaming your face before he leans to capture your lips, breaths mingling and wisping around your cheeks while he completes a perfect roll of his hips. 

“You’ve given me everything.” Sliding his glasses off, he sets them on the ground before cupping your ear. “Let me do the same.”  

Soul glimmering, you nod in silence. 

As much as you love being on top and watching him unravel beneath you, this is where you will always find home. In his arms, love between your lips as you find connection in more than just below, joining as one. 

Your world spans from the room in his heart that you’ve been blessed to have, to the end of his shadow that you will always forgive. You can’t think of anything to say now, but it’s not because you’re shy. 

It’s because you aren’t the same person you were when you first ended up here, and you think Yoongi has also changed for the better. 

That is exactly why you will fight to make everything work. 

Moonlight streams strong through the blinds, and you adore how it highlights every part of this man above your twinkling eyes. The silver lining pales in comparison to what you have in your hands, and the slight tint will never compare to his ethereal shade of blue. Every inch of him feels perfect in your folds, and his body slots into yours just right, roll after roll so heavenly you feel like crying. 

“I love you,” Yoongi whispers to your soul, and you fling yourself off the edge just to get to him, tide crashing and swirling as you hold him so, so tight. 

He groans hot against your slick cheek, no doubt feeling the desperate tug of your walls, and collapses the beautiful weight of his body on yours. 

Yes. This is what you want. Him him him and his complete loss of control. 

When you rake nails across his back, the outright whine you hear spurns you on, and you can’t help but come again, squeezing him tight and hearing him lose his mind twice. You crash into waves of your own creation, spiraling in your own whirlpool of need and want and love and desire and every fucking thing in between. 

“I’m yours,” you whoosh out, mewling in his ear as he strokes into you harder. “Come for me, love.”

It seems he completely abandons his first plan. Because you think he’s gonna pull out to unload on your chest, but you get held down so hard you scream. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, Yoongi’s never come so hard for you, thrashing as he clutches you tight. Desperate, you moan from how powerful he twitches inside, spilling into you but not the way you want. Not the way he wants. But you will get there one day and you don’t fucking care if anything happens after that, as long as you’re with him. 

Honestly? You’d be fine with… Something happening after that—

“Fuck..”

Your future thoughts are interrupted by harsh breaths, and you sling tired arms around the love of your life. 

“I’m yours, too, doll.” He grits his teeth and tightens his hold around your spent form. “That’s it. This is it for me.” 

“And I love you, too,” you heave to his deep set brows, swallowing oxygen and searching his eyes for something else. “How do you feel?”

“There’s… There’s no noise.” 

No noise?

“I…” Yoongi clutches your head with a warm palm, eyes settling into soft crescents and sparkling like celestials. “The only thing I hear is you.” 

This has to be big news for him. It has to be, given the outright relief showing on his face. So instead of questioning further, you only give your support and celebrate this win, “That’s all you need, to be fair.”

His laugh lights your soul aflame. “Thank you.” Eyes roaming along your face, he smiles. “For everything.” 

Following his advice earlier, you ask him another question you need to know the answer to, “Will you tell me if things get bad again?”

Shit. There seems to be a war in his head, and you wait with bated breath. “Gonna be honest.. I don’t know if I’ll remember to.”

Well, that’s a little scary. You tap him to sit up, and he obliges. “Why?”

Instead of sitting, Yoongi stands from the cushions, holding your hand to lift you beside him. It’s intimate to be naked just like this in his living room, but you aren’t shying away. This is your place now, too, you’d like to believe, and this is Yoongi’s way of showing it. 

When he leads, you know you’re heading to the bathroom. But you listen as he tries to explain, rolling off the condom and chucking it in the nearest bin,

“It’s.. I dunno. Like my mind just leaves and goes off the rails and I can’t stop it.” You both head into his room. “Everything I think about just comes in at once and I’m drowning again.” 

“Oh, baby.. I didn’t know it was like that.” When you stop him near his desk, you give a kiss of support to his cheek. “What about talking to someone?” 

For the upteenth time today, Yoongi is stunned. “Like a psychiatrist?"

“Hmm. Maybe, or a therapist? Depends on what you want, but I can’t remember right now. Have no think.”

Looking down, Yoongi reaches for his phone next to his keyboard, and both of you check up on the definitions while you hook an arm around his. Looks like he’d be better off with a therapist for what he’s looking for.  

“It could help,” you murmur, hoping he’s fine with your suggestion. “Maybe.”

Staring and looking through more pages and sites, Yoongi comes to his own conclusion. “I think you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Phone thudding down on his desk, he rubs your shoulder, thumb brushing and feeling beautifully warm. “Most of the time.”

Your poke to his side sets off a flinch. 

“For now, you just have to find something that calms you down.” You extricate yourself from his side and head to the bathroom, feeling the chill of night air on your bare skin. “Like something that will just.. I dunno, make you forget all the bad shit for a little while.” 

“It’s you, doll.” 

You turn to face him across the room, eyes searching for any doubt as he walks up to your planted feet. 

“This whole time, it’s always been you.” Reaching for your hips, he softly connects your front to his. “My nights are for sleeping again.”

Oh. That’s more than you can bear to know. Touched, you caress his hair, eyes teary and full. “Good. It felt like something was bothering you this whole week, but. Maybe I was just reading into it too much.” 

“You aren’t wrong.” He swallows, gaze looking towards his bed. “I… Wrote some songs. At the hospital.” When you don’t say anything, he stares at your lips. “And I really, really wanna work on them.” 

Wait. That’s it? “Oh. That’s what you’ve been working on here? I won’t keep you if you need to work on them now.” 

“Nah, I’ve just been doing the instrumentals here. If I wanna record vocals, I’d have to go to the studio.” 

This is so confusing. Does he think he can’t go? Or does he think you wouldn’t wanna go with him? “...Okay?” 

He finally regards your eyes, stunned that you’d readily let him go. “Okay?”

“Yes, silly. If it’s something you need to go do, then do it.” You feel bad if you were the reason he couldn’t do what he’s been wanting to do. Maybe you should be more vocal in your support instead of just your actions. “Just show me what you end up doing because I’m nosy.”

“Come with me.”

“Hmm?”

Yoongi pulls you close, leading both your hands around his side and your faces closer. And it’s criminal how dashing he looks in those specs with his hair falling around the rims. “To the studio. Come with me.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as your pulse quickens. “You sure, baby?”

“No one’s gonna be there for a minute,” he assures. “We still got a bit of time before anyone comes in.”

“If you’re okay with it..” Suddenly shy, you stare at the silver on his chest.“I’ve always wanted to come see you at work, so.”

“No shit?” Yoongi’s face lights up so fast you’d think the moon dipped into the room. “Let’s go then.” 

—

—

This is happening. This is actually happening. 

A whole wave of excitement drenches you as you’re brought into the studio you’ve only heard about. 

Shelves of equipment line one wall while a black sofa sits right near the door, hugging the backside of the room. On the far side, you see one huge workstation, littered with different buttons, sliders, computer monitors, and backed by a speaker system that stands in front of a long glass window. 

Oh. Sick. There’s a recording booth attached right to their room, and even that space looks pretty decently sized. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes wide as you take in your surroundings. The air itself feels new and exciting, full of promise and dreams and… one Min Yoongi smiling at you from the doorway. 

Laughing, you blurt, “What?” 

His teeth shine as he looks down, shutting the door and making his way towards you. The way he walks makes you feel many things, but above all, it lets you know how at home he feels here. How comfortable and in his element. “Nothing, doll,” he says through a grin. “Just watching you.” 

Your eyes cannot sparkle bright enough. But you let him pull you into his arms as you keep looking around. “It’s amazing,” you note with wonder. “No wonder you practically live here.”

There’s no malice or anything negative in your tone. So you’re confused when Yoongi’s shoulders drop. “Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes downcast. “I always try to make things quick.”

Your eyes snap to his. “What? No, don’t do that.” Sliding palms up his jaw, you look him head on. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, okay? I don’t care how much time you spend here, not if it’s what you wanna do.” 

You meant it earlier. He has to know you’re gonna support his dreams and aspirations no matter what. In actions, and in words. If he doesn’t know that yet? Well. You aren’t trying hard enough to drive the point home. 

Yoongi twists his face to kiss one of your hands. “Thanks, baby.” 

Oh. Baby again. Not babe. Why does him saying that make you crumble a hundred times over? “Of course. And don’t mind me while we’re here, okay? I’ll be invisible unless you need my help.” 

Looking towards the workstation, Yoongi contemplates before turning back with a small nod. “I do, actually.” 

Wait, you even get some hands-on action? Yoongi’s gonna teach you shit? Tonight is the best night ever. “Perfect, put me to work. What are we doing, producer man?” 

—

—

Yoongi bobs in the recording booth while you do the same and await his first masterpiece. 

And as he spits line after line, you hype him up, grabbing your chair arm and yelling out as he completes another rhyme. 

Fuck, he’s good and quick-witted, which is inherently a turn on for you and launching you into his magnetic stratosphere. You start getting up to bounce in place, and he raps to the rug as you keep encouraging him to continue. He can’t hear you, but he can see you, and you’re certain those flashing smiles are for your antics. 

It’s amazing how Yoongi can just do this. He’s truly a genius, and you’re starting to wonder what other artistic prowess he has. You would be fine just sitting on the back couch and watching him work any day of the week. Why haven’t you been doing this sooner? 

Well. There are two pretty damn obvious reasons.

The beat bumps and bumps after he finally finishes, and you wait the designated seconds before cutting the recording line. Something about letting it run a bit as to not cut off the backend off his recorded part.

Just like that, Yoongi’s done with two out of the three songs he wrote in that waiting room. You shout in vehement support as he grins at your bouncing, standing ovation. As he comes through the recording door, you buzz at his amused as hell question, “What are you even doing in here?”

“Uhh, hyping you up? That was so good!”

His laugh creases those beautiful, spectacled eyes. “It’s just one verse per song!”

“Just one—let me try,” you command, settling back into your rolling chair. “Run it again and watch me.”

“Oh, yeah?” A few hisses of laughter shoot out as he peers up at the overhead screen. “Let’s see it then.”

The beat starts and you try to find a good first line to rhyme with. And this is meant to demonstrate to Yoongi that he is miles above everyone in rapping, but you start to get into it, using the simplest sentences and shouts and making your lover laugh his ass off.

But he’s egging you on and bobbing his head so enthusiastically that you’re somehow finding all the right words to say, elated when he shouts and looks at you with hearts in his eyes.

Your chuckle is softer and softer as you stop. “What?”

“You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks sizzle right underneath. “You just say that because you’re happy.” 

“I am happy,” Yoongi says without hesitation, which makes your heart soar. “But you’re also perfect.” 

You cannot deal with this level of affection right now. Not when you both came for him to work on something important. Plopping into the rolling chair again, your stomach flips as it leans back a bit. “And you need to focus,” you order, rolling close and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You have one more to go, if my counts are correct.”

His eyes have a very intentional glint as he creases them at you, but he lets you steadily roll to the side as he looks at the console. “I have to move some tracks around, so this might take a sec. If you get bored, though, tell me and we can leave.”

“Not until you’re done.” 

Yoongi looks at you again, and he watches your smile. “You sure?”

When you nod, you take hold of your phone and lean into the plush but firm back of the chair. Unlocking your screen, you hum, “I’ll keep myself busy somehow.” 

“Come here.” 

Although low, Yoongi’s voice is more than enough to get your attention. Head raising, you see him angling himself towards you before rising out of his seat. 

Wait. What’s he doing? You know he’s supposed to be working. You both agreed this wouldn’t result in any funny business. But your throat remains closed and silent under those eyes. Fuck, they’re smoldering. Seriously, what is he doing? 

Leaning down, Yoongi places firm hands on your armrests, caging you in and letting his chain swing free, “I said come here.”

Well. If he doesn’t give a shit? Fuck it then.

You giggle before willfully meeting his lips, neck craning to reach him and swooning at the way his cold silver hits your throat. You’re nowhere near a bed nor couch anymore, but that’s exactly where your mind wanders for the quickest of seconds. 

Turns out, you aren’t the only one. Your mind has company. And it, along with your whole body, shivers at the next words pouring like liquid, spiced honey from that devilishly curved mouth, 

“I know we said what we said.”

“Uh huh…”

“But following the rules.. hasn’t exactly been my style.”

Your breath hitches at those mischievous eyes. “Even if they’re yours?”

Yoongi lets out a breath of a laugh, like he knew you would ask that and he’s got his answer loaded in the chamber. “Doll, there’s only one set of rules I wouldn’t break.” 

“And which ones are—”

Snatching your quick lips, he kisses butterflies into your belly before gripping your chin, holding your gaze and melting you with one syllable. 

“Yours.”

Maybe you’re about to pass away in a studio. But at least you’d have an excuse to stay in here forever now, because you could listen to Yoongi perform and record every day of your life. 

“The number of times…” He kisses you again, chaste and full. “I’ve thought about you in here…”

“Me…?” You breathe out before your eyes slip shut in another kiss. “Why?”

“One, I think about you everywhere.” He kisses your neck. “And two? Just cus I shouldn’t.” 

You suddenly get an idea. About a home studio that you certainly can put to use. But this one would have to do—

“Alright, old man,” you stop his next advance with a stiff arm. “Get to work before I make you.” 

“Ugh.” Yoongi rises with a deep chuckle. “You’re lucky I love that.” 

“I know you do.” 

“This is the last one anyway,” he notes, picking up his notebook and tapping it with a pen. “Just wanna make sure you’re fine hearing it.” 

“Of course I am, baby.” You roll up to the workstation as Yoongi loads a file into the interface. Based on the ones you already heard, you know why he’s asking you about this third track. Now you’re even more nervous to be in the room. “I’m not the one paying for the studio time.” 

His cheeks leap to the sky when he grins at the monitors, shifting things around the screen with the deftness of a professional. “Why do you seem so comfy here?” 

Your heart follows through the roof. Because you have the same feeling, but you already know the reason. It’s working right in front of you. “Because this is your home,” you respond through a smile. “And I can finally see why.” 

His hands pause as emotions race across his face. And while you think you can pick some of them out, a few of them border on melancholic. Regardless, you’re sticking to your answer, eyeing him when he faces you one more time. 

Bending, he cups your chin so, so tender. “You’re my home,” he corrects with a whisper, and your heart glows with his soft kiss to your cheek. “Now stop distracting me, brat.” 

Oh, he’s got to be joking! “What did I do!” 

Yoongi simply laughs as he checks everything over. With a tap of his fingers, he seems satisfied, so he heads into the recording room. “Just remember to do the same thing.” 

“Yeah, I got it.” 

Exhaling from your mouth, you watch as he slips on headphones and adjusts the mic. When he gives you a thumbs up, you give him a nod, hitting record and letting music flood the studio. 

And your entire body is surrounded by a desperate sense of longing, wildly different from the first two songs, and you slowly stand because you can’t do anything else. 

You understand everything now. 

Why Yoongi wouldn’t leave your side, why he was so eager to see you. You feel it now, too. This pull, this yearning, this overwhelming feeling in your chest that is tugging you closer and closer to him. There aren’t many words yet, but you understand what he’s trying to convey. 

This man can have the universe and then some. 

When Yoongi notices your tear-stained cheeks, he holds your gaze before slowly slipping his headphones down his hanging head.

It takes everything for you to stop the recording, shaking as you slowly walk to the recording room entrance. As you open the door, it feels more than symbolic, and a pang rings in your chest at the sight of Yoongi’s reddened eyes.  

So you bolt, crushing him into a hug and letting all those moments of separation and confusion and anger fall from your eyes. It’s not just a song, it’s a plea. It’s a cry for help. And you’re gonna answer it every single time. 

“I’m here, Yoongi,” you whisper. “I’ll always be here.” 

He doesn’t look when you cup his chin. 

“Baby, look at me.” He finally does, and your chest tightens so quick you choke. “It’s gonna be alright.” 

“You think so.” 

“Yes.” You smile, giving him a calming kiss that gets your point across. Then another to his cheek. And another to his forehead. Nothing heated. Nothing intense. Only the purest connection. “I’ll always lo—”

Every hair you have stands on end. 

Because a booming intercom buzzes across the room with a crackle and a snap, and all your peace flees as you snap your head to the window. 

Blanching at the person watching on the other side. 

“Yoongi, what the fuck?”

—

—

tbc :)

-

how did we enjoy the last drop!! | join the server!

a/n: AND THE WHOLE PART IS UPPPPP woohoo! thank you all for bringing such joy and love to this series that means the world to me. i cannot have asked for a cooler community, and knowing you guys have been waiting for this all this time? i could cry. even after all this time, you're still here. or you're just finding this series and joining us on this journey. thank you all for being here, and here's to... well... The Big Events. #prayForMe #willBeCryingOnMyKeyboard

++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here!

++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it yet, so we'll keep it goin!

He somehow stumbles into a makeshift safe-house. The bullet that had pierced his upper chest is still lodged somewhere between his rippling flesh. Warm, sticky blood oozes out of the deep cut slashed across his chest, splitting his skin apart.

Outside, it is a cacophony of shots being fired and the constant thuds of bodies that follow. He doesn’t remember when was the last time he inhaled air that wasn’t saturated with soot and the metallic scent of blood…or when was it that he looked up and saw a clear sky instead of the orange fumes of fire, death and decay.

There is no sensation in his left leg anymore...just angry violet skin hosting several broken bones within. The iron smell of his own blood and that of others around him swarm his senses as he waits it out.

Just a few more hours.

Ceasefire for the day.

Someone would come and help him. They ought to.

For now, he must find some way to avoid attracting attention with his garbled moans of pain. His fingers shake, or perhaps it’s his vision wobbling with intense agony, as he reaches down in his pocket to retrieve a long, sweat soaked strand of wool. It must’ve been white someday, but now, it is more rusted from dirt, blood and overuse. Yet he holds it reverently between his fingers and begins looping, spinning and tangling it between his digits. The machine guns dull, his vision clears and through the dense war around him, something soft and pure envelopes him.

Between his fingers is now stretched a smiling string figure. A doll. The tear that clings to his lower lash is thicker than the rest, heavier with meaning and memory and love. He carefully bunches the thread up and places it back into his pocket. His chest feels warmer now.

Or perhaps, it's just his shirt soaked with his blood.

(three years later) Manhattan, New York, 1921

The woman in the turquoise cloche hat rolls her eyes when her weepy husband demands yet another napkin from her. She reaches for her purse regardless, shoving another bunched up piece of clean fabric in his fist for his damp cheeks. 

“Keep it down, will you?” she hisses, embarrassed eyes darting around apologetically when he sniffles again. 

But the man grumbles something fleetingly unkind about women and their inability to interpret and empathize with art, and ruins another one of her lacey handkerchiefs with an abhorrent mixture of snot and tears. 

The woman only shakes her head. 

He has always been like this—loudly and pretentiously emotional over things that might barely jerk a half-hearted wince out of her at best. 

Now, before one labels her apathetic—she has tried...heavens know how hard. 

For him, she has pretended to laugh until her cheeks hurt at the unfunny displays of rowdy caricatures of foreigners at the theaters. 

For him, she has dabbed corners of her drier-than-the-Arizona-summer eyes after his colleague’s daughter’s revoltingly off-tuned piano recitals. 

For him, she has ooh-ed and aah-ed at the paintings of things that don’t matter simply because he rejoiced when someone validated what he deemed was the reasoning behind the choice of a certain hue by the artist. 

But it’s not the early 1900s anymore and she’s no longer his shy, teen bride. They’ve been married for over twenty years, and even the most skilled actresses can perform for so long. 

Now she only waits for his seemingly endless sobbing to halt so that she can focus on what remains of the film casting greys and blacks on the ivory sheet. 

The movie—sensational among the crowds of her husband’s likeness, and laced with a very predictable ending—that plays in front of her is named ‘Fool’s Paradise.’ 

What an appropriate name, she thinks to herself while eying her husband clench the fabric in his wrinkled fists and stare wide-eyed at the screen as if it were some holy revelation. 

She grows wary of the sight pretty quickly, and returns her focus back on the screen only to be ambushed by the sudden appearance of half a dozen alligators whom the once blind hero tries to fight to win over his lover. 

Exasperated, the woman wrings her head away from the screen, from her husband, from the lazy reconciliation that’s bound to happen on screen, counting down minutes until she can leave her seat. 

A rosy valentine’s evening—wasted. 

As she mulls over her fate, still soured over the now wasted tickets to a new and emerging jazz singer from the orient, Lee Seokmin's show that she had wanted to attend instead of coming to the cinema, a brief movement outside the flapping wooden paneled door catches her eye. 

The figure looming outside is hidden under a huge hat, an enormous tweed coat and looks fragile and small…perhaps a young boy?

Strange. 

It’s the last show of the day. Then what is he waiting outside for?

His occasional peeping through the gaps puts her on alert. Something about the jittery energy, the nervous fidgeting, the constant hiding and seeking makes her conclude that it must be a pickpocket—there have been way too many of them in Manhattan lately. 

The thunderous round of applause, the final few sniffs and the spluttering compliments as the movie ends drown out the alarms ringing in the woman’s head. But she’s already on her toes, determined to corner the supposed crook before he can wipe his hands on the bulging wallets of New York’s nouveau elite. 

“Hey, you!” she calls out as soon as she bursts out. 

She gears up her throat to scream for help in case the figure attacks her or makes a run for the exit. But her angry exclamation only makes him flinch. He buries his flushed face deeper into the scarf. 

Behind them, the cinema-goers have already begun milling out of the stuffy, dark room—immersed deep into the discourse about the actress’s beauty and blissfully unaware of what’s unfolding at the entrance. 

The woman takes a closer look, or attempts to, because her captive is already fleeing. But instead of running away, he seems to be sliding towards where she has just emerged out of. 

Taking advantage of his lithe body, he attempts to slip inside the now emptying room—no visible solicitation of theft or mischief. 

But the woman is smart enough to grab onto the sleeve of his coat, even though he begins wringing his hand. 

Something is not right about the person in front of her. 

It takes her a moment to realize what it is that grated on her about this overenthusiastic attendant in the first place…the softness of face, the swell of chest under the low buttons of the coat, the doe-eyes…

No.

That’s an absurd thought. 

The community here is still too conservative for that.

So she presses on:

“The show has ended.” She exclaims, “you cannot go inside now.”

Another short lived struggle. Another hand tightening over the coat. The flesh under her fingers seems too soft to belong to a… 

“Let me go.” The person grumbles. 

Any doubts that were holding the woman away from believing what her gut had concluded melt away the moment her captive lets their voice slip out. The person in the woman’s stronghold isn’t some naughty pickpocket or a bony little servant—but a young girl dressed in a man’s clothes. 

The woman lets her go at once, and when she does, a soft strand of the girl’s hair escapes from her hat which she quickly tucks back in and disappears inside the dark room leaving the woman more confused than she was before. 

The projector inside the room is dying slowly—nothing more than a haggard glow trembling in the stale air—and her husband is glancing impatiently at his pocket watch as he waits for her outside the theater. 

“What was that about?” He asks, only having witnessed a sliver of the encounter. “Who was the boy?”

“Pippa’s son.” The woman lies, tightening her shawl over her shoulders. “Told him to say hi to his mother for me.”

⸻

You look around one last time. 

Fifty odd seats. All empty. 

Still, just for precaution, you crouch down and search underneath them too. 

Once you’re satisfied that you’re alone in the room with a flickering projection of ‘Thank you!’ on a washed blanket, you finally clutch the hat in one hand and the scarf in another and free yourself from the claws of their itching, swampy heat. 

Your skin sighs deeper than your lungs, the scarlet flush watering down to a faint pink as you begin unbuttoning the coat several sizes too big on you. The air inside the room is stagnant and salty with all the tears it has witnessed today, but it seems as good as a fresh morning’s breeze when it settles in your hair. 

Maybe it’s the freedom from your hefty paraphernalia, maybe it’s the tingling, funny feeling beginning to climb its way from the butterflies in your stomach to the fireflies in your chest—but you find yourself giggling mere moments before he creeps up behind you to cage you and pull your back flush to his chest. 

“Hansol!” you laugh, even when nothing about the little kiss he presses against your temple is funny. 

But perhaps laughter is the only sound of homecoming. 

“You almost got caught there.” He remarks, resting his chin over your shoulder and slipping his fingers over your own to undo the last few buttons of your coat. 

You help him take it off you by shrugging your shoulders out, “I thought she was about to screech and cause a scene.”

“Well, you are unchaperoned and cross-dressed in Raymond’s cinema house.” He drapes the coat over a seat lazily, “and if that’s not scandalous enough, you’re trespassing at midnight.”

“Oh, please.” you huff out, plopping onto the cushiony seat and tapping the one next to you for him, “there’s women out there finishing off their evening shifts right now and having a smoke in the parlour next door. Not my fault your employer is still stuck at least half a century behind.”

Hansol tries his best to block your view of the giant pamphlet peeling off a corner on the side wall that reads, ‘NO UNCHAPERONED WOMEN ALLOWED PAST SIX IN THE EVENING’  among other outdated rules. 

But you read it out loud, like you do every night you come and visit him. Always alone. Always disguised.

“You know Raymond only keeps that up because he’s terrified his clientele will complain…the people around here are still too traditional about stuff like that,” he mutters, sinking down beside you. “If it were up to him, he’d let dogs and ghosts in, so long as they paid.”

“And yet,” you say, plucking an invisible piece of lint from his lapel with theatrical delicacy, “here I am. A woman. A scandalously unaccompanied one at that. And your ghosts-and-dogs-loving boss would have a fit.”

Hansol brushes a hand, warm and careful, against your jaw. 

“You aren’t unaccompanied. Not anymore.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” you tease. “I’ve been accompanied by a criminal.”

“A criminal?” He blinks. 

“Aiding and abetting, Hansol. Harboring a fugitive in your cinema of all places.”

He laughs quietly—soft, pressed-through-his-teeth, the kind of laugh he only ever lets out when he knows the walls won’t listen. The lamp behind the projector sputters one last time, dimming the room into an amber-tinted hush. Outside in the street, taxis honk and someone shouts a drunken goodbye; the world moves on without knowing you’re here, perched between shadows and the sweet leftover scent of celluloid.

He leans back, shoulders touching yours, knees angled towards you like he’s always been pulled by your gravity. For a long moment you listen to the projector cool, clicking and shrinking as metal contracts.

He reaches for your fingers—tentatively, as though asking without words—and you let him lace them between his.

“You looked so terrified when she held you,” he murmurs. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I am…now,” you assure him, resting your head on his shoulder. The rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek slows your blood down. His shirt smells faintly of the oil used on film reels—sharp, metallic—but underneath it is something familiar, something that always softens the parts of you the world keeps trying to harden. His shirt brushes your jawline as you curl instinctively closer.

He adjusts you slightly in his arms, like it is nothing and everything all at once.

Hansol hums. “I hate that you have to hide like this…by dressing up like—”

“A man?” you supply. “I think I make a fine one.”

“You make a terrible one,” he corrects, grinning now. “You’re too pretty for it.”

That makes you kiss him. Just a quick peck—short, but oh so sweet. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Hansol.” 

You begin to pull away, but his hand cups your face—calloused yet gentle—stationing you nearer for him to kiss you better. Deeper. Tentative yet passionate at the same time. His breath shudders before it mingles with yours, warming every single fibre of your physicality.

The kiss is slow…so slow that it makes you feel every single movement, every single touch, with such profoundness that it almost aches. Almost. Because Hansol has this way of dulling every pain that exists in your being until it withers down into nothing but a blossoming warmth in your spine. 

And just like that, something scarlet blends into the night-sky. 

“Happy Valentine’s, my love,” he mumbles against your skin. And then, as if the kiss was still unfinished in his books, he recaptures your trembling lips with his scorching ones. This time, more territorial and surer, like a dying flame leaping right back onto a new, diesel drenched log. Your knuckles shiver as they graze his jaw, too stimulated by his kiss.

By the time your bodies detangle, your toes hurt from curling too much inside your shoes and the perfume on your wrists has fully bled into his collar. 

Instinctually, you suck your bottom lip in, wanting to soak whatever it is of him that’s lingering on them. 

An affectionate titter escapes him at the sight of you so wrecked and gone by a simple kiss. He cradles your head, resting his forehead against yours, “I need to show you something.”

You take a moment to catch your breath before whispering: “Go ahead.”

The knot in your belly tightens with anticipation when he gives you another little kiss, gets up and disappears behind the seats. You hear the familiar whirring of metal and plastic as he skillfully loads a strip of film on the reel, adjusts the apparatus and after a few short minutes, the once ghastly white sheet in front of you is drenched in sepia tones again. 

“Is this some new movie?” You ask when he reappears. 

“Yes, I want you to be the first one to see it.”

“Oh, lovely,” you squeal, winding your arms around his bicep when he leans closer to you, “what’s it called?”

“Rites of Passage.”

Displeased, you scowl, “what an unfortunate name.”  

You had expected it to be a romantic melodrama—they’re all the rage these days. 

As if sensing your unease, he assures, “it is a love story.”

“I hope it doesn’t have a tragic ending.” 

Hansol stays silent at that. 

And then, “it ends the way it needs to.”

“Do they find happiness in the end?” 

He smiles, “yes…yes, they do.” 

“Then I have no qualms with what happens in the rest of the story.” 

Before you, the first flicker of a vibrant amber light quivers on the makeshift screen. Dust motes drift lazily through the projector beam, catching gold as the picture sharpens into focus. You lean further into Hansol’s chest, watching it half-heartedly, expecting the familiar grand opening shot—rolling hills, a train station, something suitably dramatic.

But the opening is rather quaint and even though it is a new one, you feel like you’ve seen this film before. 

A serene shot of a garden tucked somewhere between a row of terraced houses—narrow, almost secret, the sort of place only two kids would know how to find. The projection is all black and white, like new movies always are before they rot into sepia. But you think you know just exactly what the color of flowers that the little boy picks in a little basket is, or what shade of green is the little girl’s coat. There is no sound, but you’re already in on the jokes the boy tells to make the girl laugh. 

Not like an imagination. But like a memory. 

Hansol rests his cheek on the crown of your head, his warm breath brushing over the wisps of your loose hair. 

The boy on the screen tangles a long strand of wool between his little fingers, spins it around skillfully, and in a matter of seconds, conjures up what seems like a string doll between his stretched palms. 

“Remember when you used to perform these string tricks?” you ask him, fondly remembering all the different stars and animals and figures he’d entertain you with. 

He laughs, soft and balmy, “yes, and you’d always ask me to make a doll at the end of them all.” 

“I loved the string-dolls you’d make.”

“I know, dolly.” You feel his fingers tighten over your shoulders when calls you by the name only he ever calls you by. 

Before you, childhood matures into teenage—an uneven mix of awkward yearning and silent confessions. Distances grow, but so do the depths of feelings. Glances in public squares or intense staring under the old pine tree on a hill-top—as if the juvenile hero wishes to etch every curve and blip in the heroine’s face into his psyche.

It is so saccharine, so dreamy. 

Yet you feel a build-up…like any moment now, the bubbling potion of love is going to tip over and spill into a dark, rotten goo. Like every little dream that floats over a cloud for so long, this one too is about to meet its scorching fate when it crosses the sun. 

Your breath hitches and with the sudden tension in Hansol’s jaw, you wonder if he feels it too—this near dread. 

But before anything could happen—a villain bursting in and kidnapping the girl, or the ground splitting open by some ancient curse and swallowing the hero whole and leaving her to embark on a quest to bring her lover back—the reel stutters. 

The sound is jarring, like something snapping between the rusty metal but refusing to let up. A rhythm of defiance to break, but also a refusal to let the pictures move forward leaving you stuck with a static scene where the hero is halfway through a door as the heroine holds his hand back. 

“It’s stuck.” Hansol announces, gently unwrapping you from around him to go examine the projector, “I guess we overused it.”

“But we couldn’t even make it until the intermission.” You pout, a bit too upset over not finishing a movie you had no intention of seeing in the first place. 

“Next time, dolly,” he promises, still fiddling with the film-strip. 

You stay at the cinema for a little while after that, carefully vigilant yet carelessly in love at the same time. You whisper the happenings of your weeks to him so softly that even the room seems to shrink smaller for the walls to be able to hear you clearer. But the very next moment, you fail to swallow in your overenthusiastic squeaks when Hansol shares just what new movies Raymond plans to showcase at the theater next week. 

He shushes you, barely controlling his own beaming smile at your fanatic spirits. 

“Ah, Rudolph Valentino is so charming in the posters,” you exclaim, clasping your palms together, “I’ve heard it got a background score so romantic that it makes the audience weep!” 

“We plan on handling the weeping by playing the new movie of that Chaplin fella right after,” he says, “what’s it called…’the kid’?”

“Oh Hansol… I feel so alive these days.” You have no idea where it comes from, but the sparkle in your eyes is enough to light up the whole midnight. “These films…these flickering little miracles—they’re not just stories. They’re… they’re the city.”

He tilts his head, and you lift your hands as if sculpting the feeling out of thin dust motes drifting through the projector beam.

“New York is growing so fast I can hardly ever catch my breath. Every week there’s a new building stretching higher, a new crowd pushing through Times Square like they’ve been summoned by some invisible conductor. And these movies…they move just like the city moves. Quick. Restless. Unafraid.”

You turn to him and aren’t surprised when you find his face mirroring the utter reverence your words hold for a place that others might brush off as nothing more than an amalgamation of concrete and blinding lights. Maybe this is why you hold all your words, all your thoughts within yourself all day long—as excruciating as it is—because you know no one that’s not him would ever listen to you with this relevance. 

There seems to be this invisible thread that ties the centre of your chest with his and syncs your heartbeats until they’re nothing more than a background score for the movie that is the city you both grew up in. 

“Sometimes I think New York is dreaming right through us. That she’s sitting in these seats with us, humming along to the Valentino score, laughing with Chaplin. She’s becoming something bigger than any of us can grasp, and the cinema… it’s the only place I can hear her properly.”

Hansol watches you, the corners of his lips tugging upward with a quiet awe. You feel a blush rise, but you continue, unable to stop now that the words have burst open.

“I love this city like I love you,” you confess. “Like a friend, or a secret, or something I’m afraid to lose. And when I watch these films…these new, daring, impossible films, I feel like I’m watching someone I adore so deeply grow up in front of me.”

Outside, a distant streetcar clangs its bell—sharp, urgent, alive. The sound threads into the stillness of the empty theater.

“Ah,” you breathe, sitting back with a little laugh. “Hear that? That’s the city reminding us she’s awake. She never sleeps anymore.”

“She never sleeps,” he agrees, something softer than mere amusement in his eyes…deeper and more sincere, like devotion. “But I know she sighs when you talk about her like that.” 

Your lips dip into an irrepressible smile. He always does this—effortlessly putting these profound conclusions to your spirited ramblings as if putting a final bow on a bunch of randomly picked wildflowers and turning it into an expensive bouquet.  

It only motivates you to carry on with a discourse that many would brush off as nothing more than a nonsensical love letter penned by a dramatic, young girl towards something so inanimate. “People say the rush in the veins of this city is unbearable now…this maddening passion—they think it's ruinous.”

“Isn’t that exactly what they used to say about us when we were growing up?” Hansol prods, “it is always unnerving for them to see life stretch and expand in its own skin. The city, just like kids, isn’t pliant anymore…you cannot hold it back from chasing what it seeks.” Finally, his eyes settle on yours, “just how they couldn’t hold us.”

Your lashes flutter shut, your face inching further closer into the curve of his shoulder. Your voice is half muffled into his sweater when you speak, “I wish we were as brave as New York. I wish that we didn’t have to hide, that we could just run wild like her.”

Hansol doesn’t immediately answer, he lets your rueful grief settle down in the air around you—breathing it, soaking it. And once he can feel the shallowness dissipate from your inhales, he speaks, “you know why the lights here shine so bright now?”

There are a hundred logical explanations to that, but you’re aware that logic is long forgotten in this exchange between you and him. 

He continues, “you light a flame to illuminate something. But it also means you’re casting a shadow at something else at the same time—something you don’t want to see. It only makes you think, there could be so many secrets New York nurtures in these shadows behind its bright lights.”

“Just like us?” You ask.

“Just like us.” he affirms, his low voice the only evidence of his existence in the pitch darkness that envelopes you. 

You wonder what would happen if someday the spotlight tilts and shines directly at the two of you, when no matter how hard you try to outrun it and seek the shadows, it catches up to you. Because that’s what light does, doesn’t it? Finds and blinds. 

But for now, you choose to hide here—shadowed enough that the world can’t quite catch you, yet bright enough that he can. 

⸻

Lee Seokmin’s birthday arrives every year with a reminder of whom he shares it with. 

He tries to cheer up, attempts to brighten the gold in his smile even more on this particular day, answers all the letters and cards he receives. But always, in the back of his mind, there’s the shadow. His shadow. It’s been over three years, yet there’s no escaping the truth behind the life that he lives now. The ring on his finger. The woman who resides in his guest-room.

On this particular day, she sleeps until late noon.  

Good, he tells himself as he pretends to read through the details of the show he is supposed to sing at the upcoming week, it’s good that she’s resting. 

The flimsy curtains do little to stop the breeze that carries the remaining frost of the East-coast winter inside his townhouse. Seokmin stutters, contemplating shutting the glass-panels up, but ends up deciding otherwise and rather walks towards the open balcony to feel the sun on his skin. 

It’s a serene neighborhood, safe, suburban and saturated with greens—of nature, and of money. The houses all around are occupied by people like him, people whose life flourished when the city began flourishing a few years back. Bankers, performers, business owners, hoteliers…he’s the only celebrated Jazz singer around, though. 

So celebrated, in fact, that the glimmer of his raw talent and the honey in his voice drown out the color of his skin. There’s white men begging him for tickets to his shows now—can you imagine? 

He should gloat and yet, he doesn’t. Because Seokmin, before anything else, is someone who is aware. He worked hard for this, trained until his throat felt akin to sandpaper, sang like a madman at gigs that paid him in half a loaf of bread. But he also knows that all that talent, grit and experience can only mask so much about his identity that the people in this country are ‘willing’ to tolerate. 

His fame and riches helped him gloss over his foreignness, but he can never overlook the significance of the attribute that the woman fast asleep right now adds to his life. 

Slotting himself into the New York high-society as a Korean man with nothing but sheer luck and acumen to back it up is one thing. 

Trying to explain why he had no wife or fiancee or any romantic inclination towards women without painting himself red like a target is another.

Thus, there’s nothing for him to gloat about without first acknowledging the lifeline he has been given by his ‘wife’, even if it means that he has to—

“Good afternoon,” your voice is softer today, yet strong enough to pull his attention back inside the house, “and happy birthday, Mr. Lee.”

You’re all dressed up already. A giant coat that hides whatever it is that you’re wearing, only a hint of your stockings and the new pair of your low-heeled Mary Janes visible for him. Despite all the color that you’ve dusted over your face, the softened edges of your features and the droplets of water still clinging on to the tips of your hair make you feel strangely unfinished. Like a painting waiting for its final stroke. 

“Thank you,” he smiles, clearing his throat. 

This…arrangement, carefully crafted and deliberated on by the both of you, has allowed the two of you to co-exist for almost half a decade now. Yet, he still finds himself at a loss of proper words that he can say to you. Where are the lines here? What are the oddities? 

You seem more at ease around him than he does, though. Because you’re beaming, extending something towards him. That’s when he notices it—the tray full of little sweet treats clutched between your palms. 

“Oh, right.” he stutters, quickly grabbing the first dessert his fingers reach and scarfs it down whole. 

Thank God, they had been on the cooling rack for a while, or else he would have put himself out of business for a week by burning his throat with molten sugar straight out of the oven. 

That makes you laugh. This awkward, nervous energy which you’ve tried to soothe out of him through repeated assurances and affirmations. You always tell him that you feel safe around him and that you can just exist like friends. Perhaps, siblings? 

But he finds it hard to come around. 

And considering just how grave his situation already is when it comes to definitions and labels, you let him be. 

You place the tray back onto the counter but box two pieces of cakes into a tin container, clearly planning on taking it out with you. 

“It’s his birthday too, you know?” You inform Seokmin, even though he doesn’t ask. 

Seokmin considers his words for a long moment, still standing in the middle of the room, his hands sticky with the powdered sugar. 

“Ah yes,” he finally says, “I remember. Vernon—”

“Hansol,” you correct him sharper than you intended. 

Seokmin blinks, watching you uncertainly as this strange rage surges and ebbs within a split second between your brows. 

“I…I’m sorry,” you stutter, “he just…Hansol is his true name, you know?”

“Yes,” Seokmin nods, “yes, indeed. We ought to respect that.”

“I am glad you understand.” You lower your gaze, feeling impossibly ashamed of your little outburst. 

The next few moments pass in thick silence as you press the lid shut and move towards the coat-rack to fetch your hat. 

Seokmin tries to ease what just happened there. 

“It’s a bit too obsolete,” he points at your enormous hat, clearly teasing, “don’t you think?”

You scrunch your nose in faux annoyance, “but I love it. Even though it's a thing of the past.”

Seokmin’s smile flutters at the corners but you miss it completely, too busy smoothing over your outfit one last time before you leave. 

“Things of the past…” he mumbles, strolling back inside the kitchen. “Things of the past.”

⸻

You meet Hansol again on his birthday, four days after the eventful valentine’s evening. This time, you don’t have to crossdress as a man to enter Raymond’s cinema-house. 

‘I took special permission to have you here today.’ Hansol had told you, while gearing up the projector to reload the movie, ‘The rite of passage’, that you had left unfinished from your last meeting. 

Strangely enough, the reel ended up getting stuck again, this time, a mere thirty minutes before the ending. That wouldn’t have dejected you as much had you not been left hanging at a rather depressing part of the story—a scene where the boy gets drafted to be shipped off across the Atlantic for war. 

Turns out, the plot twist whose dread you could feel in your bones ever since the movie began only took a mere five minutes to play out on the screen. A letter, a summon—decisive and final. 

A crest in the budding romance. A tearful goodbye. An anxious audience. 

Uncharacteristically, you had burst into tears…not when the scene played out, but when it got stuck on the creased forehead of the heroine. Almost like you were being made to wait with her for her lover’s return. 

“Do you…do you think he’ll come back?” you ask, the wet patch under your temple on his sweater beginning to dry now that you’ve gotten a better hold over your tears. 

Hansol’s voice reverbates under your cheek pressed to his chest, “people do not always return from wars, dolly.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you came back.”

You begin to sit up, the damp strands of wild grass poke into your skin through the flimsy fabric of your stockings as you shift from his lap and onto the ground. 

Hansol follows you, sitting halfway up and leaning back against his palms planted over the mud. 

The hillside he brought you on for a stroll after seeing just how wrecked the abrupt interruption made you is a mere blip against the New York skyline. The city throbs below you like it is preparing for bed, muted pastels washing over every building as the sun begins to soften. The skyline stands tall, quiet and sure, like it has seen generations of lovers unravel and rebuild on the very patch of soft foliage you are sitting on. 

He watches the infamous city-lights begin to flicker to life, one-by-one, before finally answering you. 

“I came back, but not the same.”

You shift to look at him, but he’s staring into nothingness, like he’s also still remembering that movie scene from before. The frozen moment of grief suspended in dim light. A soldier arrested in time, a girl paused at the edge of loss.

You don’t know whether he’s thinking of his own war that shaped him, or the years between then and now.

But after a moment, he turns to you, eyes gentler than his voice.

“Not the same…” you hate the way his words tremble, like he has to forcibly wring them out and leave them to find their own meaning. 

So far, your lives have been shaped by circumstances so colossal and way beyond your control that persistence is not just a trait, but a mechanism of survival. It is the only way you know how to keep moving—through grief, through joy, through the quiet, brittle moments that fall somewhere in between. 

Thus, even in the fragility of this dipping evening, your persistence to make this better stands its stubborn ground. 

“Things don’t have to remain the same for them to be good.” You eagerly cup his face between your cold palms, “don’t you always say how change is the only constant?”

That reminder of hope, of those tid-bits of philosophy that have somehow succeeded in not letting his smile succumb to the horrors that life has thrown at him—it gently guides him back to you. 

The veil of the past grows thinner and thinner over his eyes, and it only encourages you to distract him more. 

“I mean look,” you laugh, trying your best to mask the nervousness as you begin unbuttoning your coat. “You always make fun of me for wearing those drab, shapeless garments, don’t you?”

The coat slips off your shoulders, pooling around your knees pressed on the soft grass. Underneath, the curves of your body sway shyly under a weightless fabric that, surprisingly, ends at your mid-thighs. 

You had felt too brave putting it on earlier in the day. The dress, a gift from your friend Mildred who insisted it was all the rage these days, was so unlike your usual tailored attires of long skirts and lace-colored blouses. The thin straps barely holding the attire together make you feel so naked to a point that the blush on your cheeks flushes down and settles over the exposed skin of your shoulders, prickling it with this strange sense of heat. 

“It’s the flapper look,” you explain to his gawking eyes as Hansol watches you as though you’re something holy and forbidden. “I thought it was time for some change in myself.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just looks.

His throat bobs. Once. Twice. Like he’s trying to swallow down everything he’s feeling in the moment—wonder, fear, longing, the aching edges of a man who doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want something soft again.

Finally, quietly, he murmurs, “You look like trouble.”

You huff a laugh, pretending it doesn’t shake. “Good trouble, I hope.”

“The best kind,” he says, more like a revelation to himself than a confession to you. 

Your fingers brush over the loose fabric skimming your hips. You curl them into fists, trying to subdue the itch which makes you want to grab your coat and put it back on and just bolt away—but not before making Hansol promise that he’d forget what he just saw…what you made him witness…what you just offered... 

But his fingers work faster than yours, curling over your waist and pulling you flush until your chest mashes against his. Little knots of burning desire bunch up and explode all at once in every single inch of your body when he does that. Your lips part at the audacity—of his, and that of yours—and the sight of you like this…shell-shocked and wild-haired twists something carnal in him. 

Instead of pulling you out of this state of collapse, he only submerges you deeper when he kisses you like he has never before. Hungry, open-mouthed, lustful. You don’t even attempt to fight it when his tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing away the sweetness that lingers inside of you. 

And that act of submission only seems to fuel him further into searing his touch deeper into the form of you. 

“Divine,” he pulls away just enough to whisper that, his voice dark and hoarse, “that’s what you are.”

He worships you with his words and his tongue some more before he’s pushing you around until your back meets the ground with a harsh impact. It’s not enough to hurt you, but just right to make you moan. 

“Hansol,” you plead. For what? You have no answer. 

His lips come down on whatever trembling flesh he can find—your wrists, your collarbones, your shoulders, the slight swell of your chest. 

He moves lower and lower until your thighs press together with the foretaste of what’s about to follow. 

No matter how many times you’ve been here in this exact state, the sight of his face pressed between your legs—curious eyes gaging every little scowl, every little whimper that escapes you while his parched tongue laps at you, prods against you, cajoles you to let him in deeper—never fails to ravage your sanity. 

Hansol can’t help but grin when the much shorter, looser skirt pools around your hips on its own. His fingers have already worked through the layers of fabric that shield you from him and when the slickness that has gathered at your apex coats the tips of them, his head spins. 

“Oh, heavens,” he huffs out, dipping his finger deeper into your fluttering walls. The warmth, the soft clench, coupled with how you clasp your eyes shut but the tears still roll down—it almost undoes him right then and there. 

His breaths turn ragged with every plunge of his fingers that make you convulse and arch off the ground. Air, he needs some air in his brain to better remember what is unfolding before him until eternity. He half-heartedly unlatches his fingers from your weeping core after a particularly passionate stroke against your nub to remove his sweater. All through it, you continue to tremble on the ground, cold mud clinging onto your skin as you attempt to reach out for him with your arms. 

“Hansol,” you call him back, “please…”

“I know, love, I know.” He muses, still lost in the fierce gravity of you. 

You feel something small and hard pelt against your skin—the buttons of his shirt as he wildly rips it open. 

The white linen finally gives way for your vision to settle on his skin—taut with labor and illuminated just by the moonlight under this pine tree. 

The need to touch him that emerges out of you is so palpable, that it makes him lean down a bit, allowing your fingers to rake all over the hardened ridges on his abdomen to the smooth expanse of skin over his chest. His heartbeat turns chaotic and relentless when your touch lingers on the long, scarlet scar that runs across his sternum—a ghost of his skin that they took away from you. 

“You’re perfect,” you admit, regardless. 

“I’m yours.” He echoes, like that somehow concludes the whole truth of him. 

You don’t falter, “then make me yours, too.” 

A guttural sound escapes from the back of his throat as he half undoes, half rips your undergarments and kisses you down there with this undeniable hunger. You can only arch further into him, offering more. The taste of you never ceases to tip him over the edge of control. 

He eats you out greedily, alternating between long stripes and shameless, open-mouthed kisses to a point where every exhale of yours comes out with a desperate moan. He sucks you so hard that you feel he intends to break you. 

Your fingers fist around the strands of something—his hair or the grass, you can’t discern anymore. As a matter of fact, you don’t want to. Because that would mean shifting a part of your attention from him towards something that’s not him. And you don’t want to do that, not even for a split second. 

“I wish you could see how you look right now,” he mumbles, the vibration of his voice amplifying your pleasure tenfolds. “So ruined already…yet begging for more.”

That prompts you to imagine—your body, lying dishevelled and open on a patch of grass somewhere so public as clay accumulates underneath your fingernails while he buries his face deeper and deeper between your legs like a parched man searching for an oasis. 

You feel your limbs beginning to go limp under his ministrations, a telltale sign of the arrival of something that snatches all your coherence away from you and leaves you a blushing, blubbering mess of Hansol. He makes you welcome it with open arms with a final, scorching kiss on top of your aching folds, right over the little root of pleasure that has been bearing the delicious torment of his calloused fingers. 

By the time the coil of tension snaps, you are sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, collecting the dirt that has gathered on your face from the struggle.

A molten blush crawls up from the column of his neck and flushes throughout his face when he re-emerges from between your legs that lie listless on either side of his body. From one side, the city lights cast just enough illumination across his face for your half-lidded gaze to catch the thick arousal that coats his gleaming lips. 

The sight makes you shut your eyes close for good before you lose your mind. 

Strong hands wrap around your thighs, angling your ankles to settle around his waist while he holds you down with his body weight. Your lips part with an involuntary moan as humiliation of reveling in the feeling of being overpowered this way begins shrouding your mind. 

Hansol calls your name under his breath, then his hand departs from fondling your chest in favor of his rock-hard length.

He lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt head positioned right by your gaping, quivering hole. He nips at your skin once, perhaps to distract you from the overwhelming pleasure laced with pain as he pushes deeper into you. 

But the ache doesn’t subside, not when your hips gyrate against him eagerly, effectively pulling him halfway inside of you. 

You mewl, suddenly too aware of the fact that you can never get used to the feeling of that first stretch, that delicious ache. 

“Doll…be patient.” He begs. 

“N-need you…Hansol.”

“I know, love, it’s written all across your body.” He slots his fingers with yours, “breathe for me, go on, breathe.”

You obey, or try to. Because every single one of your inhales crests, and every single exhale splutters. The only thing you can do without struggling is calling out his name again and again. 

Hansol whimpers when you cry, the pressure of your walls around him an intoxicating bliss. He plunges his remaining length inside of you with a breathless gasp causing your vision to blur. 

The fact that you can’t determine where pain melts into pleasure and where you end and he begins is already so nervewrecking. So when he begins rocking in and out of you, gentle one moment and reckless the other, you find yourself scrambling for control before Hansol can drive you to utter lunacy. You don’t know how it happens, but you succeed in pushing him until he’s on his back. His length slips out of you in this brief tussle, making you whine. But you don’t stay at loss for long because the very next moment, you’re climbing on top of him. His whole body jerks as he pants and the only thing that makes sense is for you to push him back inside your sensitive core.

The lust on his face makes you shiver when you brace your hands on top of his broad shoulders for support. 

Grass and dirt dig deeper into your knees as you begin moving up and down over and over again on his hard length. Your entire body convulses with every debauched plunge, your breaths breaking before they can even make it out of your throat. 

Below you, Hansol watches you with actual stars in his eyes, his mouth still wet and pupils blown out yet gleaming with the brilliance of a thousand moons even in the exhausted darkness. 

It is a trance—nothing more, nothing less. 

He smoothes his palms under the hem of your dress to clutch either side of your waist, providing you additional support with your erratic movements. The action aids you gain better control, but your desperation is no less frantic. 

You clench him like you’re proving some claim. You call out his name like that’s the only prayer you ever learnt. 

You begin to find a rhythm in how to roll your hips in a way that pleasures you both, but your lover offtracks your entire train of thoughts when he begins angling his hips to meet you halfway up. Even from underneath you, he dominates this sinful act as he begins pistoning in and out of you, forcing you to adjust to the pace he sets for the both of you. 

You have no choice but to clamp your drooling mouth over his and oblige. His grip over your waist tightens like a punishment as he penetrates your tight heat, making you succumb entirely to his mercy.

This isn’t just sex, this isn’t some fleeting desire. 

This is love, finally given an act…and boy does Hansol make you perform. 

The hot, white daze rapidly expanding from the corners of your vision quickly overtakes your senses, choking you with overwhelming pleasure as he continues to sink in and out of the messy wetness between your thighs. You shatter with a broken gasp on top of him and like he had been waiting for just that, he quickly follows suit. Warmth and bliss bloom into something tangible and thick inside of you as he fills you with all he has to give you in the moment. 

“I love you,” you break apart, sure and unwavering even when his eyes turn into a shade of onyx that you cannot recognize—such is the intensity of this moment. 

“I love you,” you drawl, your eyes rolling behind your lids as your bodies sway in tandem in the aftermath of this heat. 

“I have loved you,” he says, long after your world has suspended. “And I will always love you.”

⸻

The water instantly turns murky with dirt when Seokmin rinses the washcloth in it. 

The household helper changes the basin almost instantly, bringing in another set of fresh towels before leaving the couple in the privacy of their bedroom. 

Seokmin tries again, softer this time. The water is warmer, but the grime plastered behind your ear is impossibly stubborn—won’t come loose unless he applies at least some pressure against your raw skin. 

Your face scrunches up in pain and you hiss, the sound is so soft, so little, that it shatters him all at once. He pauses, letting you shift into a more comfortable position. There are no visible injuries on your body, just a weary kind of damage.Your skin is chilled to the touch, still holding onto the bite of a cold night’s wind even though you’ve been inside for nearly an hour. Tiny goosebumps pebble your arms and legs, never fully settling. The dirt isn’t just on your face; it’s dusted throughout your hair, accumulating under your nails and in the little crevices of your arms. 

“Shall I?” he asks, long fingers fisted over the damp, warm towel. 

Meekly, you nod. 

He pats your skin with utmost tenderness, wiping away the little trails of mud with his thumbs, picking the dried bits of dead leaves and shriveled flowers from your hair. The tactile act provides the benevolence needed in this moment against the things that hang heavy and unsaid in the air between you two. 

“Staying out all night like that,” Seokmin finally thaws the uncomfortable ice, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The light rebuke isn’t that of annoyance, but rather disappointment. Your lashes cast down with a prickling sense of shame. 

“Your temperature is abnormal,” he continues, quite concern weighing his expressions down, “there’s a possibility that the scratch on your knee is infected…we need to—”

“It’s not fair.” 

Your voice comes out so hoarse and jagged and you immediately wince when your throat burns. 

Your statement startles Seokmin. What exactly is unfair—his rightly placed concern? The cruel gossip amidst the servants outside? 

“What is not fair?” he asks quietly. 

Your lips part, but your voice betrays you—still too raw to be overused. 

Seokmin shakes his head pitifully, offering you a cup of warm water and honey. But you don’t even attempt to reach for it—your wild eyes focused in a corner of the room where the carpet peels off the floor. 

Just when he tips the cup closer towards your cracked lips:

“It’s not fair that Raymond keeps him away from me all the time,” you begin to complain, “he had to leave for work before I could even wake up.”

The cup almost slips out of Seokmin’s grasp, but he quickly recovers. By now, he is very well versed with the drill. 

You barely even notice that though, because you’re already off on a tangent of your own. 

“I must talk to Raymond about this,” you declare, fumbling with the blanket draped over your knees, “this is simply cruel and inhumane!”

Your resolve doesn’t falter when you finally look at a very stoic looking Seokmin with this impervious hope, “say, Mr. Lee, you’d employ Hansol to work for you, won’t you? I don’t know how that never crossed my mind—”

Before he responds to you, he abruptly gets up from the bed and asks the servants waiting for his next orders outside of the room to just take it off for the day. 

Then, he marches back into your bedroom and opens the curtains wide. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the onslaught of sunlight, your lids flutter as they struggle to adjust to the sudden brightness. They feel impossibly dry, yet brimming with tears at the same time. 

Seokmin calls out your name—not like a command, but more like an urge. He’s holding your elbows, you realize. By the time you finally recover, the first thing you gage is the absolute anxiety over Seokmin’s face. This pale look of utter horror and discomfort like he’s choking onto something—perhaps his own words. 

“Mr. Lee,” you whisper, it comes out like a question. “Why are you holding me back? I need to—”

Seokmin says your name again, softer this time. And then, “please, listen to me.”

“But it’s—”

“No, please. Just breathe for a moment.”

“But Hansol—”

“Isn’t here anymore!” Seokmin didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but he does.

And with how the color drains from your face, he instantly regrets it. 

He can see the truth that you’ve stitched deep inside your bones, in an attempt to forget, curl its way up your spine and towards your head. But there’s still that stark defiance that your heart pumps in your very veins—one that you’ll let yourself be blinded by, even if it means never seeing even a speck of light ever again. 

Seokmin tries to fight it on your behalf, “he isn’t here…hasn’t been for years. Ever since—”

You jerk your arms away from his hold. 

“Stop lying!” you scream, “all you do is lie. Your entire existence is a lie!” 

Seokmin knows exactly what’s happening—this provocation, this reflection of pain turned outward because your mind cannot hold it in any longer. It’s the same script every time, but it never gets easier to watch.

“You just…you just don’t want me to be with him because that ruins your perfect little plan,” you speak more to yourself than to Seokmin now, “because if Raymond lets him go, you’re afraid you’d lose your pretend-wife and hence, your reputation. People will know you only married me to save face! That you prefer men over women!”

“Hansol is not here,” he repeats, barely audible. “You know this. You do know this, even if you—”

You press your palms over your ears, cheeks completely soaked with hot, uncontrolled tears. 

“Stop it! Stop lying to me Mr. Lee…” you stumble off the bed, away from him, “for the love of God, stop being so cruel!” 

Seokmin can feel his own composure beginning to fracture, but he pushes through it, because someone has to stay steady. And it will never be you.

He takes a step forward as you struggle to put your coat back on, his hand carefully extended towards you. But you gasp with sheer horror, your eyes bulging wide as you flinch away from him like he’s your predator. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore.” You shake your head frantically, “I can’t stay married to you to save your face while the love of my life rots away in a dingy cinema-room loading and unloading love stories that he might never get to live.”

Seokmin watches you helplessly as you put your shoes on with this haphazard urgency. Like if you don’t act now, something precious and pure will once again be swallowed into the belly of the Earth. A vicious act of thievery, a cruel annihilation of love. 

“I need to finish watching the movie…” you repeat, “I must finish watching the movie…”

Seokmin knows better than to stop you right now, so he waits for a beat until you disappear down the stairs and then, he follows you to the theater where your childhood sweetheart Hansol once worked before getting forcefully conscripted into the army half a decade ago. 

⸻

Raymond sees her every time when she pretends to sneak in, but never stops her. His weathered, grey irises are full of sorrow for the poor girl. 

Today, she rushes in unabashedly. No disguise. No attempt to be invisible. 

Her steps are erratic, her coat half unbuttoned. Her hair sticks to her sweaty forehead in rivulets and if anyone saw her eyes, they’d be flinching away from her as if she were a rabid animal. 

Raymond considers going after her when she barges inside an empty cinema-room, one that she always slips into. The same one that her lover once helped operate. 

Sometimes, she stays there for a few minutes. Most times, she spends hours. 

Just when he’s about to check in on her, a hand clasps his shoulder. Lee Seokmin, the jazz singer…her husband. 

“Please…just, let her be.” He pleads, reaching inside his pocket to settle whatever loss this interruption would cause Raymond. 

Raymond doesn’t accept the wad of cash. 

Just walks up to the chalkboard and erases all the schedules for the day.

⸻

The screen is already drenched in the images stuck where you had left them. Hansol must’ve loaded the projector already. Hopefully, this time, it won’t stop…even though you wish it did.

“Hansol…” you call out in the dark, this little beacon of naive hope shadowing what you already know—that perhaps, now, he won’t show up. 

Persistence—the language of your love letters to him. 

You try to wield its powers again. “Hansol, love, don’t hide now. I have enough saved…even if Mr. Lee refuses to help us, we can go—”

A loud screech, the tell-tale sound of plastic reel spinning against metal. 

The movie…the rite of passage…begins to play again. 

What a grotesque name. 

You refuse to acknowledge it by prying your eyes away from it even though the faces on the screen begin morphing into the ones you recognize. Yours. His. Seokmin’s. 

You try to run away, but something cements you on spot. 

‘I need to show you something…’

Lovers severed by war and tethered by longing. 

‘...it is a story of love…’

And one of loss, too.

‘...it ends the way it needs to…’

An ending stripped off contentment for anyone involved. 

You feel a strange sensation—something whirring inside your ears and making your focus wobble…a weird vertigo. Almost like you’re peering down the edge of a cliff, your naked feet sweat-slicked and taut over the loosening sand. 

The world seems like a single flip away from something irreversible…yet, inevitable. Time. Like you’re one with the clock. No coming back. No bringing back. 

On the screen, the hero is plucked out of his lover's arms and given an anglicised name. 

Vernon, a name that traces back to an alder tree. Hansol, a name linked to a pine tree. 

Did everyone who ever named him felt his presence akin to a balmy shade of a tree as well? Away from the blinding lights…a soft life that tumbles and giggles in the shadows. 

At the end of the movie, the hero dies. 

The heroine goes mad. 

The once opaque, ivory sheet of the projector turns into a mirror. 

There’s a gap inside of you now…like something scooped out of you. Something akin to a sweet poison which had to be sucked out or else it would have melted your insides. 

You wonder if you would have liked that gradual necrosis. If that heaviness that seems to have been vaporized out of you was the only thing harnessing you here. 

The hinges of the door creak when it opens and Seokmin enters, the matured yellow of the afternoon sun slanting its brilliance on you. 

But you don’t shrivel away anymore…you don’t close your eyes. 

fin.

author's note: i am genuinely sorry.

permanent tags:@mellowamour @lovelylonelinesssvt @gyuguys @scoupscious

@jicheolsol-lover @sumzysworld @lllucere @seungcheolsblackcard @wakandabiitch2

@helloiliketits @J3nnch3ls3a @princessjazzyjazz @livelaughloveseventeen

@sousydive @izzyy-recs @livmarauder @vwintershire @cherrymayz

special tag for @luvrung for this one <3

VALENTINES TAGLIST FORM

MASTERLIST

“Last time we saw each other you were pretty anxious about your debt, and how you couldn’t stop spending. What makes you think you’re cured?”

You fiddle with the stress toy, the same one Wonwoo had pressed into your hands in your first session. Some beige (of course), silicone, squeezy, poppy thing. “Well my friends cut up my credit cards.”

“Okay?”

“And then my other friend paid off all my debt. I didn't ask. He offered.”

“Wow,” says Wonwoo, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe you. “That’s very generous.”

“He’s mega rich. Like crazy insane rich. It was like pocket change for him, probably.”

“Would this be the new boyfriend?” Wonwoo asks. You stare at him. You’re 99.99r% sure you hadn’t mentioned Vernon in the last few minutes. “I didn’t mean to pry. My girlfriend reads gossip sites, and she tells me everything of interest.”

“Hm. Yes, okay–” you say, a little reluctantly. Wonwoo has been known to pull secrets from you that you haven’t been ready to admit. “Vernon paid off my cards.” 

“I don’t quite understand how this equates to you being cured.” 

You blink at him. “Uhhh. Well I don’t have access to my credit cards so–”

“But are you spending from your checking account?” He asks, and you’re at a loss for words. That’s money you already have. That’s not something you’ll have to pay back with interest. “Is that a new bag?”

You curse yourself for bringing it. A like-new secondhand Balenciaga bag is still a Balenciaga bag. “I had the money,” you say, defensive.

And ever so gently, Wonwoo reminds you– “You also had the urge to buy it.”

The silence in the room feels suffocating. Just for you, you presume, since Wonwoo looks as comfortable as ever, and you feel like you're being throttled. Because he's right. Yes, the debt is gone. Yes, you feel a little (lot) freer. And yes, you still can't walk past your favourite stores without going in. Yes, you're still scrolling on Depop for a vintage Burberry bag that'll go perfect with your fall trench coat. Yes, you're still looking for little thrills that come with the confirmation of purchase email notification. 

"We've touched on the underlying reasons for your shopping addiction before," Wonwoo says. "How have things been with your parents lately?"

You swallow. Turn to stare out the window and watch the sway of the treetops outside. "We haven't talked much."

Talking about them proves difficult, still, because doing so feels a little like a betrayal. They weren't bad parents. You were fed and clothed and loved, in their way. They just have their issues, like everyone else on earth. In truth, you know your issues stem from theirs. Bearing witness to their fights meant finding solace in your bedroom, in your few toys, in the headphones your cousin gave you, that only got loud enough to drown out the noise if you pressed them really hard against your ears. Your collections started on your desk. Pokemon cards, beanie babies, special pens. Mostly bought by your favourite grandmother, a collector in her own right. Those moved underneath a loose floorboard when your parents stopped seeing it as quirk and made loaded comments about frivolity and wastefulness, and which one of them you inherited that trait from. And while you were lucky, in a way, that their anger was never directed at you, it never made you feel less responsible for it. 

Talking to them proves worse. The messages remain unread, because opening them means opening other cans of worms like 'when are you coming to visit?' and 'you're coming to mine for Thanksgiving this year, right?' Because they love you, deeply, but can't stand the mention of the other, it always seems like they're in secret competitions for the favourite parent award. And though you love them too, being caught in the middle isn't a position you'll put yourself in again. 

"Are they happy for you, about your new relationship?"

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. It's an old sweater. Needs replacing. "I'm sure they are," you say. "They always liked Vernon. More so, now that he's famous."

"They knew him before that?"

"We grew up together. And we dated in high school, too."

"Why do you think they like him more now that he's famous?" 

You shrug. "They like status, I guess. Or like, achievements they can attach themselves to. Is that narcissism?"

Wonwoo pushes his slipping glasses back up his nose. "It can be a trait, sure. What other sorts of things do they do that makes you ask?"

You chew on your lip. Wonwoo's got you talking, again. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Vernon comes straight from his game on Saturday. He's freshly showered, hair a little damp and sticking up funny when he takes off his cap. He'll buzz it soon, you imagine, but he suits it this length. There's a chorus of hello's from the living area as he toes off his shoes, and you're at the counter pouring chips and salsa into bowls and this time, you're prepared. This time, he texted you while he was on his way over, and said:

nonie [21:18] so should i kiss u when i get there

You [21:20] 🤢 i guess

nonie [21:20] be more disgusted

You [21:20] 🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢🤢

So yeah. You're mentally ready to be kissed by Vernon. It's fine. NBD flashes in neon behind your eyes. It'd look weird if you weren't the one to kiss him as he came through the door, which is exactly why you've been busying yourself in the kitchen for the last five minutes, just for an excuse to be too busy to make out with your 'boyfriend'. So when he makes his way over to you, plants a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips, you press one back against the corner of his, and it's totally fine. It's like kissing your grandmother, if grandmother were a hot baseball pl– 

Whatever. The problem is Lara. "Are you fucking nuns or something?"

"I haven't fucked a nun ever," Vernon retorts, and a laugh bursts out of you. 

He grins sidelong your way and winks. You can feel everyone else in the room staring at you, Joshua in particular. 

"Ha ha," Lara deadpans. "What's up with the church kisses?" 

"We decided earlier that instead of watching Speed, we're gonna stand in front of the TV and make out," you say, as Vernon takes his seat on the couch next to Seungcheol. With Lara sprawled on the floor, and Joshua in the armchair by the window, that leaves little room for you. Usually you'd take the couch, and whoever arrived last would share the floor cushions with Lara. But that's not what'd happen with a boyfriend and they all know it. "Y'know, since y'all wanna see it so bad."

"That's probably hotter," says Seungcheol.

"Pervert," you rebuke, setting the bowls down on the table, and Joshua presses play. 

There's the briefest moment of hesitation. Vernon's looking at you expectantly, Joshua's eyes narrow, and Seungcheol glances up at you hovering there and says, "Are you gonna get out the way or–" so climbing into Vernon's lap is the only thing you can do. Okay. It's fine. It's No Big Deal that one arm wraps around your waist and the other under your thighs, so he can manoeuvre you into a more comfortable position on top of him. 

Usually, with a partner, you’d already be draped over them like a decorative scarf. Limbs tangled, fingers toying with their hair, mouth too close to their neck, whispering things you don’t even mean in their ear just to elicit a reaction. You’re tactile, you’re clingy, and you’ve been called a menace one too many times, and everyone in this room knows that. So when you settle on Vernon’s lap and just… sit there, hands in your lap and ignoring the way his own rests awkwardly on your knee, it’s all wrong. Joshua’s eyes flick from the TV to you again.

And so you adjust. Sling an arm around his neck, fingers brushing the short hair at the nape. It's safe territory. Something almost familiar. You lean back into him like you should belong there, like you always do this, and Vernon stiffens for exactly half a second, but he catches on quick. His other hand slides down your middle, palm warm and firm over your ribs, thumb slipping just under the hem of your top. Less familiar. It's been a decade since this familiar. On screen, the security guard is beefing it, but Vernon's hooking his chin over your shoulder to see better, and his breath tickles your neck. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Joshua turning back to the TV. 

"Good job," Vernon whispers into your ear, and the feel of it runs a shiver down your spine. 

You turn to face him, offer a sweet smile, and he eyes you with suspicion. You lean in close, huff a harsh breath against the shell of his ear just to see how he likes it, and you're rewarded with a full body shudder. Makes you laugh under your breath but the noise still draws pointed looks from Seungcheol. 

Time moves in slow motion, watching Speed, acutely aware of Vernon, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the seam of your sweats. Keanu's first scene, rescuing the staff in the lift has you and Joshua exchanging waggling eyebrows.

"He's the only cop I'd ever fuck," Lara says, handing you the popcorn. 

"Real," you sigh dreamily, taking the bowl and angling it toward Vernon, who pops a few pieces in his mouth. "He's so fine."

"Respect your honesty, babe," he says, dryly.

"Relax, babe, he's in 1994."

This earns his fingers prodding into your middle, and a sharp elbow to the chest for him. A sharper gasp, and a whispered "asshole" has you working to school your sardonic smile into something affectionate. 

The movie gets more intense, the bus won't slow down but time in this room barely moves. Seungcheol, bless his heart, is painfully oblivious of the way you and Vernon just aren't into each other, but you keep catching Joshua and Lara looking, with scepticism written all over their faces. You're gonna have to convince them. 

Tipping your head back against Vernon's shoulder gives you access to his neck, and you follow the way his eyelashes fan down, carefully watching the way you move. In his ear, you whisper "they're looking?" He nods once. "Okay. Tap me if you want me to stop." 

Vernon swallows, audibly, as you press your lips to the juncture of his jaw, just below his ear. It's a controlled, barely there touch. You linger, then move again, kissing along the line of his jaw. Beneath you, he stills, fingers going slack at your waist, to move them would be overkill.

You kiss him a little lower. Slow, and deliberate. Giving him just enough time to shift away, to refuse your touch. Your lips keep finding skin, testing where he’ll let you go, waiting for the tap of his fingers but it doesn't come– instead Vernon tilts his head, just enough to allow it without fully participating. 

On screen, the bus is hurtling toward the gap, Joshua gasps at the screen. Lara sits up straight. Seungcheol leans in, and Vernon doesn't move a muscle. You brush your lips against his neck again, and his fingers flex against your side. This is it, you think, he's telling you it's enough, but the way he turns his head catches you off guard. He meets your eyes, flashes down to your lips and back– asking permission? You jut out your chin, and Vernon shifts closer, catching your lips with his in a brief, closed kiss. God, it's so strange, but can't stop now. Your hand moves to his cheek– it's warm– to draw him back in for another.

"Trust me?" you murmur under your breath, the tip of your nose brushing his.

"Uh-huh," he whispers, breath fanning over your lips. 

Your eyelids flutter closed as presses his mouth against yours again, his lips parting without hesitation, and you try to hide the surprise in your gut as you follow suit– sliding your other hand up his chest. His tongue drags over yours, and a pleased sigh escapes your body before you can register it, only realising when Vernon smiles wide into the kiss. Asshole. 

Pulling away is exactly what he wants you to do, so fuck him. Instead, you match his energy, sliding your hand into his hair just to tug at it, and nip at his bottom lip with your teeth. Your prize comes as the briefest groan, and his mouth goes firm against you, tipping your head up just to let him in deeper, leaving you breathl–

"Ugh–" Vernon breaks off. You've been interrupted with a smack to the face with a cushion, and laughter from your friends.

"Lara!" 

"You're being so gross," she complains, settling back into place. You throw the cushion at her back. "Thanks," she says, tucking it underneath her. 

Vernon's suddenly tapping your back, sliding you off his lap to the side, and you're scrunched up between him and Seungcheol, who shifts over to make room. You tilt your head at Vernon, silently questioning. "Need the bathroom," he explains, quickly standing, and disappearing out of the room all while avoiding your eye.

You pick up your drink and take a long sip, eyes fixed on the screen. He's only gone a minute when Joshua asks “He good?” 

“He’s fine,” you say.

“Pause it?” he offers.

"Nah, he's seen this a hundred times," you say. 

After another five, Lara says, "What's he doing in there?" 

"Taking a shit, probably." You yawn, glancing at the clock– it's nearly eleven. 

"More like jerking off," mumbles Seungcheol, and you nudge at him with your foot, ignoring the way your face goes hot. Of course he fucking isn't. 

It's ten minutes before he's back, with his hairline a little damp, and cheeks just slightly flushed. Did he wash his face? You stand to let him back in his place, then drop back down without hesitation, curling your arm around his neck. He adjusts you, hands careful but firm, shifting you from his leg to the space between them.

"Sorry," he whispers, a little hoarse, into your hair. "My leg was falling asleep earlier."

"S'okay," you whisper back, tucking your arm back to your side. You rest your cheek against his chest, sag your body against him, and his arm circles around your waist a little tighter, to keep you from slipping. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your name is called quietly. Feels like there's water in your ears. It comes again, firmer, paired with the steady rub of a hand down your arm.

“Wake up,” Vernon says. “Say bye.”

You make a small sound and shift, cheek still pressed to his chest, before the room comes back into focus. His hand slows but doesn’t stop.

“The movie’s over,” he adds softly. “They’re heading out.”

You blink a few times, eyes heavy, brain lagging. The TV is off and Lara’s at the door, doubled over and fighting with her boots. Seungcheol’s standing nearby, jacket on, stretching out his arms after sitting for so long. Joshua’s hovering with his phone in hand.

“Oh– shit,” you mumble, sitting up too fast. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Seungcheol grins immediately. “Saving your energy for your man, huh.”

“God, you’re such a fucking pig,” Lara scolds, smacking him hard between the shoulders. “Shut up.”

He laughs and stumbles forward as she pushes him toward the door. They’re still bickering as they leave, voices trailing down the hall. The door shuts before either of them remembers to say goodbye.

Joshua lingers. His eyes dart between you and Vernon, who's taking a sip of his drink, then back to you. "This room has a weird energy."

"Yeah, well we're waiting for you to leave so I can get dicked down ten ways to Sunday."

Vernon chokes on his coke. 

"Gross," he says, lip curling. “Are you playing at home this weekend?"

"Uh," Vernon replies, clearing his throat. "Yeah." 

Eyes on you again. "Are you going?" 

"Oh. Uh–"

"Yeah–" Vernon takes over. "You're coming on Sunday, right?"

You stare at him blankly, hoping he can mind read you saying what the fuck shut up Vernon no I'm fucking not shut up because you were supposed to be catching up on work from the comfort of your bed. 

"Can I come?" Joshua asks.

You still haven't blinked, but Vernon ignores your would-be-death-stare-if-Joshua-weren't-looking-directly-at-you. "Yeah, man, that'll be cool."

Joshua calls your name. "Is that okay with you?"

A false smile plants itself on your face almost automatically. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. That’d be so nice.”

He smiles, a little stiff, and waves goodbye as he lets himself out, and the apartment settles into quiet.

"What the fuck, bro?" 

Vernon frowns. "What?"

"I had plans on Sunday!"

"You said you were gonna bed-rot."

"Duh!" you exclaim. "Productive bed-rotting."

"I've literally never heard of that."

"This is anti-woman, Vernon, I swear to God."

Vernon lifts his hand from your waist to drag it over his face, and groans– the vibration of it making you suddenly aware you're still on him. You shift to where Seungcheol was sitting and lean back against the armrest. Vernon half turns toward you. 

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Uh.”

You wait, but he can't seem to get his words out– can't seem to look you in the eye.

"About earlier?" you ask.

“Er– yeah,” he agrees, fixing his gaze on the blank TV screen. “The…uh. Us kissing.”

His jaw is set but not tight, mouth in a neutral, casual line. Everything about him is perfectly unbothered, apart from the way he's talking. 

“Do you feel weird about it?" you ask, quietly wondering if you took it too far.

"No," he says, voice thin. He picks at his cuticles. “Do you?"

“Nah. I mean– no. It was just, like, part of the bit.”

A stagnant pause. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah. Pretty convincing.”

"You crushed it," you say, nodding. And then you tack on– “Joshua definitely bought it."

Vernon snorts. “Yeah. He was watching like a hawk.”

Another pause stretches between you, thicker still. 

“I should probably head out.”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s late.”

He grabs his jacket, moves toward the door, pulls on his shoes, then hesitates. Turns back.

“We’re good?” he asks.

You give him a tiny smile. “We’re so good.”

“Cool,” he says, not an ounce of relief in his tone. “Cool.”

The door closes behind him, and the apartment feels too quiet, too big, now you're all alone. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You're laying face down on your bed, ready to yell into it, when you hear the click of the front door again. Bolting upright, heart racing, you call out– "I have a gun!"

Vernon snorts. "You don't have a gun." 

You scoff. "Dude, you scared the shit out of me." 

"Sorry." He comes to stand in the doorway to your bedroom, leaning against the frame. "They're all outside still, waiting for a cab or something. I didn't want them to see me leave so soon." 

You frown. Joshua doesn't live far enough to waste money on a cab, and Seungcheol usually walks Lara home, stopping at a bar along the way. "Oh. That's odd."

"So can I hang out here?"

"Go wait by the elevator." 

His eyebrows fly up. "Are you s–"

"No, idiot. Go put on a movie."

He laughs and shucks off his jacket once more, and when he moves out of view of your bedroom, you drag your pillow over your face and silently scream into that instead. You lie there for a full five seconds, face mashed into your pillow, before you hear the TV click on in the other room. Something tinny and familiar filters through the wall– a late-night sports recap, Vernon defaulting to muscle memory. You peel the pillow off your face and stare at the ceiling.

Get up. It was just a silly, fake kiss with your friend, and it's not like you've never kissed him before. Get up.

You roll onto your back, then your side, then finally swing your legs over the edge of the bed. When you step out into the room, Vernon’s on the couch again, legs stretched out, one arm slung over the back. He looks up when he hears you.

“Hey,” he says, casual.

“Hey,” you reply, equally measured.

You hover for a moment, then drop onto the opposite end of the couch, leaving a deliberate gap between you. The TV is loud enough to fill the space, but not loud enough to drown out the awareness of him being there.

“So,” Vernon says, testing the waters. “I lied earlier.”

“Oh God, me too,” you say far too quickly. You clear your throat. “It's so weird.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding his head. “I thought I was gonna vomit.”

"Wowww," you say, laughing. "I didn't know I was that gross."

Vernon's eyes blow wide. "Oh– no, not like that. You're not– I just– you're not."

"I'm not?"

"No. You're good."

"I'm good?"

He slumps backwards. "Are you making this painful for me on purpose?"

"A little," you grin. "You're a good kisser too." 

Oh, bless him, he actually flushes. On screen, the commentator gets excited about a play neither of you is watching. After a moment, Vernon holds the remote out for you. “You can put something else on if you want.”

You reach for it, your fingers brushing his by accident. If Vernon notices, he doesn't show it, so neither do you. You scroll aimlessly, land on something dumb and familiar, and let it play. A few minutes pass. 

Eventually, without looking at him, you say, “Do you think we should actually practice? So we won't get carried away again."

He smiles at that, small and crooked. “You got carried away?"

You scoff. "Don't flatter yourself. I haven't made out with anyone in weeks and I love kissing. If a cactus put its lips on me I'd let it."

"Sounds spiky." 

You glance at him then. He’s watching the screen, not you, fingers laced together in his lap.

“So do you think we should?"

Another pause. 

"I guess. But not tonight."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sunday rolls around far too quickly, and Joshua is seated next to you in a jersey that was so clearly just taken from the plastic, and although you don't quite know his reasons for being here, you've missed hanging out with him by yourselves. 

“You look like a plant that hasn’t been watered yet,” you tell him.

He grins. “I got it from some guy on Mercari.”

“It smells like plastic.”

“That's eau de polyester.”

You snort and lean back as Vernon winds up. The smack of the ball in the catcher’s mitt makes half the stadium groan, but your cheer as loud as you can without your lungs giving out. The sun warms your skin, you're with your oldest friend in the world, and watching your second oldest friend pitch for the Yankees, and it's just so nice. You buy the fries, Joshua buys the beer, Vernon smiles your way once or twice. 

“So why are you coming to all of these? ” he asks during a lull.

“I figured since I’m dating a baseball player I might as well be supportive,” you say lightly.

“Ah. So gracious of you.”

“Isn't it,” you deadpan.

He smiles, watches the field for a beat. “Vernon’s doing well.”

“He usually does,” you say. 

Joshua hums. You can feel the shift before it happens.

“So,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”

You brace. “I’m not burying a body for you, I've got a pedicure this evening.”

“When did it actually happen?” he asks. “You and Vernon.”

You glance at him. He’s still looking straight ahead, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Casual. Too casual.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says. “You don’t just wake up and decide to start dating your ex from high school within thirty minutes. There’s usually a… lead-up.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “We ran into each other more. Hung out. He told me he liked me again. It wasn’t dramatic.”

Joshua tilts his head. “You’re being vague.”

“That’s because it’s boring.”

He finally looks at you. One eyebrow lifts. “Try me.”

You shift in your seat, eyes back on the field. Vernon’s on the mound, adjusting his cap, jaw set. 

“It wasn’t some big moment,” you say. “No lightning strike. We just, like, slipped back into it.”

Joshua’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “You don’t do boring. You don't just slip back into something comfortable. You have a habit of starting a fire and letting it burn you.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Are you my therapist now? Do I owe you money for this session or is the first one free?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “Last time you two dated, it was messy and over the top and all your feelings are out there. This time it’s like–" He throws his hands up looking for the word. "Choreographed.”

“We're not kids anymore.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “But you?” A pause. “You're usually more in the moment than you have been around him lately.”

You open your mouth to argue, then stop. Vernon throws. The batter swings. The crowd is overwhelmingly loud in your ears.

“Why do you care?” 

Joshua smiles a little. “Because you’re my friend. And because Vernon’s my friend. And because I don’t want our group getting all fucked up because you two are being weird around us. It doesn't feel real.”

You wipe your thumb over the condensation on your cup. “We are real.”

He studies you. “Okay.”

Another pitch. Another crack. "You don't believe me?"

Joshua slips his arm around your shoulder. “I don't know. I want to. I always thought you were great together.”

You glance back at the field, at Vernon rolling his shoulders, readying himself for the next batter.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “We were. We are.”

After the game, Joshua doesn't hang around– he's visiting his mother this afternoon, so you wave him off with instructions to give her your love. The stadium clears out slowly, and after a while scrolling on your phone, the janitors come out to clear up. You're not sure here is the best place to wait for Vernon, so you shoot him a text.

You [19:13] where do i go?

nonie [19:14] u wanna come up?

You [19:14] sure

nonie [19:15] i'll send mike down nonie [19:15] hate asking but can you kiss me in front of the guys nonie [19:15] they think ur fake

You chew on your bottom lip, fighting your smile from your face.

You [19:15] depends. is mingyu kim there? i don't want him to think i have a boyfriend

Mike– you assume, because he doesn't actually introduce himself– is a squirrelly young intern who exudes anxiety. "Are you Mr Chwe's girlfriend?"

Mr Chwe, haha. Sounds so formal. "That's me."

"He wants me to bring you to the Clubhouse. It's this way."

"Oka– oh!" He's running off before you've finished gathering your things. "Wait, wait, I'm coming."

You stumble after him as he leads you through the stadium, punches the code into the keypad, and you're taken aback by how put together this place is. 

The clubhouse smells faintly of sweat, and something citrusy. There’s music playing from a speaker in the corner, a few guys already changed, sweat soaked jerseys tossed into the bins in the centre of the room. Most of the guys in the room don't register your arrival, used to the comings and goings of colleagues and family members, but you notice the eyes of a couple of the other girlfriends. You offer your friendliest smile, and they smile back easily. Thank God. 

Mike skids to a stop. “Uh– he’s in the showers. You can– um. You can wait over there.” He gestures toward the canteen area before bolting.

You take a breath. This is fine. You’ve been in locker rooms before. Just… not by yourself. Not ones full of professional athletes and an army of staff and their families. Your locker room experience is sneaking kisses after school finished, laughing into Vernon's neck at the thought of being caught where you're not supposed to be. 

At the counter you grab a drink from the self-pour machines, and look for the checkout. 

"It's free, don't worry," comes a soft voice behind you. 

"Oh, tha–" you start, turning to be startled by Mingyu Kim. Fuck, he's so much taller up close. "Thanks." 

"I'm Mingyu. You're Vernon's girlfriend?" He smiles, then tries your name like a question. 

"That's me," you say, sticking your hand out to shake. His hand is heavy and warm. "It's very new."

Mingyu tilts his head. "You wouldn't think so, with the way he's talked about you."

You laugh airily. "Well we've been friends since we were little."

"That makes sense," he says, that smile of his almost blinding you. 

"Uh-huh," you say. "So how long have you been with the Yankees?" 

"Just a few months, got traded in the spring."

"Where from?" you ask, plucking a straw from the counter and stirring your drink.

"Atlanta," he says. "Still getting used to New York."

"Big change, huh."

"No shit. I miss my car," he says, ruefully. "Vernon said you both moved here for college?"

"Yup," you say. "But we grew up in New Jersey."

"Lakewood, right?"

"Wow," you say with a laugh. "You know so much about–"

“There you are,” comes another voice behind you. Vernon's arm circles your waist and he tugs you close to him. His hair is barely towel-dry, wetting your skin as he leans close to press a firm kiss to your cheek, his t-shirt clinging to his skin in patches. "Thought you'd got lost."

"It's okay," you say. "Mingyu here was keeping me company."

"I can see that," he says, hand sliding down your waist to thread his thumb through your belt loop, fingers resting against your hip. "Thanks, bro." 

"No problem," says Mingyu with an easy expression. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too! Listen, if you ever need a guide for the city–"

Mingyu smiles wide and soft. You like the way it reaches his eyes. "Yeah– I'll, uh. I'll hit you both up." 

The buzz in your stomach flattens immediately. Oh yeah. You and Vernon. As like, a unit.

As Mingyu leaves you turn into Vernon, slot both your arms around his neck, he wraps his arms around your waist, and you lean in press what would look to anyone else like a would-kiss-you-more-if-all-these-people-weren't-here type of lingering kiss to Vernon's lips. You pull back a little to whisper against his mouth– "That okay?"

"Uh– yeah. That should do it."

"Alright, so you have to set me up with Mingyu when we're done faking."

"No fuckin' way, dude," he murmurs, still a hairs breadth from your mouth, can feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

You pout. "Why not? Thought you said I'd like some of the guys. I like that guy."

"I meant like, other guys," he whispers. "Not my teammate."

"What's the difference?"

"If you hook up with any one of those, I'd never stop hearing about it and I like my sanity."

"So?"

"So I don't wanna hear about all that."

You laugh. "All that what?"

He sighs, frustrated. "Like. Locker room talk. I don't wanna hear about you like that."

You swallow, lower your voice even further. "Does Mingyu talk about that stuff?"

"Not yet," he admits. "But most do." 

"Do you?" 

He levels you with a look. "What do you think, considering who I last–"

"Right," you mumble. "Yeah, sorry."

Vernon pulls your arms from around him, slots a hand into yours and links fingers. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before they start asking questions.”

He grabs his bag from his locker on the way out, and leads you back toward the exit, with choruses of goodbyes from around the room. Once the door shuts behind you and the hallway swallows the noise, he exhales hard.

“Thank you,” he says. “Seriously.”

You smile. “Anytime, Mr Chwe,” you say, mimicking Mike. 

He groans. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Monday is when all things go to shit. Work is hell, something something merger. Something something acquisitions. It's all fucking bullshit and you won't know if your job is secure for at least the next three months. Seokmin and you hold hands under the desk in the meeting room, while the powers that be go over details you struggle to listen to through the sound of the blood pounding in your ears. Working in the same role, you wonder if they'll have room for both of you. 

There's a text in the group chat at lunchtime. 

lara [12:24] IM BEING FUCKING EVICTED IN 3 WEEKS lara [12:24] FUCK MY FUCKING CHUNGUS LIFE

cheol [12:32] ??????

shua [12:34] Wtf happened?

You [12:36] omfg??

lara [12:36] MY ASSHOLE ROOMMATE DIDNT PAY THE RENT FOR FOUR!!!! FOUR MONTHS!!!!!!!!!! lara [12:36] i can't believe ts lara [12:36] where tf am i gonna go

cheol [12:36] You can stay at my place

You [12:36] you live in a fucking shoebox cheol 😭 don't be stoopid You [12:37] lara stay with me!! we'll have girl nights and do facemasks and have girl dinners and watch girl movies!!!

shua [12:37] You're welcome to stay with me too, if you don't mind the pullout

nonie [12:39] u can have my place too. 3brs n i'm hardly ever there neway

lara [12:40] i fucking love u guys wtf 😭😭😭 lara [12:40] cheolie can i stay with you?

You [12:40] ????

shua [12:41] Yeah?? What she said???

cheol [12:41] 😎 I'm the favorite. Suck it losers

You [12:41] i'm literally so offended You [12:41] this goes against the principles of feminism

nonie [12:42] bro you've gotta stop saying that about everything you don't like

lara [12:42] 🤷🏽‍♀️ cheol's place is closer to work

Vernon texts you separately.

nonie [12:43] 20 bucks says there fucking

You [12:43] *they're. and you're on. there's no way she'd let him see her tits

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get home and you're hit with a sense of unease as soon as you step onto the fifth floor. Unease and like, a really soggy carpet. Unease, and there's water dripping down the wall outside your apartment. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. 

The air is all different– thick and damp, and your foot lands in the entryway with a slosh, the water seeping through your shoe to your skin.

You freeze.

“No,” you breathe. "There's no fucking way." Wishful thinking. 

The floor is soaked. Soaked-soaked. Water has filled the room, almost an inch deep across the floorboards, darkening them. It’s achingly quiet except for a faint, steady sound of spraying water coming from farther in. Your chest tightens. You move faster, heart in your throat, following the sound toward your bedroom. The door sticks when you push it open.

Water– water everywhere. Your dresser– water streaking down the front, puddling underneath. Clothes are strewn where you must’ve tossed them this morning, looking for an outfit suitable for the morning meeting with your VP, now plastered to the floor. On the bed, sheets heavy and dark, sagging in the middle, rubble and wet dust scattered over it.

And then– the gaping ceiling. A jagged hole, ugly and raw, crumbling away at the edges into the wreckage of your room. The exposed pipe spraying into the gap between floors, must have been going long enough to ruin every little thing you can call your own.

This is too big. Too much for the day you've had. Your brain can't catch up while looking at your things– your things that are everywhere, destroyed, and the waste of it all lands in your chest like a brick. It's not just clothes, or furniture. Everything in this room are pieces of you. All the polaroids tacked on your vanity mirror. All the books with silly notes in the margins, from when you tried to start a book club with your friends. The vintage made-in-England Doc Martens that you finally managed to thrift last year. Your very first Tamagotchi. The embroidery on the walls, made with love by your grandmother. The stupid, sentimental shit you've collected all these years that could never be cast aside.

Your vision blurs as you fumble in your purse for your phone, and it takes a second to realise you’re crying. Silently, you wipe away your frustrated tears, and your hands shake as you fumble the passcode for your phone twice, and the screen is all but swimming as you try to find Lara’s name.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey– what’s up?”

“My apartment,” you choke. “There’s– there’s water everywhere. My things–” You can’t finish it. You press your hand over your mouth so hard it hurts.

“Hey, hey,” Lara says immediately, calmly snapping into place. “It's okay. Breathe. Are you safe? Is it flooding right now?”

“I– I think a pipe burst. My bedroom ceiling is gone, Lara. My bed is ruined– everything is ruined.”

“It’s not everything,” she says firmly. “Call your landlord. Take pictures. Can you start moving stuff?”

"Yeah– yes," you sniff. "Okay."

"We’ll figure it out, don't worry. I'll get Cheol and we'll come over now. You call Joshua."

You nod even though she can’t see you, wiping at your face with the back of your hand and smearing your make-up even worse. “I don’t– I don’t have anywhere to sleep.”

There’s a pause on the line. Just a beat.

“Why wouldn’t you stay at Vernon’s?” she asks, confused.

The question hits you sideways.

“I–” Your throat closes. You hadn’t even considered. “I didn’t– he has practice."

“Is he on his way?” Lara asks. "Did you call him?"

You swallow hard, a sob catching in your chest. “No.”

Another horrifically long pause. Lara doesn’t say anything, but you can hear it in the way she exhales, the mental note she's making. 

“Okay,” she says instead of questioning you further. “Call him. Right now. I'll be there soon.”

"Thanks, Lara."

Your hands are still shaking when you call Vernon.

He picks up almost immediately. “Hey."

"Hi," you say, voice thin and wavering. 

He must hear it. "What's wrong?"

"Are you done with practice?"

"Yeah, I'm just about to shower, why?"

“My apartment flooded," you say, your voice breaking completely. "Can y–"

“Yes,” he says, cutting you off. You can hear him rummaging for something. A locker closing. “Yeah. I'm leaving right now. Should I call the guys?"

"I already called Lara. She's calling Seungcheol."

There's a pause. "Joshua then?"

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks," you murmur, wiping the still falling tears from your cheeks. 

"I'll be there soon," Vernon says, and you sigh, still only slightly reassured. 

You hang up and move on autopilot. You call your landlord, who's sending emergency maintenance. Joshua texts to say he's stuck at work but he'll get there asap. You take pictures for renters insurance– thank God your lease required renters insurance. 

You grab trash bags, your suitcases and a duffel from the miraculously dry closet, anything that’ll hold what isn’t already ruined. You peel wet clothes off the floor, wring out the water in the shower and toss everything into the laundry basket. The living area is mostly dry, save for what you tread in, seemingly unlevel with the rest of the apartment. It becomes a mess quickly, piles of your life stacked haphazardly, salvaged from the flood. 

You're quickly soaked through yourself, with the water still spraying into your bedroom, and it takes everything in you not to start crying again– but that's when you find your photo albums inherited from your grandmother, a record of the childhood you wished you had all the time. Most of them damaged, of course, but there's a few pages in the back that are still unharmed. They're from the first summer she came to stay, your parents freshly divorced and your mom finding it hard to find the time to work as a newly single parent. There's the day she took you to Six Flags, and the day you got frozen custard on the coast, and the days when Joshua came around– his parents, too, needing help over the summer. Sometimes Vernon would tag along (anyone is welcome when Grandma is in charge) and he's in a few of these, so serious at first glance, even back then. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The last time he found you this small, this broken, was in the midst of your parents divorce– but you were just kids then. You're on the couch, knees drawn up, and you're blinking at him in surprise– the look of embarrassment etched across your face, at being caught while sobbing into your crossed arms. 

"How'd you get here so fast," you say, voice hoarse. 

"I got a ride," he says. Not quite true. More like cornered Shaun, one of the clubhouse assistants, and urged him to drop everything and drive him to your building. 

"I'm sorry–" you sob, wiping at your red-rimmed eyes. "This is so embarrassing. It's just stuff." 

Vernon crosses the room in a moment, drops his bag on the couch and pulls you into him, tight and sure, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. And you melt into him. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your hands clutching the fabric of his T-shirt, and the heat of your tears soaks through the fabric onto his skin.

“It’s not just stuff,” he murmurs. “It'll be okay.”

You shake against him, breath hitching, muffled and unintelligible words tumbling out between sobs. He presses his lips to your temple without thinking and you cry even harder, holding him tighter, before he remembers he shouldn't be doing that at all. Vernon holds you til you settle, whispering reassurances in your ear, and you suck in a heavy, steadying breath. 

There's another knock at the door, and it's Lara and Seungcheol. "Heeeeyyyy," they say in unison. They stop short when they see you wrapped around Vernon, your face buried in his neck, his arms tight around your body. Lara’s expression softens instantly. "Oh babe." 

You push off him, and he finds himself almost reluctant to let you go as you wipe your eyes and offer a small, sad smile at your friends.

"Fuck– this is– Jesus," says Seungcheol, poking his head into your bedroom. He whistles. "Holy shit."

Your face cracks again as soon as Lara draws you into a hug. "I'm so sorry this happened on your bad day."

"Girl shut the fuck up," Lara admonishes you, and surprised, wet laugh bursts out between your tears. 

After a minute, the group gets to work. Vernon and Seungcheol make runs downstairs to your car with everything salvageable, but as it fills, Vernon wonders if he could get Shaun to bring him a car over too. Or where he could hire a van from this late. 

Maintenance arrives after the third trip downstairs. He can't do anything right now except shut off the water, and tells you to call him back once you've moved your stuff out so he can tape up the bedroom. 

"I'm sure that's like a code violation or some shit," mutters Seungcheol, dragging out the heavy dresser to add to the stack of things in the living area. 

Joshua arrives next, eyes bugging out and whispering "Holy shit," at the sight of the ceiling. 

And between the five of you, it gets done quickly. As much as can be expected, at least. It'll be inspected for repairs tomorrow, but it'll be a while before it's liveable again, so Vernon is fully expecting you to take up Joshua's offer when he says you can stay with him, but Lara is staring daggers at him over your shoulder. Oh.

"Aren't you staying with me?" he asks quickly. 

You blink at him. "Are you sure that's okay?" You say, obviously without thinking, but you catch your slip– "I mean, since you'll be in Philly this week."

"Yeah, it's cool," he says, trying to sound cooler than he feels. "I'll get you a key."

Seungcheol, from under the bed, calls your name, his tone laced with something like awe.

“What?” you ask.

“Do you–” Seungcheol pauses, until Lara kicks at his leg. “Do you have a fucking gun?” 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Vernon keeps his fingers wrapped around yours as he guides you through the lobby. You’re quiet again, wrung out, mouth down-turned. The doorman nods, discreet as always, eyes flicking once to your damp hair and red eyes before looking away. The elevator ride is silent except for the hum as it climbs.

When the doors open and he lets you step out first, you slow, turning in a small circle as you take in the apartment once more– with its floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture that's bought brand new and hardly used, and the city far below, awash with colour. 

“I forgot how big this place was,” you say, quietly.

He exhales through his nose, an almost bitter laugh. “Yeah.”

"Where's the bathroom again?" you ask. 

“There's one in your room, third door on the left,” he says, gesturing toward the long hallway. “I’ll have your things brought up."

God, he sounds like a dick.

“Okay, thank you.”

Vernon waits until the door clicks shut behind you before moving again. He calls the doorman to get your car unloaded, thanks him too many times and presses large tips into the hands of the three people he brought to help. He carries your bags into your bedroom carefully, as if the placement alone could make it feel less like you've lost so much, like at least this empty, soulless place could feel a little like home for you. 

You clear your throat as he's lugging the last bag in, and you’re standing in the doorway to the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, your bare skin still wet and steaming. "I– uh. Sorry, Vernon, you've already done so much but I don't have any dry clothes."

Oh. Yeah- duh. 

“I’ll grab you something,” he says, feeling so stupid for not having thought of that himself.

He opens his closet and stares for a full minute. You don't like his clothes, you've teased him for it endlessly. He's got nothing you'd ever want. He swallows, thick. Shakes the feeling away. Grabs a soft, blue t-shirt. You always look nice in blue. A hoodie, oversized enough to swallow him, hopefully you find it comfortable. Sweatpants with cuffed ankles, so you don't have to roll them. Thick, white socks. He pauses, bites at the fat of his cheek, then reaches into a drawer and adds a pair of boxers to the pile, feeling faintly ridiculous and also very aware that not doing so would be worse for you. 

“Thanks,” you say, relief clear in your tone, when he hands everything to you.

You close the bathroom door behind you, and Vernon leaves for the living room and scrolls on his phone aimlessly while he waits for you to join him, but he doesn’t hear you come back out. 

A little later he orders Chinese food– too much of it, really, for just two people, but he wanted to get all your favourites at once. And when the food arrives, he sets it out on dining table, steam fogging the air, and finally knocks softly on your bedroom door,

“Hey,” he calls, already stepping away. “Food’s here.”

A moment passes before you pad out to join him. You look a little ridiculous now. The sleeves way too long, crotch of the sweatpants too low, face still puffy and tired. You look so much emptier than you did yesterday, the day you've had scraped something out of you and didn’t put it back.

He swallows.

“You wanna talk?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. “Nah, I'll be okay,” you say, voice rough. Then you huff a weak laugh. “I needed new content to pay off my therapist's mortgage anyway. All that parent shit is getting reruns.”

He snorts. 

You gasp as you look at the food. "You got orange chicken and beef with broccoli?"

"And crab rangoons," he adds.

"Dude," you say seriously, eyes meeting his for the first time in hours. "I literally love you."

He grins, the weight shifting off his chest. You'll be okay. You've always been good at bouncing back. "Uh huh. Tell me that again when you love me more than you love Lara."

"Tonigh–," you say, already stuff an egg roll into your mouth, and you have to mumble around it to get your words out. "I-def-luh-oo-ore-an-Lara."

Vernon curls his lip. "You're disgusting."

But it makes you laugh, and for that, Vernon is grateful. 

"When do you leave for Philly?" you ask, when your plates are empty and you're folding the lids back over the boxes. 

Vernon swallows, and wipes his hands on a napkin. "Tomorrow morning, pretty early. I'll leave you a fob and text you the door code." 

"You sure it's okay that I'm here?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

You hesitate, and the silence makes him look up. His shoulders sag. Vernon hates when you look so sad. 

"You've never invited me here before."

"I have." He hasn't. 

You level him with a look of disbelief. "You haven't. Not since you moved in."

He never wanted this. Not really. He wanted somewhere in Bushwick– like his old place while he was at NYU, with the brick walls and crooked floors, and the threat of bugs if anyone forgot to leave the drains plugged. He wanted somewhere loud with people and lived in. But his agent had frowned so hard it formed an almost permanent crease in his forehead. His manager had downright refused, and suddenly it was all security and controlled access, rooftop pools he'd never use, spare rooms he'd never need, and buildings with names instead of numbers.

Thank fuck it’s only a rental, he thinks, for maybe the hundredth time, because this place never felt like home. It's why he loves your apartment so much. Sure, it's old, and now quite literally falling apart, but it has a charm about it, and the people who live there are far more interesting to him than those who live here, with far more money than sense. He supposes he's counted as one of those people, too, now. 

"It's not about you," he sighs. "Your apartment is just, like, way better."

"Are you joking?" You wave your arms at the luxury around you. "Not a single hole to speak of here."

He pauses, unsure how to phrase it. What he likes about your home is that he feels at home in it. He likes how you've filled it, with everything so uniquely you. Feels a little like a piece of him, too, given the framed posters on the walls are artists he shared with you, and the photos on the fridge, stuck to your mirrors, littered across the walls in mismatched frames feature his own face, alongside yours and your shared friends. Vernon loves how he feels unchanged there, like him being rich and famous doesn't matter to you in the slightest, because to you he is just Vernon, just some kid you've known forever and will stay in your life as long as he can.

"It's– ugh. I dunno, bro. It's just easier to feel like a real person there." 

You smile. "As opposed to the robot sitting right in front of me?"

His lips twist around a smile. "Beep boop." He's rewarded with your first laugh of the night, one that reaches your eyes, and his chest swells. 

You take his plate, stack it atop yours. "C'mon," you say, slipping out of your chair. "You load the dishwasher if you can find it." 

"How'd you know I have a dishwasher?"

You lower your chin, stare at him under a furrowed brow. "Dude…"

Right, yeah. 

"I'm picking the movie though," you say, already walking toward the kitchen. "I deserve it."

You do. You deserve it all. 

Vernon trails you into the living room, switching lights off as he goes, the apartment settling into that soft, city-lit glow it always does at night. You drop onto the huge leather couch and immediately curl in on yourself, knees tucked up, hoodie swallowing your hands.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Your TV is, like, the size of my entire wall.”

“It’s stupid big,” he agrees. “I didn’t even pick it.”

You grab the remote, switch it on and start scrolling. He sits in the middle, deliberately leaving space between you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. You don’t look at him as you select Atonement, and toss the remote in the gap between you.

“Oh, come on,” Vernon says, groaning. “You want to be more depressed tonight.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse you?”

“You just had the worst day of your life and you pick–” he gestures helplessly at the screen “–this shit?”

“This shit–" you mimic. "–helps me process. And you said I could choose.”

"You said you could choose," Vernon complains. "I just didn't fight it. I didn’t know you were set on emotional devastation.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” you say smugly. “Apathy is a form of acceptance anyways. No take-backs.”

He sinks further into the couch with a sigh. “You’re a masochist.”

“I wear many hats.”

For a while, it’s quiet. The movie pulls you both in, the score filling the room has his hairs standing on end, the city outside reduced to a glow beyond the glass. Vernon keeps his eyes on the screen, but he’s aware of you in that constant, low-level way he always is– your knee bouncing, the way you tug your sleeves over your hands, just to roll them up to your elbows again. You never could sit still. 

It isn’t until James McAvoy’s character is being marched off to war that he notices the sound. It’s small at first. A hitch in your breath. A sniffle. A sharp, broken inhale. He glances over. You’re crying again. Silent, even though your shoulders are trembling as you swipe uselessly at your face.

“Oh my God,” you choke, trying to feign a smile, embarrassed as you catch him staring at you, his mouth slack. “It’s all so fucked up!”

He doesn’t think about it for a second longer. Vernon is beside you in one swift move, and draws you into him by your shoulder. You make a distressed sound but don’t resist, collapsing into his side as he smooths his hand over your arm, then your shoulder, slow and steady.

“I know,” he murmurs. “It's okay.”

You curl into him, your head resting on his collarbone now, and your tears slowly ease. Without thinking– without checking himself– Vernon leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, and the second you feel it, your body stills.

You blink up at him, eyes glassy and red, and for a brief, terrible moment you lean closer instead of away. You’re right there, so close. His heart pounds in his ears, as he realises, with a jolt up his spine, that he can feel the warmth of your featherlight breath against his lips. Before he can do anything, before he can close the gap, you jerk back.

“Oh my God,” you blurt, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. “I’m so sorry. I forgot we were alone.”

Your laugh comes so high. Vernon laughs too, immediately, a little too loud. “Yeah,” he says, too fast. “Yeah, no, same. Me too.”

You both turn back to the screen, sitting too straight now, a careful space between you again, but the swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn't stop bothering him until long after he goes to bed, and is present still when he wakes the next day. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you so much for reading! the taglist will be added on the next reblog.

all interaction is appreciated more than you could know, so if you liked this chapter, please consider reblogging with any thoughts to help get this fic seen outside my following!

part 3 is coming next saturday!

You assumed that when you moved to the city, that notion would be like finding a needle in a haystack. New York City was bustling with life. Everyone moved here from all walks of life, looking to find another purpose, a deeper meaning. That’s how everyone became a New Yorker, one way or another. But live music existed in this city around every corner. You couldn’t go into a bar nowadays without seeing some new-age indie singer who looked like he hadn’t trimmed his beard in years and probably wasn’t wearing deodorant at the mic stand. Even on campus, where you were attending you final year of grad school, there was someone practicing their guitar in a dining hall.

Perhaps it was a cruel twist of fate that the only place that would hire you part-time was a record store. But you needed the cash and a job was a job. You were utterly unhelpful to customers who were looking for a certain artist or genre, but you were organized and did what you were told. No one kept the store as spotless as you did. Your boss, Aileen, might’ve even considered bumping you to manager status if you at least tried to learn a thing about the records you were selling. There wasn’t enough time in the day though. Your mind was almost entirely booked up by school work that you couldn’t even begin to think about learning the cultural significance of the Velvet Underground & Nico.

As the saying goes though: if you won’t do it, someone else will.

After a long day of classes, you ran from campus to the record store. It was only about a mile, but the autumn chill was coming fast and of course, the bus wasn’t working today. Which meant you had to sprint just to make your 4 PM to close shift. You busted through the doors, hair disheveled and your face halfway buried in a faux fur coat, only to see your boss handing over a key to some man by the cash register. Actually, not just a key. The key. To a man you didn’t know.

Was Aileen on some kind of new drug she didn’t tell you or the other employees about?

Your cheeks were red from running as you approached the counter, one eyebrow already cocked in confusion. Stuffing your hands inside your pockets to warm them up, you asked, “Um … what’s going on here?”

The man with Aileen turned around and you almost buckled. Almost. There wasn’t anything all that special about him. He was just … handsome. And truthfully, not many handsome people came into this record store, so it threw you off just a little. He didn’t notice though. You had learned to school your expression since undergrad, warding off any frat guy that tried to step within two feet of you.

“Oh, right on time,” Aileen said, gesturing between you two. “Meet Hansol, your new manager.”

You looked to where your coworker, Mingyu, was putting up new posters in the back of the store. He shrugged before going back to work, almost shoving a pin through the corner of his thumb by accident.

When you turned back to your new manager – apparently – his hand was out for you to shake. “You can just call me Vernon,” he said in a voice much deeper than you assumed.

You only had to take one look at him to know everything about him. Vernon thought he was special. Vernon wanted to be interesting. Vernon probably listened to artists that only had less than one thousand monthly listeners. The kind of person that made your teeth grind.

His brown hair was cropped and gelled into a few spikes, mimicking a look one of your ex-boyfriends had in high school. Probably. One hoop earring dangled from his ear and he smiled at you almost cat-like, both sides of his lips curling and looking like an upside down three. A small scar was near his mouth, right where a previous lip ring would be. He was wearing an oversized black tee with a washed-out picture of Green Day and baggy cargo pants.

Not management material. Incredibly pretentious. Even for a record store.

Eventually, you slipped your palm from your jacket pockets and shook his hand, telling him your name. He nodded and turned back to Aileen, who continued to give him the lowdown on everything in the store. You took that moment as your reprieve and hurried to the backroom, throwing your jacket and backpack in a locker. Pinning your name badge to your chest, you walked out and approached Mingyu, still pinning posters to the wall. He swore under his breath when he thought he got a paper cut.

“Hey,” you whispered up at him on the small step ladder. Your eyes never left where Vernon stood with Aileen, until he looked over at you and you felt your stomach curdle. “Mingyu,” you called, tugging on the bottom of his ripped jeans.

“I don’t have time to gossip with you about your Art History professor,” he whispered back, rather loudly. “My shift ends in 20 and I have to finish decorating or Aileen is gonna kill me.”

You ignored him and yanked on his jeans again. “Since when was she hiring a new manager?”

“Oh, him?” Mingyu looked back to the register before shrugging. “Beats me.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “He looks pretentious.”

“I don’t know. He’s kinda hot though.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked up at him. “You think with your dick.”

“Most men do.” He jutted his chin towards the counter again. “I’d head over there before our new manager yells at you.”

Rolling your eyes, you headed to the register where Vernon was bringing a crate of vintage records behind the checkout. A lot of these were purchased for display purposes only, but you guessed that anyone could be bought, given the right price. His arms were kind of skinny, but he was able to lift up the crate without protest. Mingyu was built like a god and he didn’t go a second without complaining.

“Aileen told me you were really good with organizing. It’s half the reason why the store looks as put together as it does,” he said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the area. Turning back to you, he referred to the crate with one hand. “I was asked to go over inventory in the back. So as you man the register, I need you to display these records on the wall here in release date order.”

You glanced from the stack of records, and then back to him. You did this about three times until he realized he lost you somewhere. There would a few covers you recognized, a few you didn’t – you had never seen Surrealistic Pillow before – but this couldn’t be that hard.

“Of course,” you replied, surprising him. “I just need to use my phone to Google the release dates.”

“You don’t know them from the top of your head?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, a good handful of them.” He picked up one from the crate. “Bleed American from Jimmy Eat World was released in … 2001, I think.”

You took your phone out, searched the release date, and … holy shit, he was right.

Meeting his eyes again, you replied, “How the hell do you know that? I can’t remember stuff like that.”

“I just like music a lot,” he shrugged, placing the record back in the stack. “You can’t even remember when Dookie was released?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was he trying to make you look stupid? Of course, you didn’t know this off the top of your head. You had a life. This was part-time.

He blinked, not waiting for you to answer. “You work at a record store.”

“I’m in a grad program,” you clarified, crossing your arms again. “I needed a job, and Aileen needed an employee that was type A. It was a match made in heaven.”

“I just don’t understand why you would wanna work somewhere when you’re not passionate about it –”

Your hands clenched. “Not everyone is passionate about their job, Vernon –”

“No one is really passionate about records anymore though,” he added, brushing past you, and your arms lowered to your sides. “I mean, look at this store. Reverb Records was one of a kind in the 70s, a staple in the New York music scene. To work here is like walking through history. And now it’s been reduced to … a fraction of the store dedicated to vintage comics and POP figures.”

“We needed to venture outside of music to stay in business,” you defended, remembering the day Aileen broke the news that they almost lost the property. “If we didn’t, none of us would even be working here.”

Vernon nodded, but you could tell he was struggling to not roll his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll be in the back if you need me. Feel free to use your phone for those dates.” 

You watched him as he headed to the backroom, walking past Mingyu, who was finally getting down from the step ladder. He put out his fist, which your coworker gladly bumped his own against. When Vernon disappeared into the backroom, Mingyu turned to you with a thumbs up.

You frowned. He never learned.

It was a particularly dead night at the record store, especially for a Friday. Reverb was located on a pretty popular shopping area in the city, surrounded by thrift stores and a chic coffee shop that a niche Fashion Week model went to once so now it was filled everyday with students. You had your notebook out for Medieval Art History next to the register, your eyes skimming over the barely legible writing. You supposed you could simply print out the slides Professor Lee made, which were far easier to read than your own handwriting, but copying down his notes helped you study better. 

Mingyu’s hand smacked down on the counter, startling you. Your head snapped up and you placed a hand on your chest. He giggled at your expense. “Not funny,” you chastised, looking back down at the page.

“It’s a Friday,” he whined. “Why are you concerning yourself with homework?”

“Maybe because I have a test Monday morning and I’m working every day this weekend.”

He tapped a finger against the counter, but you were steadfast, continuing to ignore him. Did that actually say Lindisfarne Gospels or was your handwriting really that bad?

Suddenly, Mingyu whipped the notebook closed and you viewed up at him with an aggravated expression. “What could you possibly want from me?”

“I have a free ticket to the DJ set at the Blitz Club tonight,” he said, picking up his backpack that you didn’t notice had been at his feet. “I’m heading out now, but I could meet you at the club tonight. You know you want to.”

Your nose scrunched up. “Too loud.”

“You had a blast the last time though.”

“I was drunk out of mind,” you recalled, “and I made out with said DJ.”

Mingyu shrugged. “Sounds like a normal Friday to me.”