naka

Jihoon built the careers of his team from the ground up with Garage Band and two cents to their name. At the age of 17, he was their main producer, their main song writer, their main guy. Since then, everything relied on him - the lives of his team rested on him. And even though Jihoon doesn't often consider himself an egotistical person, he had the pride of being the creator of SEVENTEEN and all their songs, the same songs that brought them to where they are today.

Back in 2020, when Pledis - the company that Jihoon practically built himself - was bought by Hybe, he wasn't prepared for the amount of control that the company would want over their music - his music. They would bring in other producers, other songwriters, other sound engineers that wouldn't match the tone of his team, that would argue with Jihoon, and would make his team suffer through vocal notes that aren't in the range of their vocalists or rappers or dancers.

And since then, Jihoon wasn't that big of a fan of having another main producer enter his studio with the goal to make their next title track or side track or... well, anything. Of course, he was open to it, and not all of them were bad... Jihoon was just far more comfortable being the one in control.

After all, being with SEVENTEEN, writing for SEVENTEEN - was everything to him.

On the other hand, you were a producer and songwriter for Big Hit Entertainment - a young one, for that matter. Despite being the same age as Jihoon, your career started somewhat later than his - where a sample of your songs entered the charts, and you got scouted to write for Big Hit in 2017.

You were offered to write two songs for BTS at the time... and they were perfect. The album you worked on - Love Yourself 'Tear' perfectly set your place within the music industry, and you were busy since. You were loved within Big Hit. The artists would brag about you to others, always compliment your creativity and your flow. That would fuel your own ego and pride.

And when Big Hit became Hybe, you started to write for other groups - other soloists, and other artists. You expanded, and before you knew it, you were one of the biggest producers and songwriters in the entire company.

Rumours went around with the more songs you worked on for BTS - and the more popular SEVENTEEN became. It was whisper gossip amongst the producers and songwriters, at first.

'Two musical geniuses under one building.' 'A producing monster for Pledis, a composing machine for Big Hit.'

Eventually, the artists themselves started to take notice of it, as well. Whenever they would go in to record, the sound engineers would make small comments and remarks that would fuel the curiosity of the artists.

"Jihoon-ah, do you have a rival or something?" Soonyoung once asked his same-age friend in the middle of the recording.

"Huh?" Jihoon raises his eyebrow at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... I've heard it from Bumzu-hyung, but there's someone else in the building, right? Someone who's like, crazy or something."

"There's a bunch of crazy people here," he doesn't seem to care too much, changing the levels and gains of his mixing board.

In the other studio, four rooms down from Jihoon's, you were in mid listen-through for the latest song. After the song was over, your friend looks at you with a somewhat concerned look on his face.

"Hey, I heard this while coming over, but is everything okay with you?" Yoongi questions.

"Huh? What do you mean?" you didn't look at him as roll your chair to the sound board.

He shakes his head, "It's probably nothing. Are they putting you against other people, or something?"

"You've got to elaborate more on that, man."

Yoongi opens his mouth to add something else, but holds back. He sighs, "Nothing. If you haven't heard about it, then it's definitely nothing."

Jihoon has seen you around, awkwardly waiting for the elevator and waiting to head up to the same floor. He knows the songs you wrote, and how popular they had made you. It wasn't as if he saw you as a rival... but whenever he hears the whispers of other producers and songwriters, he gets defensive.

'Jihoon-nim's songs are surface level at best. y/n-nim has the better taste.' 'Woozi's just a performer. Why is he still trying to compete to those like y/n-nim?'

And you would hear the same thing.

'y/n-nim's writing has gotten bland lately. And repetitive. Woozi-nim's run lately has been going really well' 'Maybe y/n-nim should work with Jihoon-nim on something. Maybe it'll get her spark back.'

It was those snide comments and remarks from across the hall, from the next studio, or even word of mouth, that had sparked a small, prideful, rivalry between the two of you. And god, those awkward elevator rides would be the worst part of both your days.

"Jihoon-nim," you would greet, lowering your head in respect.

Jihoon would do the same, glancing at you briefly before facing the wall in the cramped as hell elevator. Nothing else would be said, nothing else would be done. Get on, and get off - quick.

Until that didn't happen. You came into the elevator from the 11th floor, with the goal to head up to the studios for work - as always. Jihoon was coming up from the first floor after a bunch of schedules, tired out of his mind. He only looked up, nodded at you, and went back on his phone. Regular.

Normal, even.

Then, the elevator stopped.

The lights turned off two seconds later.

You looked at the floor number in horror, watching as the screen flicker a short 19 before turning off entirely. It was a blackout - and the two of you were stuck in the elevator on the 19th floor.

Jihoon lowers his phone and presses the buttons to the elevator. It didn't do anything. "Fuck." He presses the emergency service button, too, but that doesn't work, either. What's the point of that button if it doesn't work in the case of an emergency, anyways?

"Dang it," you grumble, running your hand through your hair. "You call security. I'll get ahold of the front desk."

"I don't think I have security saved to my phone..." Jihoon flatly says, scrolling through his contacts. "I'm calling my manager."

Both of you head into different corners (it wasn't much help - as the cubical space was 6x5 feet in terms of width and length), making your respective calls to your own colleagues.

Ten minutes later, you got off your phone with an annoyed look on your face.

"Power's out for the entire building. They won't have it fixed for another thirty minutes - minimum," you groan, putting your phone down. You lean back against the wall of the elevator, watching as Jihoon finish his call, as well. "Fuck."

"Damn it," Jihoon mumbles, looking at the time. "You aren't scared of enclosed spaces, right?"

"Ha, who do you think I am?" you scoff, crossing your arms.

"Just asking."

Neither of you say anything else, the silence falling slowly between you two. Somehow, on some miracle, Jihoon still had signal. He quickly texts his members, informing them of his current situation.

jihoon how is there literally a blackout at the company building

horanghae rawr ha L where r u rn

jihoon elevator

bbookwan HA omg are you by yourself

jihoon i wish i was im with l/n y/n

cherrycoups wait actually???

jihoon yeah

jeongtoram omg forced proximity start talking to her

jihoon wtf why would i do that

horanghae rawr why would you NOT do that you heard what the others have been saying about you two idk maybe its time to clear things up

jihoon no i refuse what is there to clear up anyways

horanghae rawr well i mean elephant in the room by itself... the company's biggest producers are both stuck in an elevator together with no power im surprised you have signal

Before Jihoon could respond to that, the service went out. Just his luck.

He looks up from the device, noticing you had looked up at the same time. Both your eyes met... and you both turned away just as fast. Man, could this get any worse?

"God..." you run your hand through your hair again, messing it up more than it already is. "I was supposed to finish an arrangement today..."

"How close are you?" Jihoon somewhat reluctantly asks.

"I have a few bars left and the last chorus," you sigh, finally sliding down the wall so you were now crouching on the elevator floor. "I'm going to need another extension..."

Jihoon nods, putting his phone in his pocket, "How often do you ask for extensions that you're dreading it?"

"Almost every comeback for every song," you sheepishly answer, the dim emergency lights flashing every two seconds. "I've been in a slump lately."

"Seriously?" Jihoon crosses his arms, leaning against the elevator walls. "From the outside, it looks like you've got everything under control. I've heard your work whenever you have your door open at the studio."

"Ah..." your face flushes red momentarily, forcing a somewhat friendly smile. "It's messy when you actually look at the score. I play around a lot when I'm at the studio. I do all my writing and arrangements back home."

"is that so?" Jihoon tilts his head. "You don't immediately crash when you get back?"

"Of course not. I have so much work to finish that I don't have time to crash," you laugh, putting your hand over your eyes. "If it wasn't for the poor ass signal, I would be writing something."

Jihoon looks at you with curiosity - genuine curiosity. At this point, you were sitting on the elevator floor, legs crossed, phone on the ground, and hand over your eyes. As he takes a closer look at you and the state you're in... he notices you shivering - just a bit.

"Are you... sure that you're good with small spaces?"

"Of course," you quickly confirm, lowering your hands. "It's just cold as hell."

Makes sense. It was early autumn, and the weather was unpredictable as hell. Earlier today, it was warm like the summer, but twenty minutes ago, it started to get real windy, real quick. You were only wearing a light blouse with a cardigan and a skirt that showed your legs. With the temperature dropping in the elevator, being cold made the most sense.

Without thinking, Jihoon takes off his sweater and holds it out for you, "Here."

You look at him with furrowed eyebrows, "What?"

"Don't catch a cold if you still have a shit ton of work to do," he says, draping the sweater over your legs. "We're going to be here for a while, knowing how long it takes for the company to solve problems."

Your face turns red - completely unintentional. You fix the sweater on your lap so it properly covers your bare legs. "Thanks..." The sweater was warm. It had a strong smell of a powerful and rich cologne that made you remember that... Right. Jihoon was a successful producer with money - and not just idol money.

The silence that falls again was horrible, to be honest. Jihoon hates standing around idly, because he could be doing so many things right now. He could be writing a song, answering calls, maybe sending emails, or working out in general. Or even eating. But no. This is the most unfortunate case he could be in. His phone almost dead, no signal, and no estimate of how long he was stuck in the cubical space with someone who he barely knows.

"So..." you fiddle around with the sleeve of your cardigan. "What have you been working on, Jihoon-nim?"

"Huh?"

"We're stuck here for who knows when," you shrug. "My phone is almost dead, and I'm going to assume your phone is almost dead, too. It's 10pm. You're at the studio. Come on, there's got to be something."

"I guess," he decides to sit down right across from you, choosing to ignore just how dirty the ground may be. "Comeback is around the corner, and I need to rearrange some parts of our title track for the music video."

"Ah. At 10pm?"

"Yeah," he chuckles. "If I don't get to it now, I don't think I ever will, and that'll just put more work onto Bumzu-hyung."

You laugh, "Right... He's cool. Bumzu."

"You've worked with him before?"

"Nope," you deny. "He came into my studio before, asking me about some stuff."

"Oh really?"

"It was, um..." you nervously play with your sleeves again, folding them up, then roling them down, "He actually came to talk to me about what I thought about you."

"Oh."

Jihoon hesitates. Does he want to know what you thought about him, even though the two of you have never talked for more than 2 seconds? Actually, have the two of you ever talked in the first place? You were always in your studio, he was always in his studio (whenever he was in the building)... Your paths don't often cross - only at moments like these - in the elevator.

"Why would he ask you that?" Jihoon questions.

"He heard some people talk about us, I guess. The two musical geniuses of Big Hit and Pledis," you manage a second laugh at the words 'musical geniuses'. "I told him I thought of you as the same as all my other colleagues. A coworker. A fellow musician and artist - except you're a lot cooler, in a way."

"Oh. Thank you..." he trails off. "Why, exactly?"

"You're also an idol that performs," you warmly smile, finally properly looking at Jihoon in the eyes. "You got your team to where it is today. I'm so in awe at you."

This time, Jihoon's face turns red. He's glad that the dim lights made everything seem yellow and red anyways, or else it would be so obvious that he was blushing ruby red.

"Ever since I first heard people talking, I thought you saw me as a rival and therefore didn't want to make communication with me," Jihoon admits, rubbing the side of his neck. "Sorry. I shouldn't have judged."

"That's fine. I did... or, well, I still do see you as a rival," you respond with no hesitation.

Jihoon gets taken aback by your response. "Really?"

"Of course," you scoff. "You're on your way to take away all the grand awards from my team. I can't let my guard down. My boys are everything to me."

"BangTan?"

"Of course!" you giggle, covering your mouth. "I've been with them since 2017. I can't let them down."

Jihoon looks at you with a somewhat fond smile, "I'm in the same boat. I can't let them down, either."

"You won't," a hum leaves your mouth. "All your songs are a hit after hit. Seriously... I don't know what you put into Pretty U back then, but there's got to be some kind of spell, or a drug, mixed in there to make it so freakin catchy."

This time, Jihoon laughs boldly, which only makes you smile even brighter. He was glad that you were friendly with him - or else it would've gotten awkward really fast in the tiny space.

"I swear I didn't somehow mess with the code that messes with people's psychology," he promises, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Good to know that you don't hate me, though."

"Hate you?" you repeat. "Where ever did you get that idea from?"

"The gossip must've came from somewhere, right?" Jihoon says. "Someone must've gotten wind of it, and then started talking straight out of their ass."

"Guess you're right," you brush your hair with your hand, taking a look at your watch. It's been almost ten minutes at this point, and there has been no new updates yet.

In Jihoon's head, he was starting to run out of conversation points. Most of his side conversations would end in a matter of seconds, primarily because he has never put in the effort to continue small talk, but unfortunately... He was starting to regret not working on those social, small talk skills that some of his members (cough, Seungkwan, Mingyu, cough) were naturally born with.

"So... What are you - an INTP?" you suddenly ask, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. From the way you were looking at him, Jihoon knew he had the look of surprise.

"How'd you know?" he retaliates.

"Intuition?" you shrug. "What, I got it right?"

"Almost. INTJ since the last time I took it. Before that, INFJ."

"Seriously?" you straighten your back in surprise. "Oh my god, I'm actually getting closer in getting people's MBTI."

"And that means...?"

"I've been trying to guess people's MBTI based off my few minute conversations with them," you boldly answer - a somewhat proud look on your face. "I've talked with the guys from TXT, some trainees, Le Sserafim... I think this is the first time I've tried that with someone from Seventeen. Oh wait!" you snap your fingers. "I talked with Hoshi in the past. And Seungkwan. Both in an elevator, now that I think about it..."

"I'm not surprised," he chuckles. "The chances of running into any of us is... really high."

"Yeah... 13 members. I don't know how you do it," you admit. "Especially with the writing part. It's already a pain for me to write for 7 guys with widely different ranges and tones. How do you do it? Doesn't it get... tiring?"

"Is this an interview now?"

You check the time on your almost-dead phone - 10:14 - almost 20 minutes have passed at this point. "I'm running out of talking points here. It's going to be an interview if we don't find another common ground."

Jihoon lets out a soft laugh, waving at you dismissively. "It's okay. I'm only teasing."

"So... Do you get writers block? Music block? Anything like that?" you curiously ask.

He takes a moment to answer - thinking about the times where the words wouldn't appear, where the melody wouldn't work, and especially when he was just... tired. Then, he recalls the times on how he overcame them.

"My members," he casually responds, watching your reaction carefully. You didn't show it at first, but he knew you were surprised. "It's cliché as hell, but I don't have another answer to it. They have so many ideas and different styles of music that I never run out of creativity. Whenever I hit a block, I would ask them for ideas. If I'm burnt out, I would step back from writing. It's as I said earlier. They're... kind of everything to me."

You slowly nod, pressing your back against the wall of the elevator, "Cute."

"Cute?"

"Your relationship with them, and how they treat you," you push some hair out of your face. "I'm jealous."

"Then what about you? Isn’t it the same with your group?"

"They dote on me like a little sister," you laugh. "They don't want to criticize my music too much because everyone else does it, but it sometimes feels... suffocating. No matter what I write for them, they would say it's perfect and call it done."

"I don't think that's a good thing," he deadpans, eyes darting over to you with a somewhat judgemental undertone to them. "Criticism is how you get better."

"I know," you rub your face. "Just... it also depends on who it comes from. After all, I do have that kind of pride in my work."

"Well, if you ever need someone to be blunt about your music, my door is... open on Wednesday evenings and whenever I'm in the building," Jihoon jokes.

You scoff, "You joke a lot more than I thought you would."

"I don't think you have the right image of me, if that was the idea you had," Jihoon rolls his eyes while smiling. "Though, I guess you're a lot more talkative than I thought you'd be."

"I would rather have us be in a conversation than silence," you insist. "At least you try to maintain the conversation, too. There's been so many times where I've had run-ins where the other person refuses to continue talking."

"I've had my experience over the past 8 years," he simply says.

"When you're not writing music or at your idol schedules, what do you do?" you casually ask again, stretching your legs out a bit.

"Work out."

"At home, or at the gym?"

"Home. I don't like going out most days."

You let out an impressed whistle, "You've got a gym at home? Villa in Gangnam?"

"Okay, I'm not that rich," he says. You don't say anything, staring at him with a... somewhat scary, burning passion in your eyes. Jihoon sighs, then sheepishly admits, "Hannam-dong."

You let out an excited giggle, clapping your hands, "You are rich! Penthouse?"

"Yeah..." his face was so red as he answers, looking away from you.

"Dude, that area is really for the rich. I've been to Namjoon's place there, and holy shit, it's nice as hell."

"You're a world renowned producer, as well," he jumps in. "Don't act like you don't have money, too."

Your lips curve into a small pout, crossing your arms as you shake your head. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"Seocho-gu? Cheongdam-dong?"

"Songpa-gu."

"You cannot be speaking if you live anywhere remotely close to there," Jihoon returns the same mischievous look in his eyes. "I've seen the prices. They aren't prices you could get with a normal salary."

"Says the idol and producer."

"And you're the main producer for the biggest boy band in the world right now."

The two of you share a laugh in the midst of your somewhat strange conversation. Money, and how much money, you both earn was often a sensitive topic - as you both know that not everyone can make the amount you two could make in a month, but being around someone else that were put in the same boat... with the same level of modesty... It felt refreshing.

"You know, for someone who lives in such a nice ass area, you're here a lot," you comment, recalling all the times you had left the studio only to hear music coming from Jihoon's studio - Universe Factory - from across the hall. "You guys work nonstop."

"The same could be said about you," he argues. "Whenever I clock in, you're always here."

"Most days, I start early," you shrug. "But back to your apartment."

"What-"

"I'm curious on how your place is different from Namjoon's now," you tilt your head. "Stepping into Hannam-dong by itself was so scary. There was so much security and it was so quiet, and so clean, and... Oh my god, it felt like I wasn't even Seoul anymore."

"Well, we kinda need that kind of privacy with the line of work we have."

"Obviously," you agree. "I was thinking of originally getting a place there when I was on the house hunt, but then I would've been subjected to so many artists asking me for stuff, and then some of my colleagues are also there... Yeah, no thanks."

"Oh, right. There are a lot of producers around the neighbourhood."

"Do you talk to them?"

"No."

"Wow, you really are an introvert."

"Yeah, kind of. I barely leave my place when I don't have to, so I don't meet people."

"Move to my area. Nobody will even bat an eye at you. Unless you're not married," you rest a finger under your cheek. "The residents beside my place is an elderly couple, and they're the kindest people in the world. Except for all the times they tried to set me up."

"Seriously?' an amused look appears on his face. "Who do they usually set you up with?"

"Whoever they think is 'approachable' and respectable to them... which is already a really high standard because they have impossibly high standards..." you respond with no hesitation. "Whenever they introduce me to someone new, it's always the same thing. They would pass the initial interview, learn that I have a shit ton of money, then they get intimidated by my schedules and life, or they would want me to just... retire, since I guess they can't phantom the idea of someone else making more money than them. Holy shit, you have no idea how fucking egotistical some of these guys are. They act all nice in front of their elders, but around women their age? You would think they're a wolf pack. Oh my god! And don't even get me started on the people who would actually stalk me because I'm close to some idols. Ugh..." you mess up with your hair in frustration, practically pulling at it. "I don't get how you guys are able to live, much less date."

Jihoon cracks a chuckle, but it was more bittersweet than anything else. He knows the struggles of a relationship within their industry - and apparently, it was just the same with their staff that was even remotely close to them.

"Well," you stretch your arms, forcing a happier smile on his face. "At least I have it overall easier. The horror stories I would hear from the others are just nightmares."

"Yeah..." he rubs the side of his neck. "Not fun, most of the time. Unfortunately, that's part of the gig."

"Appears so..." you sigh, checking the time on your phone again. "We've hit the 30 minute mark. Why haven't we heard anything from them yet?"

"How much is your phone at?" he checks his. "I have 10%."

"14," you quickly close it. "Seriously, this building has so many problems..."

"I know," Jihoon didn't even hesitate. "Hey, at least neither of us are stuck alone, right?"

"You've got a point there. I think I would've gone insane if I were alone."

The two of you go quiet again, where both your social energy was starting to drain right out. Jihoon could see it from your face, the way you had yawn right after your last sentence, the rubbing of your eyes, and the slight stretch of your legs.

"Tired?" he questions.

"A bit. It's getting boring - being stuck," you murmur loud enough for him to hear. "Jeez, there's only so much we can talk about, huh?"

"Want me to ask some random ice breakers?"

"You have them in mind?"

"Not really," he shrugs. "What's your favourite colour?"

"Purple."

"For BTS?"

"As I said - they gave my career a chance. Before that, I didn't really have a favourite colour."

Jihoon scoffs, "Right... What's your favourite food?"

"Oh my god, there's this really good bakery down the street from here, and it's such a hidden gem. They have the literal best egg tarts and pineapple buns ever. It's cheap, too! I get it every time I have a lunch break, so they practically have my order ready when I enter."

"Seriously? You go there that much?"

"Hey, don't hate it unless you try it," you shrug. "Do you drink?"

He shakes his head, "Can't. I have an Asian flush and it's terrible for me."

"Really?" you rest your chin against the palm of your hand. "I feel like every content I see of your group, you guys are always drinking."

"Drunkards. That's all I can say."

"Sounds about right~"

"Cats or dogs?"

"Cats."

"Do you have any?"

"Nope. I have two fishes and that's about it," you let out a dramatic sigh. "I would love to have cats, though. Unfortunately, I'm not home often, and I work basically 24/7."

"Ah..."

"What about you?"

"Cats. I have 2," Jihoon smiles fondly.

"Oh my god, you have to show me pictures! Preferably when we're not stuck in this cubical."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time I see you," Jihoon agrees. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Work."

"Come on - even I don't work 24/7."

"Oh..." you rack your brain for a better answer, trying to remember the last time you were able to do something that wasn't work. "I like travelling. If I wasn't always so busy, I would be travelling."

"Where would you want to go?"

"Italy, probably," you shrug. "Maybe anywhere in Europe. God, the idea of Europe sounds so nice..."

"Yeah, it does," he agrees. "Don't you travel a lot for work?"

"Only to the States to meet other songwriters and producers. And almost 9 times out of 10... They can be assholes."

"Sounds right. If you ever need-"

The lights suddenly flicker on. You and Jihoon both stand up, watching as the power return after 45 minutes being stuck in the small, cramped, space.

The elevator finally starts to move again. When it stops, the door opens, finding a series of firefighters and technicians that let out a breath of relief.

"Holy crap, that took forever," you brush up on your clothes, fixing your skirt as you hold the sweater in your hand.

"We're so sorry it took so long," one of the technicians apologized, bowing his head low. "The entire neighbourhood had a power outage. Are you two okay?"

"I believe so," Jihoon glances at you and smiles. "Is the elevator and everything working fine now?"

"Yes, sir," the firefighter confirms. "If you would like to go back up, let me accompany you in case it fails again."

"First, let me get some fresh air," you dash out of the company building without hesitation.

Jihoon watches you leave, then turns back to the workers, "I'll need some air, too. Thank you so much."

"We're so sorry again," they apologize, letting Jihoon follow right after you.

The two outside staff exchanged glances - an unknown message being communicated without it being said out loud… ‘So... they definitely kissed or something right?’

Outside, the world was silent. The night lights had long since turned on, and the life outside has fallen fast asleep... and yet, you were still here - at the company, saved from being stuck in a 6x5 cubical.

You take a deep breath in, taking in all the fresh air that surrounds the building, before exhaling. You hear footsteps coming up from behind you... and yet, somehow, you knew it was Jihoon.

"I don't think I'll ever take this for granted again," you shyly admit, looking up at the sky.

Being in the big city, stars was never a common sight. Though, somehow tonight, the pollution wasn't as bad - and a single star was shining bright, right above you.

"You don't realize what you have until you lose it," Jihoon agrees, settling right beside you. "Are you going home?"

"No..." you shake your head. "I have so much work to get done - it's ridiculous. I have to head back."

"You're going to overwork yourself."

"Impossible," you insist. "We were stuck in an elevator for 45 minutes. I need to... do something right now."

"I guess we're in the same boat on that," Jihoon nods. "Let me know when you're ready to go back. I don't think either of us are ready to take the elevator alone."

You burst out laughing, nodding along in agreement. Despite having not known each other an hour ago, there was a new found... respect and awe for the other that went far beyond being only colleagues.

Five more minutes outside, the two of you head back into the company building with the goal of finally being able to work. The two of you tell the staff about both your goals to head back up, which they allowed despite the skeptical looks from them.

After finally successfully heading upstairs to the correct floor, you and Jihoon went your different ways (kind of).

By the time Jihoon is finally able to check the time, it was 3am. Holy shit. He was working for 4 hours straight without a break. He silently rubs his eyes, wondering maybe if it was the effects of being stuck in an elevator for 45 minutes that caused him to work so much.

He stands up, saving the files to his USB before pulling it out and closing all the tabs. Jihoon picks up his stuff from the nearby couch, pushing in his chair and throwing away any bottles of water that was left in the studio.

When everything was clean and ready, he locks the door to Universe Factory behind him and starts to make his way to the elevator. He's kind of hungry. What is there to eat at 3am? Should he cook something when he gets back? His schedules starts up again in 6 hours, so perhaps cooking something may be a bit of a pain...

He passes by a room with the door that was silently cracked open, a silent muse playing from the other side.

He knows this studio. It was your's.

A silver name plate on the studio door, decorated with a bunch of gifts and messages you've got over the years. Of all the studios on the floor, your's had the most personality, ranging with colour, words, and just... positive vibes. It was far from the first time Jihoon had ever passed your studio door... but this is the first time he's passed by it after getting to know you - being stuck in an elevator and all.

When he stops at your studio door, the music becomes more clear, and it was obvious you were replaying the same parts, over and over and over again. There was frustrated tapping, as well.

Jihoon doesn't know what came over him when he knocks on the door.

The music pauses. He hears a chair rolling around, and two seconds later, you were at the door.

"Oh! Hey," you weakly greet, slightly lowering your head. "Um... What are you doing?"

"Why are you still here? It's 3 in the morning."

"I, um... arrangements," you sheepishly admit, running your hand over your face. "God, is it already 3am? I have a recording to get to across the city in four hours..."

Jihoon frowns, glancing into the studio, "Do you... need help with anything?"

It was clear as day that you hesitated with your answer - opening your mouth, then quickly closing it. You turn your head at your dimly lit monitor and all the messy notes... then broke into an exhale.

"If you could, can you take a listen to this?" you open the door wider so he could come in, heading back over to your setup. "Sorry, it's a bit messy."

"Don't worry about it," Jihoon steps into the studio, where he was immediately met with the smell of... fresh flowers, a hint of a somewhat rich perfume, and the many blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals scattered around. Your LED lights were fading from dark purple, pink, red, and blue, where he then noticed a shelf full of awards. Awards that were proudly displayed for everyone to see.

"Sorry," your face turns bright red, throwing a cover over the glass shelf out of embarrassment. "Seokjin insisted that I set something up like this, and the next day, the guys literally did it themselves... I may be prideful, but I'm not that egotistical."

"It's fine. You should be proud of them," he smiles, taking note of the Best Producer award from the latest AAA. "Well deserved."

"Don't say that..." your face was still burning red while you shuffle behind your work table. You move your mouse around, fixing up the composition while telling him, "It's a work in progress. Like, a really big work in progress. I don't know why, but nothing is working with me. I'm thinking about scrapping the entire thing, but I've worked way too hard to just delete everything... Also, the guide is my voice, which was recorded really last minute two days ago. I haven't gotten the chance to go over it or anything, so I'm so sorry if it's messy... and bad... and-"

"Hey," Jihoon finally interrupts your rambling, which makes you stop clicking on the monitor. "Don't worry about it. This isn't finalized. I've made and created my own too bad to even mention songs."

"Ha... Right..." you sheepishly pull up the correct file. You hand him over a pair of headphones. "Forgot that you're basically in the same boat as me. Anyways, take a listen."

Jihoon presses the headset against his ear while you press play on the computer. Immediately, he is met with a strong bass and a guitar rift... until it stops. Then, the voices enter. At first, he was taken completely aback by you rapping - your flow and tone on par with the BangTan guys by itself. Then, the vocals hit, and he was taken by surprise even more. You were incredible, going from low to high, then shifting your range entirely.

Music and instrumentals aside, he was in complete and utter awe at your voice. For the next three and a half minutes, Jihoon listens carefully to the song, making mental notes of all the areas he would personally change if this were a song that was given to him by an outside producer.

“The bridge - is that where you’re struggling?” he removes the headphones, turning his head over to you after the song ends.

You rub the side of your neck, “Yeah. Is it that obvious?”

"A bit," Jihoon steps back, allowing you to sit back down on the chair. "Do you want my honest take?"

"Not really," you quickly deny, closing the tab of the score sheet. "I'm not in the right head space to take criticism right now, especially from another producer."

"I heard you cursing on the other side of the door," Jihoon adds. "I think you need a wake up call."

"Excuse me?" you raise your eyebrow, a deathly glare in your eyes that made Jihoon step back quickly.

"It's exactly what I said," Jihoon insists, trying his best to calculate what to say next based off your reactions. "You said earlier how BangTan doesn’t criticize you enough, and that it felt suffocating. This is the first step of breaking out of that."

You turn to your monitor, looking at the recording and instrumentals you made yourself through multiple all-nighters, random car rides in-between travels, and more than enough arguments from the other producers and writers. With a deep breath in, you make a copy of the recording and open it on a separate file. You stand up from your chair, stepping to the side.

"Here. Take a look."

Jihoon nods, pulling the seat out so he could settle. He puts the headphones on, pressing the space bar to play the original instrumentals of the track. He takes a moment to register your voice again, hoping that his face didn't look too red as he listens to the lyrics, as well. It was about love.

Your voice had so much in it that he didn't want to change too much of the original recording, but he couldn't help but start moving some of the melody around. He pressed some keys on the keyboard that was set up beside your desk, playing a melody that matches exactly of the one you recorded. He raised the bass, lowered the sound of the drums, and changed some harmonies with the synth. He added a repeat to the end, where it allowed a softer sound to the finish.

While he works, you were watching with awe. You've never seen someone work so diligently before - and you've seen producers make live music before. Jihoon didn't say anything while he edits, which was a complete contrast of all the previous people you've worked with. Before, one of the reasons why you hated live editing and feedback was because they would immediately jump straight into what you did wrong, why you added this, why you changed that, etc, etc. It was a never ending loop of things you did wrong, and it became a pain and total hit on your ego.

Instead, Jihoon was working quietly. If he didn't like something, he simply moved it or even got rid of it altogether. He didn't say anything to you, which you kind of appreciate since this entire session felt somewhat awkward.

Twenty minutes of work later, he takes the headphones off.

"Here," he saves the file on the monitor, standing up from the chair. "Take a listen."

You take the seat back, putting on the headphones. You give him a thumbs-up, and he presses play.

At first, the song was the same. Same beginning, same verse - maybe a few changes in key or a different rift of the electric guitar there... but it was the repeat of the chorus at the end of the song - the part that Jihoon had completely added as new - that changed the meaning of the song. When your voice repeated, the music stops. The instrumentals go quiet, and you were left listening to your own voice... but it was different.

"I was... really amazed by your vocals," Jihoon explains when the song finishes, leaning close to the screen with one hand on your chair. "Someone who has a powerful, emotional voice should sing this part and have it repeated, because it then changes the meaning of the song, and..." He puts a hand over your's that held the mouse, moving to change the tab to show the score sheet. "I was thinking that maybe if you add a violin sound starting the bridge, it might-"

"It's perfect," you abruptly turn your head right as he looks at you - leaving your lips only centimetres apart.

There was a silent that fills the air, separated by a wall of pride and ego that neither of you would admit. The heart in your chest was starting to beat faster, now becoming very aware of his larger hand over your's. Jihoon meet's your eyes, unintentionally gripping your hand even tighter.

You let out a breath of air, eyes darting around his face as the moment continues. "Jihoon...nim..."

"I should... go," Jihoon says, his voice quiet now. He coughs, letting go of your hand. Without turning around, he walks straight for the door. "Get home soon, y/n."

"Oh, wait..." your voice came out softer than you thought it would, watching as Jihoon leaves without turning around.

The sweater that you forgot to return lays untouched on the sofa.

Jihoon presses the button to call the elevator, shoving his sweating hands in his pockets. He breathes in, then out, then in... then out.

The image of your lips being so close to his flashes through his mind - frantically shaking his head. The way your face had lit up when the music sounded good, your voice during the vocal guide still ringing in his ear...

He pushes his hair back, taking a deep breath in. What the hell got over him just now?

"Jihoon," he mumbles to himself, slapping his arm. "Pull it together."

It takes a little over a week for the next time Jihoon runs into you. Their fan-meeting was right around the corner, which means he's less in the studio area and more going between recording locations and the dance rooms... but he couldn't help but have the image of you cross his mind every time he enters the elevator, or pass by your studio.

Jihoon was scrolling on his phone with Soonyoung in the company building, on their way down to the lower levels for their regular scheduled dance schedule. Then, the doors open right before they closed, where you come entering the enclosed space.

"Oh! Hi," you greet, a smile appearing on your face when you see Jihoon.

"Hey," Jihoon returns the smile, nodding his head.

Soonyoung looks at the two of you, eyes darting between the Big Hit producer and his best friend. "You two are friends?"

He shrugs, putting his phone away. "45 minutes stuck in an elevator together kind of forces you to become at least friends."

"Yeah," you slightly nudge his arm. "Is that what we are? Friends now?"

"Coworkers?"

"I think I would prefer friends."

"Ah..." Soonyoung stares at his same-age friend, a small smirk growing on his lips.

Jihoon notices it immediately. "What?"

"Nothing~" Soonyoung hums, biting the inside of his cheek. "I'll tell you later."

"Are you on your way to the studio?" you ask.

"Dance practice," Jihoon responds, taking a better look at what you were wearing. "It's going to get cold later tonight. Do you have a jacket?"

You furrow your eyebrows, looking at what you had on - a white short sleeve button up, black dress pants, and high heels. "Well, I do plan on just catching a ride after I'm done at the studio... I was in a business meeting the whole day."

"You should check the weather before you leave," he casually suggests, not even thinking for a second before talking. "Your schedule is just as packed as mine. Take care of your health some more."

"Yeah, I know," you sweetly smile, pressing down at your button up. "It's okay. It won't be too cold this time."

"You sure?" Jihoon tilts his head.

"Of course!" you promise him as the elevator stops at your floor. "Okay, see you, Jihoon-nim~"

"See you," Jihoon gives you a quick wave, watching as you exit the elevator safely.

After you leave, Soonyoung immediately forces his friend to turn and face him.

"What was that?" Soonyoung's eyes were wide with excitement, frantically shaking his friend's shoulders. "What the hell was that, Jihoon?"

"What was what?" Jihoon breaks free from Soonyoung's grasp.

"That!" he exclaims, nodding over at the door while the elevator starts to move. "That entire interaction! That entire conversation! What was that?"

"Use your words. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Soonyoung scoffs, throwing his hands into the air. "I can't believe I just witnessed that with my own eyes. What the hell happened that day?!"

"I'm not going to answer you until you tell me what you're talking about."

Soonyoung waves his hands again, almost hitting Jihoon in the face. "I just! I can't! There was tension, Jihoon! It looked like you two kissed in that elevator or something!"

"What." Unfortunately for Jihoon, his tone came off a lot more defensive than he would've liked it.

Soonyoung seems surprised at the tone, then his lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Alright, alright. Maybe not kissed, but something happened."

"Nothing happened. We cleared up a misunderstanding we had of each other and started to talk... Nothing else," Jihoon fixes his clothes, glaring at his friend.

"I mean, sure, I noticed your face getting red whenever we mention you being stuck in the elevator, but I just thought it was because you hated being stuck in a space so you got bad memories," Soonyoung was wearing a shit-eating grin while he talks. "Who knew it was because of a girl."

"Okay, you're just running your mouth."

The elevator doors open on the floor of their dance rooms, where the two friends step out and starts making their way to their practice room.

"I definitely saw that, though!" Soonyoung excitedly says. "Jihoon, Jihoon. I've known you for half my life now. There's no way that was just a regular colleague interaction."

"Get your eyes checked, because it was."

"Uh, no." Soonyoung shakes his head. "You were worried if she was cold. I think I'm surprised you didn't give her your jacket!"

The memories of him handing you his sweater the other day last week crosses his mind - suddenly feeling very hot on the face really quick. Thankfully, Soonyoung was following him from behind, so he wasn't able to see his red face...

"Oh? Woozi-hyung, are you okay?" Seungkwan turns the corner and starts talking immediately. "Your face is red."

Soonyoung halts right in his spot, gasping for air, "Oh my god!"

"What's wrong with him?" Seungkwan furrows his eyebrow at his other hyung.

"Nothing. Everything. Everything is wrong with him. I'm going to the washroom." Jihoon turns to the right while the others continue straight down the hall. He pushes open the bathroom doors, pressing his palms against the sink as he stares at himself in the mirror. Damn, his face was red as hell. Fuck..."

He splashes his face with water, hoping it would tone it down even just a bit. Maybe he can get away with it by saying he caught a cold, or something...

An unsettling feeling washes over him at the thought of a cold - and for some reason, the image of you only a short sleeve dress shirt from the elevator crosses his mind. You weren't wearing anything as light as last time, but still...

Mental note - check on you (out of colleague and friend concern) to make sure you have enough layers. Maybe he could offer his extra jacket... He's sure he has one hanging around in his studio, anyways.

Practice ends on time at 11pm. The members gathered their things and starts to leave one by one, preparing to call it done for the night.

"Are you going home, Jihoon-ah?" Wonwoo stands beside their producer, packing his things up.

Jihoon shakes his head, "I'm heading to the studio. I've still got work to do."

"Ah, come on, Jihoon. You don't have to always work so hard."

In the back of his head, the thought of you still in the studio didn't leave his head yet. For all of practice, he was worried that you were going to stay until 3am just like the other week... and it would be a lie to say he hasn't been worried about your overall well being and all the work you had.

"It'll only be for a bit," he promises. "I just want to check on something."

Wonwoo raises his eyebrow, but nods, "If you say so..."

"Jihoon-ah!" Soonyoung comes running up to him. "Studio?"

"Yeah."

"Can I come with you? I think we can squeeze in some time for lyrics-"

"No," Jihoon interrupts him quick. "I'm going to be in and out really fast. You don't have to."

"Oh?" Soonyoung furrows his eyebrows - then his eyes widen. "Oh my god... Are you going to check on her?"

"No."

"That was a fast denial."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Jihoon!"

"Shut up."

Soonyoung whistles, putting his hands on the back of his head, "If you say so~ I'll leave you alone."

Jihoon glares at him again, but didn't respond. If he had responded to his friend, that would've led to even more teasing from him - and seriously, he didn't need any of it.

While his team and the rest of their staff goes down to call it a night, saying bye to everyone and etc, etc, Jihoon goes upstairs to the 21st floor again.

He steps out of the elevator and heads towards the direction of your studio. The door was slightly open, but there wasn't any sound this time. He knocks on the door.

Nothing.

Maybe you already left... but why would you leave your door unlocked? Then again - why would it be his problem? You two are barely friends now. If there was literally any one else, he would turn back around and call it a night. It wasn’t his place - so he shouldn’t be there.

Jihoon turns, facing his back against your studio door.

He’s able to take three steps to the elevator before turning around and his control getting the better of him. Jihoon reached out for the door knob, hesitating for a moment.

He’s supposed to close the door shut. He’s supposed to close the gap that was left open… but why is he hesitating?

With a small click of his tongue, he opens the studio door just a bit, calling out your name.

There wasn’t a response.

He sighs, realizing that you probably just left the door open on purpose (but which producer would ever do that?), and as he was about to close the door again - he hears a small little ‘hm?’.

Faster than he would ever (and I mean ever) admit, he swings the door open entirely, where he saw you in the corner of your booth, head against your table with your arms acting as a pillow.

Jihoon rushes over to your side, where he sees the monitor that was shut off, a half-empty glass of coffee on your table, and a bunch of crumbled pieces of music sheets underneath you and around the studio.

Ah.

You fell asleep mid-work - probably telling yourself you would shut your eyes for a second to wave off the exhaustion.

"y/n?" he says your name, tapping at your shoulder. You shift in chair, but you were still fast asleep. He shakes you even more, "Hey. y/n. Get up. y/n."

"Hm?" you let out a soft hum, your eyes fluttering open. When you register who was looming right in front of you, you shot up immediately. "Jihoon-nim!"

"Hi," he greets you. "Sorry. I... was worried that you were going to stay until 3 again."

"What time is it?" you rub your eyes, trying to regain all your consciousness. "Fuck, how long was I out? Holy shit, it's already 11:30? Fuck."

"It's okay," Jihoon insists, trying to calm you down as you frantically shake your mouse to wake your monitor up. Pulled up on the screen was a new score of another song, where Jihoon then noticed the million other tabs of other instruments that you were messing with. "Struggling with work again?"

"Ugh, not even..." you slap your arm, pulling yourself together. "It's okay. I should probably pack up. Man, I told myself I was going to leave early too..."

"Never too late to start heading back now," Jihoon helps clean up the studio while you were busily moving around, throwing stuff into your purse that includes 3 USBs, a small microphone, and multiple sheets of paper. He throws away all the crumbled pieces of paper (that he double checked to make sure you didn't need), taking out empty cans of soda, and folded up the blankets on the sofa.

"Thanks," you sheepishly smile, finishing packing up at the same time that Jihoon wraps up the cleaning. "That I can thank you for, right?"

"You can," Jihoon chuckles, opening the door to the studio. He holds it open for you, where you walk out immediately.

You lock the door when Jihoon leaves, where then the two of you make your way down to the lobby together. At the front doors, Jihoon's ride awaits him.

He turns back at you, "Where's your ride?"

"Ah... They're getting here in forty minutes," you check your phone real quick. "Don't worry too much about me."

To be honest, Jihoon suddenly didn't like the idea of you waiting for 40 minutes in the office building without anyone around. He looks around the area - just as empty as it was inside. Yeah. That’s not sitting right with him.

"Songpa-gu area, right?"

"Yes...?" you tilt your head.

"I'll give you a ride," Jihoon decides quickly, making his way over to the driver that waits for him.

"Huh?" You run right after him, "Wait, Jihoon-nim! You don't have to. My ride is supposed to get here soon - it's okay. I swear."

"Yeah, and have you wait here by yourself? I don't think so," Jihoon turns to you after talking to the driver. "Songpa-gu is only twenty minutes away. We can head over there."

"It's almost 12 in the morning. Don't you have schedules tomorrow?" you worriedly ask.

"It's fine. I would rather be worried about being late than worry if you got home properly," Jihoon says, opening the door to the back. "Ah... Hyung, this is l/n y/n, one of my colleagues."

"Nice to meet you," the driver nods. "Songpa-gu, right? That's not too far. I can make it there in fifteen minutes instead of twenty, if that's a worry.”

"Oh, um... Yes," you manage a smile, now finding yourself entirely unable to deny the ride anymore. "Once." You tell Jihoon, climbing into the vehicle.

"Once," he repeats, closing the door and going around to the other side. He enters the car. "Okay, let's head to your place first."

"I would get kidnapped so easily if this was all it takes for me to get into a stranger's car..." you grumble, but despite that, you put in your address for the chauffeurs phone. You hand it back to him, where he takes a good look at the address.

"Oh my, you must have money like Jihoon," he remarks, propping his phone up. "Jamsil Le’el is not a cheap place."

Your face flushes red, looking out at the window. "It's... It's nothing much."

"Uh-huh..." Jihoon hums, holding back his growing smile. "So you really can't be commenting about my place."

"Yah, you live in the fancier neighbourhood!"

"Says the person that lives in the richest apartment complex in Seoul..."

"My place is not all that."

"I've seen the photos of Jamsil."

"They exaggerate!”

The driver takes a peak through the mirror of the two of you bantering, a new sight that he was entirely taken by surprise. It was one thing when Jihoon had approached him moments earlier about driving you back, but driving someone back who lives in the total opposite direction of you was an entirely other thing... and the way Jihoon was speaking? He was confident - comfortable, even. He was making jokes, laughing without care, and talking without thinking. Silently, the chauffeur chuckles, letting the two of you continue with your conversations without intervening.

"Oh my god, they're so cute!" you had moved closer to him when Jihoon pulled up the photo of his cats. "How long have you had them?"

"Almost six years now," he responds, showing you more photos of his beloved cats.

"Aw~" you coo, zooming in on the images. "You are such a cat person."

"Tell me something I don't know," Jihoon continues to swipe on his phone, but then a photo of his members appeared. "Oh, wait."

"Aw, I want to see!" you quickly exclaim, lightly hitting his arm.

"No, this is such a terrible photo of all of us.”

"You guys are idols. I'm friends with BangTan. I've seen embarrassing photos. Nothing can surprise me anymore."

"Yeah, right."

"You have not seen Namjoon's camera roll before."

Jihoon gives you a skeptical look, then lets out reluctant sigh. "Fine. Here's an album of some of my favourite photos of them. Don't tell them that I'm showing you this."

"Oo! Yay~" you cheer, taking his phone and beginning your journey through the album.

The photos starts from 2018, where the first one was of Jihoon, and the two other unit leaders of his team, Seungcheol and Soonyoung. It was a cute, messy, selfie of the three of them as young adults. The one after was a video of the unit that you're more familiar with - BooSeokSoon - doing some crazy shit (nothing surprising). After was a photo of their youngest's bright red face, with a drink in his hand and an arm around Mingyu.

As you go through them in curiosity, giggling and asking questions about the context every now and then, Jihoon couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat every time you turn to him with another wonder, genuine excitement in your eyes and voice.

Eventually, by the time you reach the end of the album, the car was turning into your neighbourhood.

"Aw," your voice softens, watching the video that Jihoon took of the 12 other members singing to songs using a karaoke machine in a bar. "Now this is family."

"It was after our tour ended," he recalls, looking over your shoulder. "We didn't get back to the hotel until the morning."

"You guys seriously party so hard," you laugh, covering your mouth in adoration. You hand the phone back to his, taking your own out, "Let's see... I don't think I have that many videos or photos of my guys. I don't usually go to their after parties because I have work..."

"Sorry to interrupt, but we're here," the chauffeur pulls into the driveway of your apartment complex.

"Oh, already?” you frown, looking outside to see that you really have arrived. "Ah... I won't put you through the trouble of signing in and everything. I'll walk from here."

"Are you sure?" Jihoon grabs your wrist before you could leave. "It's not too much trouble."

"It's okay," you promise, giving him a reassuring smile. "There's security cameras all over, and a security guard just ahead. Thank you for driving me already. Seriously."

Jihoon reluctantly lets go of your wrist, nodding as you climb out of the vehicle.

"I'll treat you to dinner next time we see each other," you tell him before closing the door. "Your choice of location. Doesn't matter how fancy or far it is - I'll handle it."

Jihoon nods, "I'll hold you to that."

"Thank you again," you close the door and begin your walk inside.

Just as Jihoon's driver begins to start the car again, Jihoon shakes his head.

"Wait. Not until she gets through the gates." His eyes never left you, making sure you were able to enter through the security gates of your apartment and everything. When the doors open from the pedestrian side, he lets out a relieved breath. "Okay. Let's go."

His driver lets out a whistle while he begins the drive to the other side of the city, "So... Was that a date offer?"

"What?" Jihoon furrows his eyebrows.

"What y/n-ssi said," his chauffeur grins, looking at his client through the mirror. "Taking you out for dinner? I may not be as young as you two are, but I can recognize when someone is trying to ask you out."

"It's nothing," he shrugs. "Just two colleagues treating each other when we can.”

“Is she the women you were stuck in the elevator with the other week?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well that makes sense,” his chauffeur chuckles, keeping his eyes on the road. “Well, I do love driving around these parts of Seoul. If she ever needs another ride, don’t hesitate to tell her that it would be an honour.”

“Honour, seriously?”

"She gets you to speak instead of staring at your phone the entire ride," he glances at him from the rearview mirror. "So... Will you take her up on that offer? For dinner?"

He doesn't respond, which was quite enough for the chauffeur to know his answer by itself.

The next time he sees you (outside from the casual hi's and hey's while passing each other), winter was around the corner, the leaves long since fallen, skirt and blouse weather left behind, now home to sweaters and mittens and gloves and hats and scarves. Around the company building, every artist and staff was busily preparing for the holidays, excited chatter in the hallways between studios and closed doors, with even the artists themselves getting into a rather festive spirit.

Jihoon was passing by the studio when he notices your door open. He casually looks inside when he walks past, noticing the festive decorations that you were in the middle of putting up. You were standing on a ladder, reaching for the top of the walls with snowflakes in your hands.

"Do you need help?" he suddenly asks, making you jump up in surprise.

"Jihoon!" you step down from your ladder, putting the snowflakes down, as well. "Hey! How are you doing?"

"Good," he answers, pushing the door to your studio open. "Wow... You really went all out in here, huh?"

You glance around, eyes darting at the tree that was in the corner, the hanging garlands, and just the general theme of holiday colours.

"It's kind of a tradition I have going," you smile fondly, leaning against your desk. "And usually I have a lot more help, but lately..."

Jihoon doesn't need you to finish your sentence. He saw the announcement earlier - that BTS was officially starting their group enlistments. You knew it was coming - but Jihoon believes you just weren't ready for the day to come, especially since you've known them for so long.

"What else do you need to do?" he looks at you, a genuine smile on his face.

"Huh?" you push yourself off your desk in surprise. "Oh! Um... I just need to hang a few more lights, put the candles in its right, non-flammable, spots, overall clean my desk, maybe vacuum the ground..."

"Let me help," he insists, already moving to your storage boxes beside your studio couch.

"God, now I really need to take you out for dinner," you groan, watching as Jihoon searches through your decoration boxes. "Are you free later today?"

"You do know I'm still an idol with idol schedules, right?"

"Hey, I heard you preparing for a comeback for a subunit," you shrug. "It's worth asking."

"Good. Because I am free," Jihoon hides his smile really well, searching through the boxes of decorations.

"Huh?"

Jihoon takes out a star, checking the condition of the decoration before putting it on the side. "What do you want to eat?"

“Anything right now,” you admit, climbing back up on your ladder. “Maybe some barbecue? Oh, but Chinese food sounds so good right now, too…”

“There’s a good Chinese fusion place in Songpa-gu,” Jihoon suggests. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever been there, but the food is so good. They also have private rooms, so I think that’s better for us.”

For us. He didn’t even register what he said until he said it, his face burning red. His heart slowly begins to pound in his chest, feeling the exact same difficulty of breathing whenever he would see you around the company now.

“I’m down for that,” you smile, reaching the higher spots on your wall.

Jihoon continues to go through the boxes, putting up decorations in areas that were lacking in holiday spirits. You were busy gluing and sticking items against your wall, balancing on your ladder with ease.

30 minutes later - the studio was transformed into a wonderful and joyful space - but to be honest, the two of you were kind of exhausted of all the decorating… and glitter that had fallen all over your hands.

Jihoon brushes his hands, “Is that it for the decorations?"

“Yeah,” you confirm, then a loud groan escapes your mouth as you look down at your ripped sleeve. "Dang it... Before we go, I should stop by my apartment and get a change of clothes."

"Maybe," Jihoon agrees. "The place is kind of nice. If you care about what you wear, pick something that you would wear to an awards show. Something casual."

"Okay, those two themes do not go together at all," you laugh, rolling your eyes. "At my awards shows, I wear a full dress, heels, hair done, makeup done and everything. Two hours at the beauty shop!"

Jihoon looks at the time on his phone, "It's only 4. You have time to get ready, I think. How about I come pick you up at your apartment at 7? I'll get a reservation by then."

"Reservation? What kind of fancy ass restaurant do you have in mind?" you wonder. "Actually, don't answer that. I'm kind of curious now."

Jihoon puts his hands in his pockets, hiding the fact that as the dinner conversation kept going, the more he's processing that it's basically a date. He lets out a huff of air, "I'll send you the location of the restaurant. You can plan your outfit based on the photos."

"Great!" you go around the corner, taking your jacket from the couch. "I'll head back to my place now and start getting ready."

Jihoon nods, following you out of the studio, "Make sure to wear something warm. It's winter now."

"Yeah, I know~" you lock the door behind you. "See you at seven, Jihoon~"

"See you," he allows himself to smile proudly, watching as you go to the elevator while he prepares to head to his own studio.

Jihoon pushes the door to the Universe Factory, where a good quarter of his own team was waiting for him inside. His blood runs cold when he sees them, recalling of why he was at the studio in the first place.

"Yah, took you long enough!" Soonyoung complains, lounging around on the couch (he was entirely upside down).

"Sorry. Got to go," Jihoon goes to his desk, picking up all his stuff and putting them into his bag.

"Yo, where are you going?" Seungcheol furrows his eyebrows, watching as Jihoon pack his things from the recording booth. "I thought we were recording today-"

"Already told Bumzu-hyung. He's coming over right now to fill my spot," Jihoon says, closing all the tabs on his monitor. "Sorry. Something came up."

"Huh..." Joshua watches him with a skeptical look.

Without even saying bye, Jihoon runs straight out of the studio. He didn't even stop to scold or remind them to lock up properly - Jihoon just left.

"Okay. That was weird," Jeonghan deadpans. "He's been weird lately, right?"

"Definitely."

Soonyoung suddenly sits up, his eyes wide. "Oh my god!"

"What?" Seungcheol turns to him.

Soonyoung begins laughing, then he frantically pulls out his phone and starts sending a series of messages.

"What? What?" Joshua joins Soonyoung on the couch, trying to catch a look of his friend's phone.

"Oh my god, don't tell Jihoon this, but I think he has a crush," Soonyoung grins, watching his members process what he's saying.

It takes a moment as they exchange looks. Then, before Soonyoung could further explain anything, the members immediately move to the sofa, surrounding their performance team leader with wide eyes.

"Okay, okay, go back," Jeonghan starts, putting a hand on Soonyoung's shoulder. "What do you mean he has a crush?"

"I said I think!" he reminds, putting his phone down. "You know how he got stuck with y/n-ssi a few weeks ago? In the elevator? Yeah, so I think they did far more than just talking."

"They fucked?!"

"Why is that the FIRST thing your mind goes to?!" Soonyoung throws his hands into the air. "No! If that happened, then I'll be even more sure! But no. I think Jihoon's finally found someone who might just be as musically creative as he is."

"y/n..." Seungcheol repeats your name. "The producer for BTS?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Apparently, Jihoon helped with a song. I have no idea what kind of relationship they have though... and I have no idea where he's going now." Soonyoung grabs a bottle of water and opens it, taking a sip. In his other hand, he looks at the message that popped up on his phone.

woozi of hoshi x woozi dinner with y/n remember to lock up and dont make a mess

Safe to say, Soonyoung spat out the water and practically lost it.

7:00 PM arrives.

Jihoon finds himself wearing a nice black dress shirt, his hair perfectly styled, even makeup worn, waiting outside of your apartment. When he and his chauffeur pulled up to the familiar neighbourhood again, he was going to send you a text message... except he doesn't even know your number.

Luckily, you were on time.

There was probably five thousand and one things that's going through Jihoon's mind the moment he sees you step out of your apartment complex.

"Jihoon-ah," his chauffeur calls. "Your mouth is open."

"No, it's not."

"Hi!" You open the door to the vehicle, climbing into the car with a bright smile on your face, "Okay, let's get going!"

"I said it was casual, not high-class." Jihoon comments, looking away from you as he covered the bottom of his mouth with his hand. "You didn't have to put in that much effort for a casual dinner."

"Hello? The place you sent me is not just casual!" you exclaim. "People get proposed to there! Which makes sense, because it's still in Songpa-gu, but still..."

"It's not that fancy," he argues, but there was the very obvious smile on his face. "By the way, I was going to text you, but I realized I don't even have your number." Jihoon holds his phone out.

"Oh, really?" you take his device, quickly putting in your number. Not only that, you even added your own contact name and took your own contact photo. You raise the phone up, taking a quick selfie, then upload it as the profile picture. Then, you set your own nickname: y/n pd >^^<

Jihoon takes a look at the nickname, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, "PD? Really?'

"What, it's the truth!" you giggle. "Production director."

Jihoon sends you a message, a quick little 'hi', which you successfully receive on your phone.

You take your phone and take a quick photo of Jihoon, who became completely caught off guard.

"Yah."

"You look fine, Jihoon," you casually comment while setting up a nickname for him: Jihoon-nim^^

"How'd you find this place?" you ask, putting your phone away.

"Mingyu took us during our monthly meetings when it was his turn to host," Jihoon leans forward a bit. "Hyung, reservation is at 7:30."

The driver nods, "I got it. We'll be there at 20."

"Thanks," Jihoon goes back into his seat, a relieved sigh leaving his mouth. "You look great, by the way."

Your eyes widen a bit, face turning red. You look away, nodding as you cover your mouth, "Thanks. I think the photos of the place scared me a bit too much. Hopefully, I didn't overdress."

"No, you look perfect," he didn't even register what he said until he said it, his face now turning red. Jihoon quickly clears his throat, fixing the sleeves of his black dress shirt. "So... How did the song go? The one you showed me?"

"Oh my god!" you turn to him, eyes starry and bright. "I was going to mention this over dinner, but I guess we can talk about it now, too. I showed it to the others that I was working with, and they definitely love your version. If you can, can you come with me to meet up with them on Tuesday? Only if you're free. I'll literally move my schedule around to match your's, because they really want to talk to you. They have connections in the States, too, so I think this is a really good opportunity. Please, please, please tell me you'll be free soon."

Jihoon registers what you say, ignoring that your hand was now on his on his leg. "I... I should be free on Tuesday. The next few weeks, we're going to be off because of our subunit's comeback, so we don't have a lot of group activities, and i don't have that many solo ones..."

"You're about to now!" you grin. "When the song goes through, I'll register your name and everything. I'll talk with our CEO and get him to approve. He literally cannot say no to me."

"Close?"

"Nah. He's more scared of me, if anything."

"You really are a pillar in this company, huh?" Jihoon laughs, making you retract your hand and cross your arms.

"It's nothing," you bite the inside of your cheek with a small pout. "I could say the same thing about you, Jihoon - the backbone of Pledis and Seventeen."

"Yeah, yeah," he lightly kicks your feet. "So... They liked the version I edited?"

"They said it solved the problem from before - that it was lacking something," you explain. "Of course, that definitely wounded my ego, but it wasn't that bad."

"To be honest, they could've released your version as is. To me, it felt like it was only missing that emotional piece that your sound is known for," Jihoon comments.

"Emotional piece?"

"That's your strength," he nods. "You know how to write songs that resonates with the listeners, using instruments to convey thoughts and actions... if that makes any sense."

You put a hand over your mouth, playfully hitting his arm, "Don't act like you know my music as well as you know your's! You know how to make each song sound so drastically different, and yet you still keep the Seventeen signature. I don't get it."

"It's not always me," Jihoon scoffs. "It's what I said the first time we met. The members are always there."

"Ah, Jihoon-ah, y/n-ssi, we're here," the chauffeur pulls up into the parking lot of the restaurant. "Sorry to interrupt."

"Oh, already?" you take a look outside. "Wow... This place looks so much better in person than the photos."

"Hyung, thanks for the drive again. I'll let you know when we're done,” Jihoon leaves the vehicle first. He goes around to the other side, opening the door for you. Jihoon holds his hand out, which you take as you step out of the car.

"Oh? It's snowing," you look up at the snowfall.

"Cold?"

"Nope, it's okay," you flash him a fond smile, waiting for Jihoon to close the door after telling his driver some other information. "Just starting to regret only wearing heels..."

"Don't worry - the table should be ready. There's no wait," Jihoon informs, guiding you into the restaurant as his chauffeur drives off behind you.

The two of you enter the rather lively restaurant right on time, where one of the waiters nods at both of you. They guide you two into the back of the building, where a quaint table was ready and prepped. Jihoon pulls the chair out for you without a second thought, where you feel your face flash a deep shade of red. God, if it wasn't for the overall dim lighting, it was obvious your ears were almost the colour of your lipstick. He goes over to the other side, getting comfortable in his seat.

"Why don't you have work today?" Jihoon curiously asks, opening the menu. "Every time I see you, you're always on your way to your studio or going to another studio."

"Ah... I finally finished writing my song for one of the other groups," you respond, taking the other menu. "I sent it over last night, so I didn't even have to come to the company today. I'm glad I did. I finally get to treat you out."

"You didn't need to," he says. "Oh, my recommendation would be the hanwoo beef. Pair it with the rice, and it's so good. The noodles aren't that worth it here, but the stir-fried shrimps are good, as well... Hm, the braised porks aren't bad, either. Actually, most of the items here are great."

"Jihoon," you call, moving your hand over your mouth to cover your giggles. "Order whatever you want. I'm treating, remember?"

Jihoon gets taken aback by a moment, but you could see that his shoulders were slowly loosening. He nods, ordering what he wants, while you do the same.

The two of you send the menu back after choosing your dishes, where small talk now becomes inevitable. The flow of the conversation kept going - where both of you got to talk about stuff you wouldn't usually with others. For Jihoon, he felt like he was being heard (the struggle of being introverted and being in a group with 12 other members who are way more talkative than he was). For you? You finally got to hear stories from other producers and artists (results of being so protected by older brothers who didn't want to ruin your confidence). You two go on and on - even when the food arrives to when it was all almost done.

"Do you want to take a listen? To the newest song?" you ask, wrapping up your food.

"Oh? Will you let me give feedback again?" he teases.

"As long as it's not straight up hate, then yes."

"Then I would love to," he agrees. "Do you have the recording on you right now, or...?"

"It's back in my apartment - all my recordings," you inform, putting your chopsticks down. "Do you want to come over?"

He furrows his eyebrows, initially taken aback by your request. "Tonight?"

"When else?" you say that so casually that Jihoon realizes the request being strange didn't even cross your mind. It was as if you asked your best friend over for dinner - or something like that.

"If'I'm not being too much of a bother..." Jihoon agrees, a small smile forming on his face. "Then we'll actually see if you were lying or not if the photos were exaggerated or not."

"Oh, they definitely were!" you exclaim. "I don't live that high class."

"Right... You're wearing a designer bracelet right now."

"Yeah, says the person with the watch worth over six million won."

Jihoon looks at his wrist, where the watch sits. He scoffs, "I don't know what you mean. The fact you can recognize the watch brand is telling me a lot."

"Right back at you," you can't help but laugh, unconsciously moving your hand over your mouth again.

"Why do you cover your mouth so much when you laugh?" he finally questions, blurting it out without even thinking it through.

You stiffen, lowering your hand in embarrassment.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes quickly. "That came out of nowhere. I... Well, I've noticed it whenever we talk. You have a really nice smile, and your laugh is... really cute."

"It's... Um..." you gaze shifts downwards, watching as the candle flicker on the table.

"Don't answer if you're uncomfortable," he adds. "Curiosity."

"No, it's okay," you sigh. "My ex... I think from a few years ago now... He's always had something to say about my voice and my laugh and whatever other sounds I would make for the sake of my music. I didn't know it was that obvious."

"It's not. I just... pick up on those things more," he hesitates with his response, where a flicker of sadness flashes through his eyes. "He must've been an ass."

"That's why we broke up," you proudly say. "If he had a problem with my techniques, then he can literally go fuck himself."

"It must be a pain," he hums, leaning back against the chair. "Successful producer and all, and still being in your 20s."

"You're projecting now."

"Maybe," he shrugs. "Are you done?"

You nod, "Yup."

"Let's get the dessert and head over to your apartment. I'm really curious on the song now."

After being at the restaurant for an hour and a half, you two were finally leaving. You pay for the entire meal, something Jihoon actually insisted you didn't when you called for the bill. You scoffed and laughed at him, getting the card reader before he could and putting your card first. Thankfully (and out of relief), your card went through.

"I said I would treat!" you were laughing as you get your jackets. "Don't be mad about me for that."

"Yeah, but now I have the image of letting you pay for my dinner."

"So?"

"So, it's a bad image."

"Yeah, deal with it. I finally got you dinner. If it's that much of a problem, buy me bubble tea the next time you come to the company building."

By 9:30 PM, the two of you arrive at your apartment on the 42nd floor.

You were laughing at something Jihoon said, pressing in the correct numbers to the keypad. When you successfully unlock the first door, you take out your home keys and unlock the main doors. "Welcome to my place."

Jihoon steps inside, completely taken aback by the sheer size of your apartment... actually wait, it's not even an apartment. It's a penthouse, in the middle of the bustling city of Seoul, surrounded by major executives for other companies, not just in entertainment.

“Ugh, it’s so messy,” you rub the side of your head in frustration, kicking away shoes that you haven’t bothered to put back in its proper place. “Crap, I should've cleaned if I was going to invite you over..."

Jihoon chuckles, watching as you frantically put jackets back on hangers, putting shoes up in its proper places, and cleaning up empty plates that were left on surfaces around the apartment.

"I'll clean up while you listen to the new song," you decide, brushing off your hands. "God, this is so embarrassing..."

"Hey, it's okay," he reassures you. "You're more human this way. I'd be more scared if it was spotless. At least your place looks lived in."

"Way to put that lightly," you sigh, moving to fix up your living space. "Okay. Studio."

Jihoon follows you down the halls, passing by the photos you have put up. There were group photos of every group that you have worked with, along with a collage of album art for songs that you have created or worked on. The hallway was a documentation of your entire life - from the beginning of your career to the present.

You open the door to one of the rooms, flicking on the lights. The room was a warm yellow with padding all over the walls. In the corner were a series of instruments, and a microphone set up pushed to the side. Your electric guitar sits beside your main setup, with a large multi-monitor setup against the front wall.

"Oh? What model is that?" Jihoon nods at the guitar.

You follow his gaze, a fond smile on your face as you go over you pick it up, "Customized Fender for my birthday after the company expanded. BangTan, some close friends, producers, and writers all piled money together to get it. God, I think I cried for a good five days." You hand it over to him.

"Damn..." Jihoon gently takes the guitar, admiring it with awe. "My members gave me a Gibson one for my birthday the other year. It was the first time I actually wanted something."

"And all 12 of them pitched in? Only those 12?"

"Yeah," he confirms, giving it back to you.

"Holy shit, they must love you a lot," you put the guitar back down, taking a seat by your setup. "Even with 15 people pitching in for my guitar, it was still a lot."

"Your model is way more expensive. You have expensive taste."

"Yah. Says the idol producer."

"You are literally sitting down in the main chair."

"That's not the point~"

Jihoon scoffs, shaking his head as he watches you start up the monitor. "To be honest, I'm surprised you don't have more windows in your apartment."

"Really?" you hum, eyes zeroed in on the screen. "I think there's enough windows."

"Enough direct sunlight?"

"Of course!" you pull up the proper files. “Okay, here. Take a look."

You and Jihoon switch places, with him now sitting on the chair while you stand to watch. He puts on the spare set of headphones, pressing play in the process.

And eventually, the two of you lose yourselves in the world of music, just as how you always do.

Feedback was exchanged, comments were made, but despite jumping around from lyrics to composing, to even making new sounds... one theme was obvious:

Both of you love music. You both live and breathe it. The two of you have a certain vision when it comes to your sound, and you both know it. There was a level of understanding that came between you... which only made the entire session feel much more intimate than all the other ones.

Of the time spent inside your studio, with the occasional break to get some snacks or water from the kitchen, it only felt like an hour passed. The next time you finally look up at the time, it read 1am. Over 4 hours of work... and it didn't even feel like work.

"Oh, shit, it's late," you notice, staring at the time with a frown. You take a look outside through the curtains, where the snowfall had long since began to fall. The roads below were entirely covered with the layer of white. "It's snowing bad."

He looks outside, frowning at all the snow that had landed on the ground in the hours he's been out. "Fuck."

"You shouldn't let your driver come pick you up in this weather, especially since it's late," you remark, getting up from your chair. "If you want, you could stay here for the night. I have a spare bedroom, and some of my brother's clothes.

"Oh, I shouldn't," he quickly shakes his head. "That's-"

"Jihoon, I'm not letting you or your driver take the road at this hour or in this weather," you insist. "Just stay the night. It'll be fine."

The idea of another guy staying in your apartment and the implications that it could have didn't cross your mind at all. You were worried for your friend - that was it.

He looks at you for a moment, his gaze lingering at your rather determined gaze. Then, Jihoon lets out a huff of air, "Fine. I don't think you would've let me out anywyas."

"Don't say that. It sounds like I kidnapped you in that tone."

"You kind of are."

"Am not!" You let out a breath of air, putting your hands on your side, "Let me set up the spare bedroom and check if I actually have any clothes. Just... make yourself comfortable around my place. Explore, or something like that... Oh, I don't know!" you throw your hands into the air. "I don't have people over often!"

Jihoon laughs again, watching your frustrated actions with a layer of fondness. "For someone who was so comfortable making me that offer, you really aren't prepared, huh?"

"Hey, at least we got some work done. I call that a win," you leave the studio first.

Jihoon couldn't wipe the stupid smile off his face, even after he presses his hands against his cheeks. Seriously, what is coming over him? He shouldn't be staying the night. There's probably five million and one things wrong with that... but why is he finding himself in this situation? How is he just... letting you drag him into these cases? Not that he's complaining at all...

He leaves the studio, closing the lights behind him. Your place was spacious to no end, with high ceilings and long hallways. Despite all the complaints earlier about how messy it was... Jihoon felt at ease, knowing that it was still a home.

"Okay, bedroom's ready," you come out of one of the rooms, moving the hair from your face. "The clothes are on the bed. My brother hasn't been here for a while, so they haven't been worn in, like, months, so hopefully, that's fine. There's a bathroom in there, too, so just make yourself comfortable."

He couldn't help but let his gaze linger on you some more. You didn't change out of the dress that you had on during the dinner, a result of both of you immediately jumping straight into work rather than getting comfortable. He was the same - except, he didn't really have the option of changing in the first place. Though, despite that, you still looked... kind of divine. You were tired from staring at a screen for four hours straight, from working for four hours without rest. The hair you had done hours earlier had long since fallen apart, along with your makeup. Despite that, Jihoon feels his heart squeeze - even if it was just a bit.

"Jihoon?"

"Isn't it uncomfortable?" he asks, blurting out the questions he had in his head without thinking... again. "Oh, fuck- I mean, your dress. I've heard a lot of colleagues complain about being in a dress for a long time and it getting uncomfortable and-"

"It's fine, Jihoon," you wave him off, pressing your hands against the fabric of your outfit. "I'll get out of it in a few minutes. But what do you think, though? Isn't it nice? The last time I wore this was for Golden Disc last year."

"You should wear it more often," he comments, putting his somewhat sweating hands in the pockets of his pants. "You look... really good."

"You said that the first time you saw me tonight," you laugh, moving your hand up instinctively again.

"Your hand. You're doing it again," Jihoon frowns.

"Ugh, it's a bad habit now!" you quickly lower it.

"I'll keep on reminding you until you stop," a small smirk plays on his face. "You should start winding down. It's late. What time do you need to start tomorrow?"

"Around..." you close your eyes, trying to recall what was on your scehedule. "Fuck, I think I have an early recording with some of my artists tomorrow... Maybe 9am?"

"Ah, so the same as me," he nods. "I need to record, too."

"Oh? So we'll just head out together, huh?"

"By the sounds of it," he agrees. "Now, go start your nightly routine. I'll take a shower."

"Got it," you smile, moving out of the way so Jihoon can enter the spare bedroom.

Jihoon enters the bedroom, where the clothes that you had laid out was put on the bed, along with a spare towel, slippers on the ground, and even some makeup remover. He smiles fondly at the items, taking a better look at his clothes you had laid out.

A regular t-shirt, some sweatpants... and a sweater that seemed awfully familiar.

He takes a closer look, realizing that it was his sweater. How did you get...?

He never got his sweater back after giving it to you the first time you had met. It lays there on the bed, freshly washed, folded, and presented. How long has it been now? A few weeks?

Jihoon heads off to the shower with the clothes you provided and his sweater, unable to get the idea of you out of his mind - for some strange, unknown, reason.

He takes his shower with those thoughts practically plaguing his mind. The way you would work, how hard you would dedicate yourself to music... but also how beautiful your laugh is, how bright your smile could be...

Then, the idea of you covering your mouth, or falling quiet, out of either shame or embarrassment crosses his mind - which only gets him upset. How could anyone tell you otherwise?

"Fuck, Jihoon," he curses at himself, letting the water fall onto his back. He takes a deep breath in, pressing a hand against his chest. "Get it together."

He wraps up his shower, putting on the clothes. They were all comfortable, which he really appreciates. Jihoon steps out of the bedroom, where he spots you in the kitchen, changed out of your dress, wearing an oversized shirt and some shorts. Your hair was also damp, which didn't make his thoughts go any cleaner.

"Getting ready to sleep?" you wonder, looking up from your phone. "Do you need anything? Water?"

"No, it's okay," he insists, rubbing his wet hair through the towel. "Your shower pressure is really nice."

You laugh, shaking your head, "Seriously? That's what you have to say?"

"Bathroom is nice, too."

"Thanks, Jihoon," you smile, shaking your head. "Man, I need to rest my eyes." You put your phone down, swinging your legs from your high rise chairs.

"That's why I tend to work out whenever I can," Jihoon comments, sitting across from you. "Won't you get cold?"

You shake your head, "I have my apartment's temperature set at a high. I hate sleeping with sweats or long sleeves."

Jihoon nods, taking a look at the time. "Oh fuck, it's already 3am?"

"Yeah," you laugh. "I need to sleep soon, or else I'll be late tomorrow... and I really don't want to hold you up if I'm late."

"It's okay. At most, you're only going to hold up some of my members."

"Okay, that's not any better!"

"Better than unknown, overseas, producers."

You scoff, resting your chin against your palm, "If you say so..." You let out a yawn, stretching your arms. "Okay, I seriously got to sleep. There's bottle water in the fridge, and other snacks. If you want to cook something, you can. It doesn't matter..." another yawn. "Goodnight, Jihoon."

"Night, y/n," he says, his voice tender and... soft. It all felt so... real. Domestic, in a way.

The next day, the two of you somehow found a schedule that you didn't know you have. Jihoon was up first, making breakfast at almost the crack of dawn. You woke up at 8:10, only 50 minutes before you two were supposed to be at the company - but he didn't mind.

"Think of this as repayment for letting me stay the night," Jihoon comments, serving up the food for you. "When was the last time you had a proper breakfast?"

"I mean..." you stare at the pancakes, practically drooling at the sight and smell. "I don't wake up early enough for it, so I end up grabbing buns at the bakery beside the company..."

"This will save money, at least," Jihoon sits in front of you. "Do you take a long time to get ready?"

"Nah," you shake your head., taking a bite from the food he made. "Oh my god, it's so good. I didn't know you could cook like this!"

Jihoon chuckles, watching you with awe. "Don't mention it. My mom would've scolded the hell out of me if I didn't know how to cook for myself and other's."

"Who's the best cook on your team?" you curiously ask.

"Mingyu, probably, or even Joshua," he answers. "The two of them cooks for fun all the time, and they would always bring stuff for us."

"Worse cooks, then?"

"Seungkwan. Vernon. Seungcheol isn't that bad, but he struggles a whole bunch."

You take a look at the time, almost letting out a shriek when you realize just how late it had gotten. "Oh, fuck! We gotta get going. We're going to be late at this rate."

Jihoon turns his head to the clock, a rise of panic bubbling over, "Ah, shit..."

The two of you quickly clean up the breakfast, putting the items in the sink with you insisting that you'll be doing them when you get home later in the day. Without arguing much, Jihoon heads over to the bedroom and begins to change first.

Fuck. His phone was still outside.

Not bothering to throw his shirt or sweater back on, he quickly leaves the room and heads back to the kitchen. Unfortunately for him, it was at the same time where you were just leaving the cooking space to get ready... which ultimately led to both of you crashing right into each other.

"Oh, shit," Jihoon grabs your waist, making sure you didn't fall behind. "Are you okay?"

Your face is bright red, your hand sprawled against his chest out of reflex. "Sorry..." you mumble, eyes darting between looking at him, to looking at his body, then looking away entirely. "Are you..."

"Left my phone," he sighs, stepping away from you. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay!" you wave your hand, finally looking away from him. God, you feel your face as red as a tomato now. "Let's get going in the next five minutes. Traffic is hell."

"Already called Hajoon. He's on his way."

"Didn't question why he's coming to pick you up at my apartment?"

"Nah. Not at all."

Somehow, you two get to the office on time. Jihoon's chauffeur may have almost crashed a few times on some sharp turns and had maybe almost ran the red lights, but hey, at least the two of you weren't late (and still alive). You both head up at the same time, falling into small talk again. Then, the doors to the correct floor opens up.

"Alright, I'll see you later, Jihoon," you stop in front of your studio, taking out your keys.

"Yeah," Jihoon smiles. "Let me take you out another time. It was fun."

"Yeah, maybe not during the middle of a snow storm," you laugh. "Still... I would do it again."

Jihoon hides the way his smile became even wider at your response, nodding his head instead. "I'll hold you to that." He makes his way back to his studio, while you enter your own.

"Hey!" you greet, hanging your jacket up on the nearby hook.

The only two that was currently present in the studio was Namjoon and Yoongi, who both stopped what they were doing to look at you.

"Wow, you're glowing," Namjoon comments, pressing pause on the recording.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you pull out your regular chair beside him, a confused look on your face.

"Check this out," Yoongi turns on his phone, does a quick search, then shows the article to you.

SEVENTEEN WOOZI spotted on a date in Songpa-gu with fellow HYBE producer, L/N Y/N. Dating, or working on something new?

You choke on air, quickly turning around to hit your chest. Then, you register what you had read, snatching Yoongi's phone. You scan the article. There was a clear, obvious, photo of you and Jihoon at the restaurant, both wearing fancy attire that shows it was way more than just a business meeting.

"So..." Yoongi whistles. "Explanation or...?"

"I owed him dinner. We went out for dinner. That was it," you clarify, giving him his phone back. "Fuck, I didn't know people saw us..."

"Woozi is the one that looks like Yoongi, right?" Namjoon recalls, where a teasing sparkle appears in his eyes. "y/n-ah, I think you have a type."

"What type?!" you shriek.

"Out of all of us, your favourite is literally Yoongi!" he argues.

"Whatever," you grumble, taking out your USB from your bag. "Here's a new version of the file I sent you the other week. I had Jihoon check on it yesterday after our date- dinner, and he gave some amazing feedback with a few tweaks. I'll send you the new scoresheet in a bit, but I think this might be the finalized one."

"Jihoon?"

"Woozi."

The two older men exchanges looks, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. While you set everything up, the two immediately runs up to the other's side.

"Okay. There's something up here," Namjoon whispers. "Wasn't Woozi the one that she was stuck in an elevator with?"

"Yeah," Yoongi nods. "It was definitely a date."

"Clearly! And it was in Songpa-gu, so it was definitely expensive."

"I mean, both of them have money."

You snap your fingers at them, "Are you two going to continue whispering, or are you going to record?"

On the other hand, Jihoon was dealing with the exact same response after the article was put out for publishing. He was unlocking the doors to the Universe Factory when he hears voices from the other side...

"Okay, what the hell?" Jihoon waits at the door, dropping his bag at the entrance while he meets the eyes of the other guys in the 96z line of Seventeen.

"So~" Jun leans back against Jihoon's chair with a sparkly look in his eyes. "Jihoon-ah~ Is there something you would like to tell us?"

"Not really?"

Soonyoung practically jumps right out of the couch, "Yeah, right! Your date with y/n-ssi was caught and it's going around everywhere!"

"It wasn't a date," he clarifies. "It was a business meeting at most."

"Yeah, and you wore a nice dress shirt, your nice watch, your hair is styled, and she's wearing a nice dress, heels, makeup and hair done. I don't think it was a regular business meeting," Wonwoo looks up from his Nintendo. "What did you two even talk about?"

"Business and music," he says, moving over to his corner. "She owed me dinner because I drove her back last week, so I only took up her offer. That's it."

"Uh-huh..." Soonyoung didn't believe it for two seconds. "Well, the company's going to want to talk to you two about it. This isn't anything small, especially since you were caught going outside."

"Me going outside isn't that big of a deal," Jihoon insists. "I'm still human."

"Barely."

"I'm barely human?"

"Yeah, kind of."

Then came a knock on the door.

The group quickly falls silent, watching Jihoon like a hawk hunting for pray as he moves to the studio doors. Jihoon opens it up, where you were standing.

"Hey," you smile. "Sorry, are you busy right now?"

"Not really," he shakes his head.

"We're supposed to be-" Soonyoung got his mouth shut up by Wonwoo and Jun.

"Well, if you're not too busy with work later, can you stop by my studio before you leave? I want you to take a look at the score sheet we were working on last night."

"Huh? Is something wrong?"

"Nope!" you shake your head. "I want your input on some things before I alter anything. After all, you wrote, like, the main body and everything."

"Yeah, sure," Jihoon smiles, watching as your face morph to relief. "You don't have to be so on edge to ask for feedback, you know."

"I know!" you throw your hands into the air. "I'm still not used to it. I'll see you later, okay?"

"See you," Jihoon nods, watching as you turn away and leave for your studio again. He closes the door, turning around to only meet the wide and curious eyes of his friends. "What?"

"Why is that always your tone when we talk to you?" Soonyoung asks, a teasing look on his face. "So...?"

"So what?"

Wonwoo lets out a sound of disbelief while Jun was laughing proudly. Soonyoung didn't even bother to say anything, letting Jihoon return back to his personal studio space.

And those days of going back and forth, going between the studios, and sometimes even out of it, becomes the norm. A desire for feedback here, a creative block there... The two of you eventually found each other to lean on during your creative blocks - when the music isn't floating properly into the sheets.

Eventually, even the others around you both started to pick up on the strange signs and... somewhat strange relationship the two of you had. I mean, not as if the two of you were good at hiding it to begin with.

If you weren't in your studio, you were at the Universe Factory. If Jihoon wasn't at practice or in his studio, he would be in your's. For the upcoming weeks, that was the schedule the two of you fell into... and everyone kind of noticed.

"Oh? Woozi-nim?" Namjoon comes into the studio with a surprise look on his face. "Hi. I... think this is the first time we've officially met?"

Jihoon stands up from his chair beside your table, bowing as he greets his senior, "Hello."

"Hi," Namjoon smiles. "y/n, what are you doing?"

"We're working on a new project," you tell him, not even looking away from the monitor. "What do you need?"

"Nothing - just checking up on you..." Namjoon trails off, watching as Jihoon sits back down.

"You should add an acoustic guitar here," Jihoon points at the screen. "Then, back it up with some vocals, maybe in a higher key than the main. This is also a good part to add some ad-libs."

You move around, clicking at the computer to put in what Jihoon had said. After listening to it, you smile and the two of you high-five.

Namjoon watches fondly, then, as silently as he could, he closes the door.

On another day, around the time after New Year's, the two of you were working late into the afternoon as always. This time, it was in Jihoon's studio - aiding him with the next songs on his album for his group.

The comeback was set for April 24th, only three months away. Jihoon's deadline was in a few more weeks, to which he still has to finalize on choosing a title track and polishing the rest of the songs.

After three straight hours of work, the two of you finally take a break.

"The company's powering off after six today," Jihoon complains, pushing back against his chair. "We can't stay back to work."

"Aw," you sigh, crossing your arms. "And I'm getting a new setup at my place. Guess we'll have to cut it early."

"I mean..." Jihoon trails off. "My place isn't too far away. We can always continue our work there."

"Really?" you smile. "You're finally letting me come over?"

"I never stopped you," he retaliates, saving the files to his USB. "Well?"

"Let me grab my stuff, and we can head over there now," you quickly get up, rushing over to pick up your things from the sofa.

Before you knew it, you were standing in Jihoon's hallway to his apartment in Seoul. It was on the highest possible floor of the complex, where you refused to let him live down.

"I still think you have the better place," Jihoon grumbles, allowing you to tease and taunt him throughout the entire ride up.

"Yeah, right!" you were snickering in delight. "Look at this place! There's marble and everything!"

"Okay, okay!" Jihoon scoffs, finally opening the door to his place.

"Holy shit, Jihoon..." your mouth falls open at the sight of his apartment.

It was big. There was already multiple levels, by itself, plus all his awards and accomplishments, along with a shelf full of albums displayed. His lifework.

It was clean to the max, with everything in its rightful place, and large, big floor to ceiling windows, along with a patio.

"Wow, Jihoon, your place is so much more... Wow," you can't help but comment.

Jihoon scoffs, taking off his shoes. He slips into his slippers, heading over to his closet to grab another pair. He puts it down in front of you while you take off your heels. "It's nothing."

"Holy shit, this view is beautiful," you gasp, taking quick and light steps across the living room to look out of the full length window. "Damn..."

"I wasn't lying when I said I was surprised you didn't have a ceiling to floor window," he leans against the nearby wall, watching you be in awe at the city of Seoul below them. He had taken off his sweater, showing off his... incredibly toned arms that had veins popping out.

You stare at him momentarily, then quickly turn away with a clear of your throat, "Where's your studio?"

"Down the hall," Jihoon walks you over to the room down the hall. He unlocks it with a pin, then pushes the doors open. "It's messy, but hey, at least I know where everything is."

"How many instruments do you play, oh my god?" You laugh, taking note of the 4 different guitars, 2 sets of drums, 2 clarinets, a flute, a keyboard in the corner by his monitor, and even a violin.

"Around seven, I believe," he answers, swiftly throwing some of his clothes onto the sofa or a chair... or, well, anywhere that wasn't the floor. "Okay, maybe it's a lot messier than I thought it was."

"You've seen my place. It's fine," you scoff, pulling out the chair to his producing setup. "What have you been working on lately?"

"Writing a b-side for the album,"Jihoon sighs at just the thought of it. "I'm waiting for Bumzu-hyung to return from the States so we can continue working, but for now..." he comes close to you and his setup, turning on his monitor and PC. After a moment, he starts opening up the correct apps and tabs, where he pulls up the latest track - 'I Don't Understand but I Luv U.'

"Aw, cute title," you giggle.

"Hoshi saw a comment on one of our lives and he insisted that we put it in," Jihoon explains, taking his headphones off from its rack and handing it to you. "Take a listen."

You put on the headset while Jihoon presses play on the recording. You listen closely, closing your eyes the moment the music starts. It was a beautiful song with an even more beautiful meaning. You close your eyes, taking in everything - from the instrumentals, to the voice guide that was clearly Jihoon's and maybe some background vocals of his teammates, and the overall quality of the production... and as always, you were completely taken away by Jihoon's art.

"It's beautiful," you take the headphones off. "I don't understand how you do it, Jihoon. Every time I watch you, you always have something different in the making... You're insane."

"I could say the same thing about you," he scoffs, pulling up a chair beside you.

You roll your eyes, moving the mouse to pull up the lyrics. Jihoon always had his lyrics saved in the same spot - which is something you've learned during your late or early sessions of music production. "Let's see... There was a part in the song that I found a little bit awkward... Oh! Over here." You point at the section right before the second verse. "Let me try something..."

You quickly begin, writing down words that had crossed your mind during your first listen through. You went back, singing the melody silently under your breath as you go back to edit areas that seemed off in pace. After fifteen minutes, you look up from the screen.

“Where’s your mic?”

“Let me get it,” Jihoon rolls his chair to the other side, pulling open a drawer. Two seconds later, a mic was set up. “Here.”

“Thanks,” you fix the settings and gains on the mixing board - then pressing record on the main tab.

You start singing into the mic, recording whatever new lyric you had wrote using the method and melody in your head. After a few more attempts, you finish recording and put the mic down.

“Take a look,” you smile, watching as Jihoon read over the lyrics.

He listens to the track again, where his voice in the original guide was suddenly blended into your new one - and like always, whenever the two of you would end up recording, he becomes completely mesmerized by your voice. The raw emotions, the gasp of air that you have in your tone…

“You’re just as crazy as me,” he concludes, taking his headset off. “I keep telling you this.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your arms out, “Whatever you say, Jihoon~”

The two of you go back and forth between the music, losing yourselves in the world of production once more. It was normal now. Far from the normal you knew before of mutual ‘hi’s’ and ‘hello’s’ in the elevator.

Then, about two hours into the production session, you hear something crash from the other side of the door, turning your head quickly. Jihoon lets out an annoyed sigh, standing up. He opens the door, where two cats come rushing into the studio space.

"Oh my god!" you exclaim, standing up to greet the cats.

"Meet Rang-i and Ddung-i. Bundles of chaotic energy and... well..."

Before he could finish, the two cats were immediately up against your legs, purring softly and rubbing their scent all over you. You coo and silently squeal, petting them behind their ears.

"They're so cute," you giggle, letting them go up all against your hand and leg. "Way cuter than the photos you showed me."

Jihoon stares at his cats with a raised eyebrow, "Okay. Usually, they would be hiding when I have someone over. So this is just weird."

"That means they love me!" you laugh, picking one up and putting him into your embrace. "Aw, so cute~"

“Let’s take a break,” Jihoon suggests. “I need to feed them anyways.”

“Aw, they’re so freakin cute…!” you coo, using a hand to pet the cat that wasn’t in your hands.

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest. The two of you leave the studio with the cats tailing behind, meowing and purring with excitement- as if they knew exactly what time it was.

You watch in fondness as Jihoon opens a can of wet food for the pets, dividing the food into two bowls while mixing in some warm water. Then, he puts the bowls down near their regular feeder, where the cats immediately starts devouring the food.

“Always acting like I don’t feed them,” Jihoon shakes his head, making his way around the kitchen. “It’s going to get busy starting today, you know.” He takes out two glasses from the cabinet. “Do you want a drink or…?”

"I thought you didn't drink?" you take a seat.

"I am still friends with 12 other drunkards. I always have a drink or two somewhere here," Jihoon says, heading over to his small little wine cabinet. "Well?"

"You have sparkling?"

"Yup," Jihoon takes it out from the cabinet. "Anyways, we're preparing for an April comeback now that BooSeokSoon is done. I can't stop by your studio often now to give you feedback."

"Jihoon, it's fine," you promise him, watching as he opens the wine bottle with ease, then begins the pouring of the drink. "We'll continue helping each other, even if it's not for music production. You're my friend now."

“A friend who you could apparently criticize to no end, huh?”

“I don’t criticize you!” you complain with a loud laugh, where Jihoon watches you with one of the softest looks to ever come into existence.

Perhaps it was around then when he finally processed that he would do anything to see you smile and laugh like that again, especially if it was him who caused it.

After that day, it was as he had said. Jihoon became busier with comeback getting closer. He would be at dance practice, filming for shows, recording for songs… Though, despite those busy schedules, you still always found a way to see him throughout the day.

"Jihoon-ah!" Mingyu calls. "Your girlfriend's here!"

"She's not my girlfriend," Jihoon glares at him, though it was obvious that his face had turned slightly red. He moves the hair from his face as he excuses himself from the group practice, joining you by the entrance to the dance room. "Hey."

"Good job out there," you couldn't help but admire Jihoon's figure for a second - taking in the way his shirt compressed against his well-defined body, the way his hair was slightly sticking to his face, and his- You cough, holding out a bottle of water, "Here."

"Thanks," Jihoon smiles, taking the water. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to check on you," you shrug. "You were basically dead last night during production."

Jihoon shakes his head, "It's okay. You don't have to worry about me like that."

"Are you sure?" you tilt your head. "Don't pull that on me. I know how gruesome idol schedules are, and on top of that, you're still writing songs for the team."

"And that's how I stay calm and composed," he insists, which makes you laugh.

"Man, seriously... You cannot be real, Jihoon."

"And yet I stand right in front of you."

You scoff, raising your hand out of habit, but Jihoon quickly catches it.

"No more hiding," he adds. "You have a pretty smile, I told you already, right?"

"Okay... What the fuck was that." Practically everyone in the studio wonders, looking at him with wide eyes and mouths open.

With only a few weeks days to comeback, you stop by his place with the plan to celebrate. It wasn't completely unannounced - you told him you were on your way over an hour ago, but for some reason, Jihoon felt an overbearing cloud hovering over his head.

Comeback, dance practice, promotions, more promotions, filming, more filming, working on the next comeback even when the current one hasn't even started... It was getting to his head.

You buzzing in interrupts him from his small spiral of overthinking.

Six minutes later, you were at his door, a bright smile on your face that you are starting to become more and more confident in with the more you surround yourself around Jihoon.

"Hey!" you enter the apartment as if you own the place. "Sorry I'm late. God, traffic was terrible."

"It's okay. I wasn't doing much anyways," Jihoon takes the stuff from out of your hands, letting you take off your shoes and slip into the same slippers you've had since the first time you entered his place.

You swiftly take back the bag, entering further into the apartment. You put the bags on the nearby table, taking something out before turning towards him.

"Congrats on the comeback!" you cheer, popping open a party popper that sent confetti flying around. "You deserve it."

"Thank you for helping me," Jihoon laughs, letting you excitedly hug him. "Definitely less stress-inducing than the last few ones."

"Of course!" you giggle, swiftly moving around the apartment. "We need to toast. Maybe not to wine, because I can't have you being puffy, but maybe some cola?"

"You seriously act as if you own this place now," Jihoon follows you in amusement.

You go into the kitchen, rummaging through his fridge (truly as if you lived there). Two seconds later, you take out two bottles of cola, while Jihoon brings out the glasses. You open them, pouring in the drink for the two of you.

"Had anything to eat yet?" Jihoon questions.

"Company dinner right before this - hence the outfit,” you shrug, taking the drink while you nod at your clothes. "Nothing too important. I think I talked a bit too much about my excitement for your next album."

Jihoon raises his eyebrows, "Seriously?"

"Duh! I watched it all come together, and I'm even credited in one of the songs! Of course I'll be excited about it," you laugh, raising the glass of cola. "To a successful album."

"To a successful career for the both of us," he nods, the two of you clinking glasses.

You two take a sip of the glass at the same time, neither looking away. For some reason, the air was different. Neither of you were in the mood to actually work or stare at a screen… but it didn’t seem you were in the mood to leave just like that yet.

You lower your glass first, “When your album gets released, am I going to see you around the company?”

He shakes his head, “Not as much as before. We start promotions immediately, and like a thousand other schedules.”

You nod, a sigh leaving you, “That means this may be the last time we hang out like this.”

“Don’t worry - it’ll end in a few weeks,” he promises. “I’ll still see you around.”

“I know,” you lean back against your chair. “It’s just different since we won’t be working on music.”

“Who said we only need to work on music when we hang out?”

“I mean, that’s what we’ve been doing for the past few months… Haven’t really done anything else.”

Jihoon goes silent for a bit, letting your word sink in. You’re right - all the two of you have ever done together was work; music production here, lyric writing there… But it was a good schedule for the two of you. It was comforting. It was normal. But for some reason, to Jihoon… there’s more to it than that.

“Oh! I need you to look over something for me,” you quickly snap out of the silence, reaching into your bag to pull out your USB. “Come on.”

With Jihoon following you to his own studio, you put in the right passcode and enter the work space. Without even waiting for him, you turn on the monitor, put in your USB, and start pulling up the proper files.

“Okay, here,” you show it to him. “I was trying to work on my vocal guide, but something is off and I really can’t figure it out. I’ve asked some other producers and writers at the company, but they can’t figure it out, either. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Jihoon pulls up the spare chair that now resides in his studio, taking a better look at the sheet music. “Here. Get rid of this repeat, and maybe add some other lyrics that’s not just the same one. Change the key for the song by itself and maybe add another voice.”

He didn’t even have to listen to the song anymore. You smile, doing exactly what he had suggested. After writing a new verse (you had one prepared, actually - mostly from a previous draft), you set up the new microphone.

“Jihoon, you try,” you hand him the mic. “I think it’ll sound nicer if there’s harmonies.”

“Sure,” he takes the microphone without hesitation.

You press begin on the recording, where he listens to the track at first. Upon the second playing, he starts to sing at the proper part. When though you were supposed to be watching the screen to check the levels… You were distracted by Jihoon’s voice.

Perhaps it was due to the 11:00 PM air - or the fact that two of you have been working non stop on your projects that it’s been so hectic to see each other, but Jihoon's voice leaves you feeling...

Two hours of nonstop work for the two of you, focused on the work ahead instead of the growing feelings deep inside the two of you without the either knowing.

“I need to get going,” you look at the time with a frown. “I probably shouldn’t stay for the night again.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he wonders casually, fixing up the file with his eyes glued to the screen. "Not like you haven't spent the night here before."

"I know, but it's just..." your voice gets caught in your own throat. “Nevermind. I’ll see you around, Jihoon,” you awkwardly smile, standing up from the chair.

“Ah…” Jihoon watches as you prepare to leave.

if you walk through that studio door - you won’t come back. Not until after promotions. He knows that. You know that. Everyone in the building probably knew that. So far, you've been in Jihoon's life during the parts where there's significantly less mess - less schedules and less moving around. But once those schedules pick up? Once those recordings last for hours upon no end, where everything relied on them practicing till they drop?

Something gets over him. The same something that decided for him to look through your studio door that first night being stuck in the elevator - the same some thing that got over him when he went to check up on you at 12am out of fear you were working. It was the same thing that came over him when he offered to drive you home, and the same thing when he took up your offer for dinner, skipping an entire recording studio for the first time since becoming even a trainee. And that something was...

A desire for you. For your safety - for your love. Something that went completely above and beyond his own musical pride.

“Hanging around with you, getting to know you, being around you… I don’t want it to end.”

You stop - hand on the door knob as the words echo in your head.

“I… Fuck, I don’t know how to say this,” he runs his hand through his hair, almost pulling strands out. “You drive me insane. From that day in the elevator to now… I haven’t stopped worrying about you, thinking about you… I want you to gain more confidence in your smile and laugh, because fuck, it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard and seen in this world, and shit, y/n… You're insane in such a good way that I can't even describe. You have no idea how much-"

Before he could continue his ramble, you kiss him. Right on the lips. He’s taken aback at first - leaving his arms awkwardly at your side before ultimately, completely, melting right into you. His hands find his way to your waist, pulling you in closer as he feels his muscles all relax.

You break first, smiling at him with the same sparkle that he has become completely whipped for. “Jihoon. You can use your words better than that.”

He chuckles, capturing your lips again.

SMUT BEGINS

"Fuck, Jihoon," you murmur, heavy breaths coming in and out of you as you feel your pulse quickening.

"I got you," he mumbles, pressing his hand against the small of your back. "Shit..."

You crash your lips against his, sucking all the air out from him as you run your hand through his long, dark hair. His tongue slips into your's, where you immediately got the idea of where his mind was going to. A faint moan leaves his mouth, his hand sneaking silently underneath your shirt while you lose yourself entirely. Both of you.

"You're going to drive me insane," Jihoon says in between kisses, slowly guiding you to the end of the couch in the studio.

"More than before?" you jokingly ask, pulling him down with you as you lay your back against the piece of furniture. "Just shut up and kiss me."

He doesn't respond, connecting your lips for the third time that night. He takes your hand away from his hair, gently pinning your arms above your head while he slowly lowers himself, going down your neck to leave trails of kisses. He unbuttons your dress shirt, leaving kisses all over your body from your chest to your ribs to the bottom of your stomach.

Jihoon presses closer towards you, where the bulge inside his jeans became undeniable anymore. A small moan escapes you as you roll your hips, managing to steal a softer, quieter sound out of Jihoon.

"Shit, do that again," he pleads, leaning close to your ear as he says it.

You compile with no hesitation, grinding against him through your clothed pussy. This time, Jihoon doesn't stay silent. A loud groan escapes his lips.

"Never knew you could make a sound like that," you manage to tease, your chest rising up and down.

"Still not as beautiful as your voice," he insists, helping you remove your dress shirt entirely. "God, nor as beautiful as you are right now."

You shook off your shirt completely, leaving you in your bra, but bottom half still entirely clothed. You move your hand down underneath his shirt behind his back, scratching into his skin using your nails that draws out a low moan from Jihoon.

Jihoon reattaches his mouth against your body, moving one side of your bra over with his hand. When your left breast was freed, he goes to reach for it... but hesitates.

"May I?" he cautiously asks.

"Jihoon... You can do whatever the hell you want," you promise him.

"Just to be sure," he murmurs - and this time, he presses his mouth against your left breast, planting soft kisses all around before finally, mouths at your nipple with a low hum.

Your back arches at the contact, pressing yourself closer towards him. After Jihoon manages to unclasp your bra, his other hand finds itself to your other breast, massaging it while he unintentionally moves against your clothed core.

"Fuck, Jihoon," you groan, gasping as the friction becomes far too unbearable from below. "Fuck, fuck."

"I know, I know," he grumbles, pressing a kiss on your lips again. He caresses your face, watching as your eyelashes flutter at every touch. "I know, love."

Jihoon's hands begins to wander again. He traces your figure with gentle strokes with you shivering underneath his touch. A smile forms on his face at your reactions, enjoying himself a bit too much. God, he's never felt this overwhelmed but full at the same time.

"Stay still for me," he whispers, his hand finally reaching the bottom half of your body. He presses his index finger against your core through your pants, causing you to stir around. "Love, don't move."

You weakly nod, letting Jihoon take off your pants. Before you knew it, you were left in your underwear. Shameless, you grasp at his shirt, bundling the bottom half with a hungry look in your eyes.

"Take it off," you order, making Jihoon let out a low, deep chuckle. God, your voice was like honey. It was going to drive him insane.

He does what you say, swiftly taking off his black shirt to reveal his body that you had previously caught a glimpse of. Your breath hitches, staring at him for a second longer than intended.

Jihoon notices, leaning close to you. He presses a kiss on your temple, whispering into your ear, "Should we get started?"

"Fuck yes," you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jihoon nods, hovering his hand over your pussy. Without thinking, you move your legs apart in order to grant easier access. Jihoon intertwines his free hand with your's, crashing into your lips again. You return the kiss, but broke away when you felt the slight graze of Jihoon's finger against your wet, clothed, clit.

"Fuck," you gasp out.

Jihoon circles his finger around your core, painfully slow movements that is about to drive you over the edge.

"Jihoon," you call his name out again, grinding your hips against his finger that refuses to go further. "If you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to fucking kill you."

He folds. Jihoon pushes your panties to the side, brushing his knuckles against your wet entrance while he kisses your breast. You let out another breath, grasping for a fist full of his hair. He continues to circle at your pussy with his fingers, pinching at it that makes you jolt.

Before you could scold him even more, he puts one finger inside of you. The sounds that leaves your mouth drives him even more crazy, putting his second finger inside your pussy. He starts to move, pumping them in and out slow at first.

"Fuck," he hisses, feeling you clench around his finger. "You're so... Fuck, baby, you're going to make me cum before I even do anything..."

He starts to pick up the pace, pumping both fingers in and out, faster and faster. As he moves his hand, he finds the right spot, making you arch your back even more as hands find its way to his back, leaving dark red scratch marks all over.

"Shit, that's right. Just like that."

He continues to abuse your hole, until finally, he moves his thumb to pinch at your clit, and you come undone, right on his fingers with a loud moan escaping your lips.

"Breathe, baby," he brushes the hair from your face, slowly taking his fingers out that was leaking with your release. He meets your eyes, and with a watchful look, he puts his finger inside his mouth, getting himself a taste of you.

Fuck.

You were so gone.

"Are you still green?" he asks, wiping the excess release off of his face.

"Green," you respond, feeling yourself getting wet again at just the sight of him.

He smiles, climbing off of you. Jihoon scoops you from underneath, carrying you out of his studio. You let out a shriek in surprise, grabbing at his neck while he walks down the hallways of his apartment. He kicks open a door, entering his bedroom with the lights off. He uses the back of his foot to close the door again, you still in his arms.

He lays you down on the edge of the bed, watching as your bare chest rise up and down while holding back a laugh. He kneels right in front of you on the ground, spreading open your thighs as he meets your wet pussy all over again.

"Shit... you're perfect," the grip on your thighs tighten, using every last bit of his power to hold back from absolutely devouring you right then and there.

You sit up, reaching for his chin that forces him to look up at you and your glossy eyes. You lean over, kissing him briefly. When your lips part, his gaze drifts back down at your spread apart legs.

Jihoon moves your legs, helping you out of your panties. He shifts your legs over his shoulder, and with a slight nod of approval from you, he presses his mouth against your entrance, using his tongue to explore around your folds.

You pull at his hair, letting soft pants leave your mouth, throwing your head back as Jihoon works his way around your core.

"Fuck, you sound so good," he grumbles, his voice vibrating all throughout your body. You don't respond. You can't respond, completely lost in the pleasure that he was giving you.

As he works his tongue, he subconsciously starts grinding his harden cock against the mattress, unable to keep it together any longer. Months of mutual pinning led up to this - the dreams he would have of you in this very position, the idea of your voice making those sounds...

Fuck, it was all too much for him.

He presses his tongue deep into you, making your hips and legs twitch at the touch.

"Jihoon, Jihoon," you groan, feeling your legs buckling. "I'm going to... Holy shit..."

"It's okay, baby," he looks up at you, his face covered with your liquid. "Do it again."

Without warning, he dives inside you again, but this time, using his hand to add pressure to your clit. That was the final stretch, coming against his face with a loud, ethereal, moan.

"How are you feeling?" he cautiously asks while he eats you out.

"I need you to fuck me so bad, Jihoon," you squeeze your legs around his head, which only drove him even crazier.

God, the tightness of his pants was getting painful at this point, but he couldn't help but eat you clean after all that.

You reach for his hand, pulling him up towards the bed. Jihoon climbs in with you, watching as your hands work along his belt and pants, practically dragging your fingers to get him out of the final pieces of clothing that separates the two of you. He watches you in awe - how delicate and divine your fingers look, how your face was looking at him with a fiery determination that he never knew someone could have for him.

When you finally got his belt off, his pants were next. You pull down at the hem of his jeans, leaving Jihoon in his boxers that was leaking in pre-cum. Jihoon shakes off his pants, throwing them across the dark room. He connects your lips again, tongue and teeth against your own.

He moves his hips, grinding against your already-wet pussy and his hard dick.

"Jihoon," you break away, moving your hand to the band of his boxers. "Please."

He loses it.

He completely loses it.

Jihoon takes off his boxers, letting his length fall free. He kisses your lips once more, guiding you gently down against his bed while he grabs his pillow. He forces your hips to raise, putting the cushion against your ass while your kisses continues to get messier and messier. A moan escapes your mouths - Jihoon shifting his weight in preparation of putting himself inside you.

Jihoon reaches for his bedside table, fumbling around to find a condom at the bottom of his drawer. He never breaks away from you, keeping you warm with his own body heat, and absolutely edged with the way his cock keeps accidentally touching your entrance.

He successfully finds the condom, ripping it free from its packaging and slipping it on himself. When he makes sure that everything is right, he looks back at you - lips swollen, eyes glossy, and hair messy to the tee.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says, which makes you nod.

God, the way he's always asking for permission is getting you more and more worked up.

Slowly, Jihoon puts himself inside of you, slipping into your wet pussy with care. Fuck, he almost loses his composure as your walls squeeze around him, making him let out another sound he never thought he would make.

At first, it was too much. You let out a gasp, grabbing at his back that makes Jihoon stop. You take a moment, breathing in heavily with the help of Jihoon. When you got used to it, you nod.

"Continue," you whisper.

"Breathe with me, my love," he murmurs, pressing gentle kisses along your neck. "Breathe."

He continues to put himself in until there was no more left. He was entirely inside of you, gasping and holding himself back. He stays there without moving, letting you adjust for a moment. There was no sound other than both of your heavy breathing, but it was enough.

"You can move."

And with that, Jihoon loses himself completely. He starts to move - slow at first. His movements draws out loud, mesmerizing, sounds from your lips that makes him quicken his pace.

"God, you're so... you're so tight," Jihoon grits his teeth, kissing your lips in between. "Made just for this, right? For me? You're so good, pretty. So perfect. God, you're beautiful." He continues to move back and forth, gripping at your hips to keep you in place.

You were a mess, at this point - your thoughts and mind itself turning into complete mush as Jihoon hounds right into you.

Then, you let out a silent shriek, your hands quickly flying over your mouth, where Jihoon hits you right at the spot that sends you over. A smirk flashes over his face as your voice rings in his ears, hitting that spot over and over again.

"So beautiful..." he repeats himself, feeling himself draw closer and closer to his high. "God, you're so fucking beautiful. Don’t ever cover your mouth again. Let me hear everything, my love.”

"Fuck, Jihoon!" you cry out, nails digging into his back.

Jihoon lets out a groan as well, feeling your walls clench around him again. Then, with one final snap of his hips, you came for the third time that night. He rides your high together, slowing his pace down before pulling out, where he pants for a moment before his own climax reaches him..

SMUT ENDS

Jihoon falls silently beside you, gasping for air as both your chests rise up and down. His hands rubs gentle circles around your back, pressing a kiss against your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, before finally, giving you a final kiss on the lips - full of love, adoration, and completion.

"Are you okay?" he asks, moving the hair from your face.

You nod, slowly moving yourself so you got closer to Jihoon. He wraps his arm around your body, letting you squeeze in closer to his chest.

"I think I might have to call in tomorrow," you let out a laugh, making an attempt to lift your leg, but was entirely unable to without wincing. "Shit, there was no control tonight, huh?"

Jihoon chuckles, taking your hand in his. "I'll take care of it." He sits up, heading over to the bathroom that connects to his bedroom. When he comes back, he was wearing a pair of shorts while carrying a warm, wet towel in his hand. "Can you sit up for me?"

You do as told, managing to move yourself upwards. You lean your head against the bed frame, opening up your legs just enough for Jihoon to clean your pussy. He plants a gentle kiss on your inner thigh, looking up at you with a sweet innocent smile that makes you question if he really was the same person that was fucking the daylights out of you minutes ago.

"You look so sweet and innocent now, but fuck, I don't think I've ever felt that good... ever," you shyly admit, watching as Jihoon cleans you up with care and soft touches.

"I'm glad I didn't disappoint," he chuckles, wiping off your stomach. "You can shower in this bathroom. I'll head down the hall. There should be some of my shirts, shorts, and a robe hanging in there. All new. I did the laundry the other day."

You let out a laugh, looking carefully down at your still-twitching legs. "I think you may have to help me."

"That was always the plan," Jihoon gets up, going around the bed to your side. Without hesitation, he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom, letting giggles fall out of your lips as you clutch his neck.

As he steps into the bathroom, you notice the scratch marks all over his back through the mirror, making your face turn red in embarrassment.

“Holy shit,” you couldn’t help but trace your fingers against your nail markings. “I really did all that?”

“Hm?” Jihoon hides in the crook of your neck. “I don’t think I’ll be able to work out with my team for a while.”

You manage a laugh, nuzzling into the crook of Jihoon's neck. "If I hear them look at me or make a comment, I'm going to retire and go hide out in a cave. You're never going to see me again."

"Then I better find an excuse to not work out with them," Jihoon kisses your cheek. He puts you on top of the bathroom sink, where he then starts up a nice, warm bath. On the shelf in the bathroom, he picks up and lays out some of his clean clothes while you watch in awe. "Change of clothes. If you don't like anything here, there's some other stuff hanging in my closet in my room, so take whatever you want. The robe is hanging behind the door."

"Thanks," your face flushes red, allowing Jihoon to give you another peck right beside your lips.

"I'll be down the hall."

It was a long, warm, and entirely relaxing shower - probably one of the best ones you've ever had in a long time. All your stress has left your body, you were feeling good (except for maybe the sore legs), and it felt like you could finally breathe again.

Coming out of the bathroom, you saw that the bed sheets have been changed, with a new set entirely laid out. The room was clean, with both of your disregarded clothes thrown into a clothing hamper with other dirty clothes in the room.

Jihoon was fixing up the pillows, his hair slightly damp from his own shower, wearing nothing except for his shorts.

You smile warmly, sneaking up and hugging him from behind.

"How are you feeling?" you ask him, pressing your forehead against his back.

"Full," Jihoon quietly responds, taking your hand in his.

"Good."

He turns around, gently picking you up and putting you on his bed. He climbs in a second later, letting you get comfortable in his arms.

"We're never turning back now, huh?" you wonder, letting Jihoon play around with your fingers.

"Oh, fuck no. I have to hear you make those sounds again," Jihoon scoffs, kissing the back of your hand. "I've heard a lot of sounds over the years. The noises you made an hour ago is by far my favourite."

"Jihoon!" you exclaim, slapping his arm away as you turn away from him. "Enough."

He drags you towards his chest with his arms, humming into your neck, "Get used to it, love. You're my new favourite musical pride."

"Disgusting."

"The next song you write, don't tell me to come record it just so you can hear my voice."

"Where did this confidence come from?" you wonder with a laugh, shifting in the bed so you were now face to face with him. “This is such a different colour for you.”

“Maybe because I just fucked the lights out of you?” he guesses.

You roll your eyes, scoffing as you say, “Next time, I want to top.”

“Oh?”

“You heard that right. I want to know how much sound I can get out of you.”

“Oh.”

the gravel digs painfully into the skin of your bare feet as you wait. you wrap your jacket tighter around yourself, teeth clattering against each other as you bounce your weight on your feet, breathing sharp. the door opens a few minutes after your incessant knocking, and mr. inho stands at the entrance, frowning. you were sure he was surprised to see you like this— it had been 2 years since you last met.

his soft hair looks messy and he's wearing a comfortable shirt with joggers. he looks so gentle, and his droopy, confused eyes snap wide open when his gaze lands upon your black eye. as if suddenly awake, he gasps your name and immediately grabs you.

"that bastard." he guides you inside, slamming the door behind the two of you. it makes you jump. "i'm going to—"

"don't." you whisper, looking up at him pleadingly. you grab his arm and your lips wobble as he glares down at you. "i don't have anywhere else to go. don't do anything rash. it really was my fault this time."

"nothing you do will justify him beating you." he snaps, settling you on the couch. he mumbles incoherent curses at his friend as he gets the first aid kid, and you fiddle with your fingers, flinching slightly as your tongue catches onto the bleeding split of your lip.

you'd sneaked out despite your father warning you not to. it was your friend's birthday, and you really wanted to be the first to wish her and give her a gift for once. she got you to stay at least till you had some cake, and unfortunately for you, on that same moment your father had decided to come home and immediately seek you out. he'd called your friend in a fit of rage, and as soon as you sneaked back inside, it was too late. to compensate, he'd knocked you into the wall and given you a black eye on top of that.

"i should put handcuffs on that bastard," inho snaps you out of your thoughts, kneeling before you. you wince as he gently applies antiseptic on your lip. "i don't understand why you won't let me. why do you let him do this to you?"

you had your reasons. the more rational ones were that your father was a sick, twisted piece of shit. a waste of space. but you had no one else. no source of income, no other place to stay. you wanted to study enough to be financially independent, and for that you needed him. you don't know any other way to live— he's isolated you from most experiences someone your age should have. you're not sure if you'll be able to get by without his roof over your head.

like always, you switch the subject.

"why are you still friends with him, then?"

mr. inho looks at you then and clenches his jaw. he simply glares for a moment. you're sure you see his eye twitch. he looks offended, and you understand why. you almost regret asking him this question— of course you knew why. you were lucky he was still friends with him. it's one of the reasons you're still alive and kicking.

"i'm not his friend. we just worked together," he grumbles lowly, "and even then i'm still around because of you. is that what you wanted to hear?"

you chuckle slightly, masking your flustered haze with a smirk.

"old man." you whisper with an endearing edge to your voice. he isn't amused. he stands up and gives you an ice pack for your eye. you slump into his couch and groan.

"when did you return from college?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"last week," you sigh, throwing your head back. the cold ice feels comforting against your heated skin. he frowns slightly and opens his mouth to speak— but you beat him to it.

"i was avoiding you." you answer his question. inho had been to your place a few times since you came, but you made no move to approach him. out of embarrassment and well, because you were scared to see him. it's normal with people you have crushes on.

he seems to understand because he doesn't mention it further.

"are you planning to stay?" he asks gently, putting his hands in his pockets. "i can get the guest room ready. it's been a while since you had a sleepover."

your heart flutters. mr. inho is... you don't have a proper way to describe it.

he's a lot of your firsts. he's everything.

mr. inho was there when you were 9 years old and struggling with math homework. mr. inho was there when your father would get too frustrated to teach you, and he'd put a hand on his shoulder and tell him to take a break. and then he'd place you on his lap, wipe your tears and help you with the gentleness you wish your father possessed.

mr. inho was there when you turned 12 and got your period for the first time. mom had passed away when you could barely walk, so you had no womanly guidance in your stages of growing up. shameful and scared and suffering from heavy fever, you had told your father about it, and instead of comforting you, he'd simply freaked and called you a slut and made all sorts of implications. not knowing any better, you'd locked yourself in the bathroom and immediately called mr. inho's number with shaky hands. and when the door opened and mr. inho walked in with warm towels and a bag full of necessities, you had broken down in his arms and told him everything.

that was the first time you saw mr. inho punch your father. it was also the first time you had seen someone be angry over you, not at you.

to protect you.

that's when you had your first sleepover at mr. inho's place, if you can call it that. your father had shamefully rushed off to the pub after getting an earful from the older man, and you were left alone in the house. mr. inho had brought you to his place, readied the guest room and stayed by your side till you fell asleep. the next day, he'd made you breakfast, and your father had apologized, in his own way.

when you went back home, a bunny plushie was waiting for you in bed. your father said he got it for you, but you could tell it actually came from mr. inho. your father never got you gifts. never. he didn't even know you liked power rangers, or max and ruby, or that dory was your favourite fish from finding nemo.

mr. inho had gotten you power rangers trump cards for your birthday. a malibu barbie doll the next. when you grew into your boyband phase, he got you a pencil box with your favourite idol too. most of the plushies in your rooms were gifts from him— mostly given in secret when mr. inho dropped your drunk father off at your place after a long day. you'd always stay up just for a glimpse of him— not willing to listen when he told you to just go to sleep. sometimes he'd hand you a package, give you a pat on the head and a wink. and then he'd leave, just like that.

you're not sure how mr. inho and your father became friends in the first place, if you can call it that. acquaintances is a better word, but they've known each other too long for that. they worked in the same police department and had partnered up multiple times until mr. inho retired.

most officers said they made a good duo in the professional sense— but their personalities seemed far from compatible.

your father was stubborn and temperamental. he was judgemental, toxic and a brute with a superiority complex. a true narcissist at heart. mr. inho was gentle and kind. he was compassionate and understanding. he was headstrong and stood for what he believed in. he was everything you wished your father was.

you will never understand how someone like him could befriend a man like mr. inho.

you were 13 when you gave mr. inho your first gift. you made him a fucking father's day card— you used to make those for your father when you were younger, and always saw them in the trash can the next day. it hurt you so much that you'd simply stopped.

the incident with your period was a major turning point in your relationship with mr. inho. it changed the way you saw him and in a way, reawakened your creativity. so you brought out your best colors, made him a stupid little card, and gave it to him in secret. hidden amidst the pages of a book your father had borrowed from him with no intention to actually read it. you were too scared and shy to gift it to him directly— you'd simply left the card in there and hoped for the best.

the next time your father dropped you at mr. inho's because he was working late again, you found the card pinned to the fridge. you don't remember being that happy in a long time.

that was the first time mr. inho had given you a forehead kiss. it was innocent and so... normal. like it was part of his routine. he didn't know that he had permanently solidified his place in your heart for years to come.

you were 14 when you first realized you had a crush on mr. inho. it was obvious enough, you just never thought there was actually a term for the butterflies you felt whenever he'd show up at your place to discuss work with your father. all you knew was you looked at him with the kind of admiration a girl could only carry for a loving father, except your feelings had grown a little more shameless over time, your thoughts sometimes vulgar. you'd get increasingly excited at the prospect of seeing him, to the point you saved up some money in secret and bought a lipgloss just so you'd put it on whenever he visited. you'd pout and lock yourself in your room when he wouldn't acknowledge it with anything but a smile and a pinch on the cheek. it's a little stupid to think of— a little girl with a crush trying so hard to impress a grown, married man.

you were 16 when you confessed, and he'd laughed— not mockingly. it was almost paternal. the universal reaction to moments where little girls with no social awareness say something silly like they want to marry their dad when they grow up. he made you feel that small again— he'd patted you on the head and told you that you're too young for him, and made a stupid joke about not planning to go to jail anytime soon. he told you that he loved you, but that this was wrong because he's a married man, and that you should be with someone your age. that this is a stupid crush that would fade with time. that you simply feel this way because you haven't met enough boys.

that had stung, but you forced yourself to get over it.

time passed but the crush did not fade by a single percent.

you tried to get yourself a boyfriend— and ended up comparing any potential date to mr. inho. none of them could match the intensity he carried, the way he cared for you like a father. the strength and authority he possessed. you remember one time when your father was out on a case and mr. inho had decided to babysit you— he'd taken you out for ice cream. a group of rowdy boys were littering the place and laughing among themselves. one of them tripped and crashed into you and you dropped your ice cream. you were too scared to ask for another. mr. inho had paused and shot them a deadpan glare— and the boys stared back before slowly advancing, picking up their litter and throwing it in the bin. they'd bowed in respect, apologized to you and rushed away before he could say anything further. that moment had stuck with you for years— how he could communicate with just his eyes, and people listened.

mr. inho bought you another ice cream with a smile after— with two scoops this time. strawberry and chocolate.

you looked for emotional maturity and a sense of responsibility in high school boys. it was bound to be a failure.

you were 18 when you tried to kiss mr. inho for the first time. it was stupid— it was your last act of rebellion before you went to college. you felt daring because his wife had passed not too long ago. he'd disappeared for a while after that, and his absence only made your longing for him grow. the insults and violence your father aimed at you became background noise eventually, because your mind was set on the one man who meant something to you.

in that time, you missed him so dearly, you were ready to let go of your dignity for one chance with the only man who had ever tried to care for you. you hated yourself for it still— for trying to take advantage of his kindness. he had come back a changed man— visibly stressed with dark circles etched permanently under his eyes. like he'd just been to hell and back. he looked like someone who could use a little something to take his frustrations out on— and you would have let him use you as his punching bag if he wanted. if he wanted a shoulder to cry on, you'd be there. if he wanted a fleshlight, you'd be there then too. that's how much you desired him. you thought you could make him feel better this way.

it was insensitive and utterly insane of you to do something so foolish. you were ready to be with him in any way, even if it meant as a rebound. but he'd stopped your attempt with a firm hand on your shoulder, looked at you with utmost seriousness, and told you to pull yourself together.

'don't do this,' he'd warned. and as if to stomp on your heart further, he reminded you that he loved his dead wife, and you were just a fucking kid.

you were a mess. you never tried initiating anything with him after that. you left off to college, and whenever you did come back, you made sure to avoid him at all costs, no matter how much it hurt you. you'd pretend you didn't see him text you about how college was going, or if you needed any help. you refused to answer his texts asking you to meet atleast once before you left. you were ashamed of your behaviour and too scared to face him. even when you could hear him ask your father about you whenever you visited. your father would make an offhanded remark about you doing god knows what and change the subject.

mr. inho had been more of a dad to you than your own father. he was there to tend to your wounds, to threaten to beat the shit out of your father and put him in jail— but you never allowed him to actually do it. your father was all you had for now, and you're scared to live in a world without a father. you know how harsh society can be to girls like that.

a truth you weren't ready to accept was that a big part of your refusal to let your father go was rooted in your desire to keep mr. inho. your father was your only link to him. if your father went away, so would your need to be protected by him. then mr. inho wouldn't come to your rescue. you wouldn't need safety or a shoulder to cry on. what if mr. inho decided he'd done his work, and moved on with his life? you can't have that. you're not ready.

you couldn't lose him too.

"i can't stay," you whispered finally, breaking eye contact. he nodded in understanding, walking up to you.

"is he asleep?"

you nodded, mindlessly biting your lower lip and flinching at the sting.

he tsked at your action and you stood up to leave. as you walked past him, he grabbed your hand. you looked at him then, and he shook his head.

"don't go to him," he whispered, pulling you closer. you wanted to run, to cower in on yourself. you were sure he didn't mean to appear so lovely. but he did. mr. inho was always lovely to you. tears pricked in the corner of your eyes as you looked at him. why does he keep doing this to you? the last memory of you two is painful. but you're still here.

"just say the word and i'll get rid of him." he adds quietly, his palm squeezing your arm comfortingly. you simply stare at him— gaze full of stars like always. like he was your hero. his eyes soften and he sighs, leaning forward to pinch your cheek. you look away out of shame. to prompt you to respond, he messily ruffles your hair. the action almost makes you sob— he used to do that a lot when you were younger. his hand still feels so big compared to you. you compose yourself soon enough, refusing to fall into your adolescent folly.

"don't be ridiculous." you chuckle dryly, snatching your wrist from his hold. you grab the part of your arm that he had held and squeeze— hoping it would magically capture the essence of his grip and lock it away in your senses forever. he sighs tiredly and straightens up, his face hardening.

"i'm sorry." you whisper softly, immediately melting under his disappointed gaze. you regret your harsh behaviour. you show up bleeding at his doorstep at 3 in the morning and he lets you in— and this is how you treat him?

"you know it's not that easy." you add, voice small.

he grunts, rubbing a tired hand down his face.

"i'm sorry i bothered you," you can't help yourself, shifting to look at him more clearly. "i didn't have—"

"—anywhere else to go?" he finishes your sentence flatly with a clench of his jaw. he sounds exhausted, and it makes you want to cry. he scoffs slightly, "stop saying that. my door is always open for you. it always has been. since you were a kid. you know that."

you feel smaller and smaller with every sentence, and you nod sheepishly in agreement. it's true— he has always been there for you in a way no other man ever has. but still you can't help but fear that one day he'll grow tired of this cycle, of you, and straight up leave. he'll get bored of this dynamic and of looking after you and abandon you. you don't want to lose him. the difference between him and your father is that the latter is connected to you by blood— you can use your legal rights if he decides to abandon you. whereas you can't even imagine a world where mr. inho doesn't want to be around you. you don't want to imagine it. it's locked away in the treasure chest of your worst fears. so you simply reject any possibility of that opportunity to arise. would mr. inho still be around if your father didn't hurt you? would he still be around if he didn't feel sorry for you, if you didn't need him to protect you?

you'd rather things stay this way than consider the other scenario.

you avoided any encounter with him for two years, ignored his texts and calls, and now you appear at his door unannounced with a black eye and he still took you in. would he do the same if you had come bearing gifts instead? the idea replays in your head like a broken record.

would he?

you're an insane fucking mess.

he insists on driving you home. you can see the emotions in his gaze— don't leave. make the right choice. but you ignore it like you have for the past few years. you leave despite his pleas, and go right to sleep once you get into bed.

you can hear yelling. the voices are rushed, panicked almost. the floor creaks with each step, and you clutch your plushie close as you press your ear against the door. there's arguing, clattering. the sound of something breaking. more panicked noises. you can hear a siren in the background. your heart rate begins to rise, and when you hear another scream, you snatch the door open.

mr. inho stands over your father's corpse, panting. his knuckles are split and bleeding— splatters of crimson splattered across his face and body. your father's face is quite literally unrecognisable. you look at the broken plates by mr. inho's feet, and the glass shard in his hand. another shard jammed right in your father's chest. and then you scream.

your own scream wakes you up. sweat breaks out across your body and you take heavy breaths— looking around your room. your head hurts. your heart squeezes painfully inside your chest, and it prompts you to get out of bed to grab a glass of water.

you check the time. it's almost noon. shit.

your father is at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when you walk in. he does a double take— mouth curling with distaste as he spots the sight of your face.

you did that, you asshole.

you two don't say a word to each other. he folds the newspaper and places it on the table before breaking the news.

"i'm leaving the city for a case soon."

you pause, turning to look at him.

"i'll get someone to keep an eye on you so you don't whore yourself out to the whole neighborhood like you did last night," he adds casually, like he's talking about the weather. you want to lunge at him, grab the nearest object and toss it at his head. you want to scream 'im a virgin! im a virgin! the only thing that has ever fucked me over is the fact that i'm your daughter!' till the whole neighborhood hears.

"don't disappoint me when i come back."

you ignore his remarks, "when will you be back."

he laughs, "i'll drop in as a surprise." his sly eyes narrow at you playfully but you know better. "catch you in the act if you do something to embarrass me."

he sighs dreamily, tossing his head back, "this is gonna be a big one. i'll definitely get a promotion this time. finally something with real money."

you clench your jaw and focus on making breakfast, trying to erase the flashes of your dream from your brain. the doorbell rings and your father greets mr. inho— who doesn't return his enthusiasm. your father's head is too far up his own ass to think someone might not actually like him so much— he believes anyone who talks to him once becomes his fan. and so he does everything he can to maintain that relationship with them. you suppose it's how he's managed to keep mr. inho around despite it being clear that mr. inho doesn't like him that much anymore. maybe your father only keeps him around so he can flex his promotions as time passes. maybe he keeps him around so he has someone to babysit you. either way, you're just glad he's here.

your father doesn't know how close you and mr. inho are. he knows that the relationship between you is purely... platonic and familial, in a sense.

platonic. you almost chuckle. of course it's platonic. mr. inho rejected the idea of anything other than that.

you try not to be bitter about it.

your father believes you two only see each other during these meetings of theirs, which were more frequent when you were a kid. you're thankful because you're sure if he found out you and mr. inho got along, he would remove him from your life too like he did with all your friends.

mr. inho brought soju. you chop the veggies for your omelette and they chat in private for a while before your father finally leaves— and mr. inho locks the door and joins you in the kitchen. that's when the realization sets in. you almost laugh.

"did he pick you to keep an eye on me while he's gone?"

mr. inho smiles— a twinkle in his eyes as he sits at the table. it's not often that he smiles like that, but whenever he does, it punches the breath out of you.

"just like old times," he remarks with a pleased smirk. "better behave yourself while i'm here, kid."

his words are playful— clearly teasing. but they have your breath hitching. for some reason, you like it when he says them, you wouldn't mind him ordering you around like that. you swallow hard and the sudden shift in your brain chemistry has you fumbling— and you accidentally cut your hand with the sharp knife.

"fuck!" you yelp, dropping the knife. he is immediately at your side, grabbing your hand and guiding it under tap water.

"shit—" he hisses, frowning, "why do you keep hurting yourself? be careful."

you pout slightly, your heart pounding against your chest. he raises your hand to his mouth and mindlessly sucks the blood off. you freeze, eyes widening— breath catching in your throat.

"saliva prevents blood clotting," he explains gently. when he's done, he puts a hand on your waist and turns you to the table. "sit. let me make you breakfast."

"i can do it—" you protest, but he gives you another one of his warning glares and that shuts you up.

you hum and watch him in his element. he's folded his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, confidently grating some cheese on your omelette. you sigh dreamily to yourself, forcing your gaze to stay only at his concentrated face and not at the veins mapped across his strong arms.

when he's done, he places the plate on the table. expertly, he takes a knife and a fork and cuts a piece, and holds it up to you. when you go to grab the fork from him, he tsks and pulls it away.

"let me," he says softly, "i'm finally seeing your face after two years. why don't you let me take care of you, hm?"

you freeze, looking at him dumbly. he takes the opportunity to feed you, and you chew softly. he snorts, takes a bite himself.

why is he talking like this to you? does he not know you're insane about him?

"you can't just say things like that to me." you mumble between bites, voice low.

he ignores your comment, feeding you another piece.

"got yourself a boyfriend back in college?" he asks, his mouth curled into a smirk that he makes no effort to hide. "is that why you were ignoring your old man?"

your heart pangs and you swallow comically slow. you ignore his second remark too. he's talking so casually— you know it means nothing. you can't help but feel like it's cruel of him to act this way towards you, like he doesn't know how much you long for him.

"tried," you shrug, "they never stay. they can tell i have too many issues."

he laughs heartily and you smile. you like making him happy. it's a stark contrast against the last memory you have of him.

"you're not that hard to handle," he adds with a wink, patting your head. if he notices you leaning into his touch like a cat, he doesn't mention it. when he gets you a mug of juice, you drink it obediently, and he tends to the dishes.

"the weather's good today," he remarks casually, "you wanna go out for a walk? i'll buy you some ice cream. just like old times."

that puts the brightest smile on your face. you nod enthusiastically and rush to your bedroom to get dressed— and you try to ignore the flutter of your heart when his laugh follows along with you.

hwang inho is an insane man.

you'd dressed up pretty— your father's absence allows you to indulge in your more... girly clothes. ever since you hit puberty, he never let you wear dresses— called you a slut whenever you tried. as if to protect yourself, you'd grown used to dressing in a more tomboy-ish manner around him.

for this occasion, you put on your cutest dress and your favourite lipgloss, only to be met with mr. inho dressed up in a fucking black shirt with a suede jacket thrown over his shoulder. he looked so chic, it almost pissed you off.

he should not be allowed near black shirts. you don't want anyone else to see him this way.

you don't notice him blinking in a daze when you step down the stairs, and you don't notice the bobbing of his adam's apple when you bend down to put on your shoes.

he doesn't let you. almost immediately, he's gently placing a large palm at your thigh and kneeling before you. your breath hitches again and he gives you a look that is hard to decipher before guiding your foot into your polished mary janes.

"you look different." he mentions quietly, lowering his gaze to your feet.

his thumb tenderly brushes across your ankle, as if examining the softness of your skin. you release a shaky breath as he secures the straps of your shoes.

"a good different?" you ask shyly. you don't want him to think of you as too childish, too immature. you don't want to look like a kid playing dress up. you want to look like a woman to him. a beautiful woman who knows how to dress and look pretty.

he stands up and settles you with an unreadable look. he blinks a few times before composing himself and nodding. if you didn't know better, you'd think he looked flustered.

"a good different."

the walk outside is silent. perhaps it's because things just suddenly felt so intimate between the two of you. or perhaps it's because he's looking for something to say. you aren't, atleast. you're happy walking alongside him in comfortable silence, your hands brushing against each other's but never really touching. you wish he'd grab it and never let it go.

"still prefer strawberry ice cream?" his teasing voice breaks you out of your stupor. you smile.

"of course i do," you huff, looking up at him. you decide to tease him back. "you're still lactose intolerant?"

"should i be honest?" he sighs, looking straight ahead. he's wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are hard to read. "i tried some strawberry ice cream sometime back. some expensive brand. tossed it away after a bite because it tasted like nothing, so i'll never understand why you like it."

his voice lowers— grows almost quiet. a confession.

"i was missing you."

your steps falter and you stare at him. he walks ahead, before turning to face you. you grit your teeth, hold back all the words that are threatening to spill from your tongue.

you missed me? you ate strawberry ice cream because you missed me? you thought of me? i missed you too. i'm sorry for how reckless i've been. i'm sorry for ignoring you. i love you, i love you. please make me yours.

i'm so pathetic.

he cocks his head to the side and holds out his hand. you look at it, then at him, then you reach forward and grab hold of his finger. he chuckles and you hold back a smile as you swing your hands together and walk over to the ice cream stand. he pays and lets you pick.

he receives a phone call, and to your dismay, your hands separate. he holds up a finger telling you to wait before walking a few steps away so he can have his privacy. you resist the urge to pout and go through the menu. the girl behind the counter looks at mr. inho like most girls do— with barely disguised lust.

"holy shit, your dad's hot." she remarks in awe, voice hushed as she holds out an ice cream cone. "is he single?"

your heart flutters at her assumption— you don't blame her. it wasn't the first time he was mistaken as your dad. you've heard a lot of those comments whenever you'd go on walks with him when you were younger. but now, it also fills you with an emotion akin to jealousy. you glance over your shoulder and watch him talk seriously on the phone. you look back at the girl and grab the cone, and give her a sugary sweet smile.

"no," you answer sweetly, "he's dating me."

you hold back the urge to laugh at her bewildered face as you happily skip to him. he looks at the two of you curiously and you grin at him as you grab his finger again.

"what was that about?" he asks, pocketing his phone and you shrug, cheekily licking the ice cream.

"nothing," you hum, walking with a skip in your step. "i missed you too."

he throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you close, and you resist the urge to moan when you inhale the smell of his cologne— he always smells otherworldly. ridiculously rich for some reason. rich and comforting and like home.

this time, you convince him to sleep over. even though he was strictly against staying in your room for too long out of respect, you managed to draw him up. he looks around and takes a seat at the bed. your room is still pink— girly in it's essence. you had the craziest pink phase when you were a kid and it bled into everything you owned, from bedsheets and clothes to your walls. mr. inho had also been a major enabler in this situation— he'd gotten you a lot of pink trinkets and toys. your father never allowed you to modify your room after the first time.

"it's like a unicorn threw up in here," he jokes, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks around. you roll your eyes fondly, adjusting the sheets. his eyes fall upon your bunny plushie— and you watch his face fall.

"i know it was you who got this." you decide to say, looking away. "you didn't have to do that for him."

"i did it for you," he corrects you, picking it up. it's still in good condition, although its ears have become more droopy, and you've drawn hearts on its plain button eyes. "it was a bad night for you. no kid should have to go through that."

your face softens, eyes getting glassy. cautiously, you take a seat beside him. you fidget with the hem of your dress, not really knowing how to continue conversation with him. you feel a little self conscious now that you're alone with him in your room— after years. the close proximity makes you want to touch him— to crawl into his lap and just stay there. with your saviour who always knows how to make you feel better. your sweet, considerate old man. you want to know what it feels like to be touched by him, to be held by him, to be—

"i like your dress."

the words almost give you a whilpash. your head snaps up and you hold back the enthusiasm in your voice. "really?"

"really," he smiles kindly. your dress rides up as you sit straighter and his eyes fall upon the silver of your skin, and naturally his hand reaches out and adjusts the fabric so it covers your knees. your breath hitches, and his voice lowers into a soft mumble.

"you're such a pretty girl."

you swallow hard— it's like someone is holding your head underwater. you can't fathom how much you needed to hear this— and especially coming from him, you think you're going to die.

i would let you do anything to me.

"really?"

"really." he whispers. something in his gaze shifts, and he looks away. he clears his throat.

"i wanted to come see you in college," he admits, placing the plushie back on the bed. "but you kept ignoring my texts. i wasn't sure if you wanted to see me. you avoided me like the plague whenever you came back, even though i don't blame you."

you look away in shame, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"i'm sorry," you whisper, nervously biting your lower lip. it doesn't hurt anymore. "i felt ashamed after the way i acted when.. you know."

"i understand," he hums, blinking at you. you're glad he doesn't say it directly, you're not ready to confront him like that right now.

"thank you for everything you've ever done for me," you add, shifting on your feet. "and i'm sorry for avoiding you."

a small smile appears on his face.

"look at you," he quips with a chuckle, "you've gotten so mature."

you huff, grabbing the plushie and hitting him with it. he plays along, pretending to be dramatically hurt with every hit. it goes well until you're leaning forward for easier access, and his attempt to snatch the plushie from your hold makes you trip. you crash right into him and he falls backwards onto the mattress, taking you down with him. your face smushes against him, and the way your heartbeat skyrockets would've been comical if you didn't feel him stiffen under you.

you take this opportunity as a golden ticket— burying your head further into his chest. your arms clutch the fabric of his shirt, and you take a deep breath, closing your eyes as your body relaxes in his hold. he calls your name softly.

"what are you doing?" he asks, voice strained.

"sorry," you whisper, nuzzling your head further into him. you're willing to throw your dignity out the window for just a moment in his arms— you don't care anymore. you're not past begging.

"please— please, mr. inho, just— let me hug you for a minute, please."

you feel his breath hitch and you sniffle. you force yourself back to reality. you don't want to actually make him uncomfortable. already contemplating killing yourself, you begin to pull yourself away, when his arms suddenly wrap around you.

"mph!" you huff, feeling your body being pulled forward. a big hand comes up to cradle your head against his chest, and another curls around your waist.

"so dramatic," he whispers, his hold tightening. "ill hold you."

"oh my god." you whisper, melting in his arms like putty. you quite literally purr as your body goes limp, and you sigh contentedly, a small smile appearing on your face. like he's your lifeline, you hold onto him tightly.

"my little lady," he whispers. his voice makes your stomach feel warm— it's so velvety and soft. "what's up with you, hm?"

"nothing," you mumble, burying your head in the crook of his neck. you breathe in the comforting smell of him, squeeze your eyes shut as you commit the feeling of being held by him to your memory. "feel so safe.."

he hums, his fingers gently running through your hair. mr. inho is not that tall a man but he still makes you feel so small— so small and so safe, just by his mere presence.

"nobody ever made me feel like this," you admit, your voice cracking. you can't help the emotion seeping into your voice— you're in his arms, and he's petting your hair like you're his child, how are you supposed to breathe? "ive always felt so scared with him but— but with you—"

your voice breaks off as you sniffle again, and you bite down on your tongue as you remember your father. you don't want to think of him right now— you don't want to ruin this moment by crying.

"that bastard doesn't know how lucky he is to have a daughter like you," inho grunts, pressing his cheek against your head. he pulls you impossibly close, cradles you like a fucking baby. "he doesn't deserve to be your father."

the words have you freezing— your body tenses and your breath hitches. nobody has ever said these words to you— you've felt worthless all your life. like a burden, a mistake. like a piece of shit on the shoe that is your father.

inho's hand stills in your hair, and his head tilts towards you so your eyes meet. your lips wobble as you stare at him, and his eyebrows furrow with focus. his thumb brushes against your cheekbone.

"sometimes, i wish i was your father instead," he admits, his voice hushed— like a secret. his gaze runs across your face; almost distant, full of an emotion you can't pinpoint. if you didn't know better, you'd think it was longing. it makes your heart race. "i would never let anything happen to you. you'd be my sweet little girl forever."

the moment those words leave his mouth, you feel like you've been electrocuted. it's like any semblance of rationality has left you— your breath punched out of your lungs and your heart feeling like it's being squeezed. you feel a sharp pain in your chest. the feeling is indescribable. your brain feels like it's shut down. there's nothing there— no thoughts. just pink goop and memories of mr. inho sliding through your head like a powerpoint presentation.

you're not thinking with your mind, that much is clear. he's said the words you've been feeling forever, but never truly had the guts to admit out loud to avoid making things weird. it's like you're being seen for the first time. and with that sentiment, you're leaning forward to press your lips onto his.

he grabs your hair and yanks your head back, separating your mouths with a wet smack. your eyes are dazed as you look at him, and he takes a sharp breath as he glares back at you— nostrils flared, gaze serious. you don't know he's holding onto his last ounce of self control.

"don't do something you can't take back." he warns, voice hoarse.

this is the third time he's rejecting you— it's making you want to kill yourself. your lips wobble pathetically, eyes immediately getting teary as you lean into him.

"please—" your voice cracks, lips parting as you chase his mouth. he restrains you with a firm hold on your hair, mouth twitching. it doesn't hurt, just stings a little. it only makes you long for him more. the visible distress, the conflict on his handsome face only makes you want to cry. you recall his words again, and like a baby, your brain turns into static. all you can think of is how badly you wish he was your father instead. you're not ashamed to beg. you'd do anything, absolutely anything to be his. no matter what way. you just want to be his. perhaps, that's why the words just slip out of your mouth.

"please, dad—"

the moment he hears it, his expression falls. you don't give yourself the liberty to feel shame. all you feel is desperation, sadness. because it's over— you've embarrassed yourself and he's going to think you're fucking weird and you're going to lose him and—

your head is being pulled forward and he's crashing your mouths together. you gasp, eyes widening with surprise, and suddenly he's flipping the two of you over. your back crashes against the soft mattress and he climbs over you, slipping his tongue into your mouth. you moan, your back arching under him. he groans, tilting his head for easier access. your tongues clash together and he kisses you like a man starved. it's utterly lewd and you're gone.

he pulls back with a wet smack, strings of saliva dropping down your chin.

"fuck—" he gasps, voice raspy, "say that again— call me that again."

your heart flutters. you're still out of it, unable to process what's happening.

"m-mr. inho—?"

"no!" he snaps- squeezing your cheeks together and making your lips pucker up. you mewl.

"call me the other thing—" he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, as if fighting a war within himself. he's conflicted. "fuck— the other one. call me that again."

you moan as his hand slides down to your neck, and you're immediately slipping. you can feel your brain get fuzzy, and everything feels like it's a blur. years of desire, yearning, and longing for him pours out of you like a dam, it seeps into the title you've subconsciously given him ever since you were a kid.

"dad." you whisper again, and he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. the way he's crumbling before you makes you feel more confident, and soon enough, the words blabber out of your mouth almost boldly. "dad— dad, dad, dad, papa, appa —"

the rushed string of words has him chuckling softly— his eyes crinkling with mirth. endeared, he's leaning down and immediately kissing you again. you moan unabashedly into his mouth, and his hands reach down to your dress and slide the fabric up, up, up. his hands splay across the soft skin of your thighs and he relishes in the way you fall apart under his touch. he breaks the kisses momentarily only to mumble sweet little words against your skin.

"my sweetheart—" he whispers, his hands cupping your cheeks, and you slip further into your little headspace. he presses a kiss to your forehead, and you choke on a sob.

"my little baby." he presses another kiss to your cheek. you're further gone. you can't see anything but him anymore. his words drop you further into the safer side of your mind, where there's no one but him— him holding you, loving you. keeping you safe and sheltered. "my angel."

"dada—" you whimper, unable to hold back the desperation in your voice. you sound timid, soft. everything hurts— you love him, you love this man so unbelievably much that it's starting to make your heart ache. he grabs your legs, makes them wrap around his waist. settles his bulge upon your clothed crotch and gently grinds. it makes you moan. "o-oh my god—"

"my little girl," mr. inho coos, pressing soft kisses all over your face. you release a shaky breath, your hips recklessly chasing his own. the action makes him falter, his voice growing shaky. "i got you, i got you, my baby."

"appa," you sniffle, tears running down your face. this one visibly makes him nauseous in the best way possible— it scratches the itch in his brain. you can tell by the shift in his jaw, the slight gasp that leaves his lips. he didn't react this way to other other ones— he likes being called that the most, and it works as fuel for your desires. he licks your tears away, and you hiccup, unable to hold back the violent rush of emotions you feel. "i love you— i love you, why couldn't you have been my dad instead!?"

the last line comes out of you like a wail, and unbeknownst to you, it breaks his heart. he presses his forehead against yours, holding onto your face with utmost tenderness as you exchange breaths. his hips glide against yours tantalizingly slow, and you've never been this horny in your entire life.

"i wish it was you instead," you blabber on, voice cracking. "i wish it was just you, not him! i wish it was just you! i hate him, i need him gone! i love you! i wish it was just you—"

"shh—" he coos, silencing you with another kiss. his hips gain momentum, and he grunts shamelessly as he grinds against you. your eyes flutter as you look at him dazedly— face flushed, lips swollen. your eyes are bloodshot. he gives you a comforting smile.

"i got you," he whispers, pressing another peck upon your nose. you whimper, leaning into his touch. his voice is just as full of desperation. "appa's got you. you're my little girl. my daughter. not his. only mine. got that?"

that does it for you— it's like you just got the only validation you ever needed in life.

"yes- yes, yes, yes, yes, please, i need you—" you hiccup, and he pulls back, his thumb rubbing your clit through your panties. you grind up into his hand, your arms reaching up to pull him closer, "appa—"

"shh, be my good little girl and come like this," he whispers, pressing a hand down on your stomach. you squirm violently under him, the added pressure and his words making the band in your stomach want to snap in the most delicious way possible.

"oh my god—" you whine, throwing your head back, "please, appa, i need your cock—"

"no," he laughs, and his hand comes up and cups your face, his thumb pulling down your bottom lip lewdly. "not now."

"appa, please!" you sob, your hips writhing. he slips his hand into your panties and furiously rubs your clit. as a way to silence you, he slips his thumb into your mouth and your lips wrap eagerly around it. you start sucking it in earnest and he falls forward onto you.

"fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead against yours again. his thumb presses down on your tongue, gently pushing in and out. his other hand teases your entrance, harshly slips one finger inside and it makes you jump. he tsks. "uh uh- stay still— that's it bubba, suck my thumb... juuust like that, fuck, that's my good fuckin' girl—"

the praise makes you heady in the best way possible, and the moment his thumb circles your clit again, you're coming almost violently. you almost bite down on his thumb and he grins— pulling his hand out and kissing you again as he thrusts his finger in and out of your cunt, overstimulating you.

"t-too much—" you whimper into his mouth, and he chuckles breathlessly, pecking your lips over and over again till they hurt.

"yeah?" he coos teasingly, though he slows down his movements, allowing you to come down from your high. "thought you could take it? little baby's not so tough anymore, huh?"

you whine again, face flushed. a dazed smile appears on your face as your chest heaves. your panties are a mess, and he brings his hand out, licks his fingers clean. you watch him with hooded eyes, blinking slowly. he smiles, spits on his fingers before bringing them to your face. eagerly, you grab his palm and slip them into your mouth, sucking obediently.

"you're so messy," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. his fingers gently thrust in and out of your mouth and you roll your tongue around the digits, tasting the slight remnants of your slick on his salty skin. you've never felt more fulfilled in your life.

"appa," you mumble again, voice muffled through his fingers. he smiles fondly and pulls them out, making you whine. he shushes you and as your hand reaches his pants, he grabs it.

"that's enough for now," he whispers. "rest. i'll be fine. today's just about you."

you protest. "but—"

"won't you listen to your appa?" he adds playfully, and you blush— looking away. if you could function properly, you'd tell him to shut up.

you can barely think; you still feel like you're floating, and he can tell by the slight dreamy look in your eyes.

"let me bring you some water." he whispers, pulling away. you immediately grab his hand, looking up at him with pleading eyes— begging him not to leave you. he chuckles, gently pries your hand away and presses a kiss to your knuckles. it makes you blush. he leans down, hands you your bunny plushie and you hold it to your chest.

"i'll be back in a minute, i promise."

reluctantly, you pull away, swaying a little as you watch him leave. as promised, he walks back in after a minute with a glass of water and his phone. he holds the glass to your lips and helps you drink, and it makes your cheeks heat up. you like him taking care of you. you like how happy he looks while doing it too. he urges you to finish the whole glass and settles it on the bedside table. you tug at his shirt and he snorts before redirecting his attention to you.

he lays down on the bed properly and pulls you towards him, cradling your head against his chest. you throw your leg around his hip and he holds you close, your plushie sandwiched between your bodies. it feels nice.

"you okay?" he whispers, and you nod, burying your head in his chest. you want to say a lot of things— you want to tell him how much you love him, how much you appreciate him. how he has quite literally changed your life. you want to tell him he is the best thing to ever happen to you, and that you might die if he ever leaves you. you want to tell him that he's a great kisser, that you want him to teach you everything. that he smells amazing and that you've never felt as safe as you do with his strong arms wrapped around you.

"thank you," you whisper, voice small. you feel shy again, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. you're exhausted, that much is obvious. this experience has clearly overwhelmed you, and he watches you for a bit, his thumb gently caressing your damp cheek, wiping the now drying tear tracks on your skin.

"thank you, what?" he asks, a knowing smirk on his face. he's cruel. you blush, hide your face with a groan before answering him shyly.

"thank you, appa."

"that's my girl." he adds proudly and you beam, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

"i love you too," he whispers finally, and your eyes snap open. you tilt your head up to look at him, your heartbeat rising. he smiles softly— an unreadable look in his eyes. you resist the urge to cry again.

"i love you," you tell him again, your emotions so evident on your face. you're an open book to him. he leans down, presses kisses against your neck, making you giggle. you've never been this happy in your life.

you bury your face in his chest again and hold onto him tightly. he rests his chin on your head, and you whisper a confession against him. now that mr. inho is yours, now that you feel reassured that he might not actually leave you, you can finally admit it out loud.

"i hope he doesn't come back."

he tenses slightly, before relaxing. you don't care about his opinion on your admission— you're just glad to let it out. his hand pats your back gently, urging you to sleep. eventually, you do.

you snore in your sleep. it makes inho smile. you're still the same as you were when you were a kid. when he's sure you're fully out, he checks his phone. he opens his encrypted mail, watches with amusement the attachment from this morning— a low quality video of your father being slapped as he loses in ddakji. the second attachment is of your father's details and his player number. he holds back a smirk.

your father is predictable. he knew the son of a bitch would take the opportunity to make money as soon as he's presented with it. he's not surprised. from what he knows of him in the past decade— he knows he wouldn't make it past the first game. if he does, he knows enough to design something that will make sure he doesn't make it past another.

after losing his wife and child, inho lost a part of himself. but he feels a little complete now. in a way, he has found both in you— and he does love you, adore you with everything he has. he doesn't intend to let anything happen to you ever again. now that you've subconsciously given him the permission, he can do whatever the hell he wants to the piece of trash that is your father. accidents and missing persons cases are easy to bury, and he doubts you'd be sad if you think your father went missing while 'working on a case.' it's nothing out of the ordinary. you have him now, afterall. what else do you need? he'll be your father and your lover. it's not that hard a task. anything you want.

he gently runs a hand through your hair, examines the fading bruise on your face. it makes his jaw clench.

you're the light of his life and he can't wait to spend the rest of it with you. he'll give you the life you deserve, fulfill the childhood that was stolen from you.

as you shift in his arms and mumble something incoherently; inho smiles. he puts the phone down and turns it off. with a newfound motivation, he presses another kiss to your forehead and pulls you closer.

The living room glowed with the faint light of the TV. Credits were rolling slowly across the screen...music still playing low. And there he was....jungkook curled up on the couch like a sad little fluff ball..knees hugged tight to his chest..shoulders shaking with quiet sniffles.

"gguk?" you whispered...heart twisting.

He startled a little...quickly wiping at his face. "Ah... I'm sorry..baby. Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet."

You shook your head crossing over to him. "You didn't. Just got thirsty. What's the matter, love?"

"Nothing," he mumbled at first..voice small. But when you knelt in front of him and gently took his face in both hands..thumbs brushing over his damp cheeks...he cracked.

Those big doe eyes were watery..lips wobbling adorably. He looked so soft and heartbroken in the TV glow.

"Tell me, Gguk. What happened? Was it the anime you were watching?"

He nodded..pausing the credits so the screen cast a gentle blue light over both of you.

Then it all spilled out...how David fought so hard with his chrome and dreams and how he just wanted a better life for himself and Lucy and the sacrifices, the tragic ending in that brutal Night City. He told you everything in a shaky rush the full story he'd only hinted at before.

"If you laugh at me right now, it means you don't love me," he added seriously though his voice, his lips wobbled. "It's stupid, I know. I'm too attached..."

You couldn't help it..a soft little laugh escaped at the way he said it so earnestly like a kicked puppy. His eyes widened in betrayal.

"See! You're laughing- can't believe"

"Ggukie, no," you said quickly pulling him into your arms right there on the couch. He melted against you instantly face buried in your neck as you hugged him tight. "I swear I'm not laughing at your emotions baby. You just said it out of the blue. i swear wasn't making fun of you. I would never you know that baby. "You rubbed his back in slow circles, pressing kisses to his messy hair..his temple...the shell of his ear. "That world is so cruel, baby. But you're safe here with me, okay? No Sandevistan needed...Just my arms."

He sniffled but nodded laughing at your lame ways to comfort him...arms wrapping around your waist like he'd never let go.

You stayed like that for a while..whispering silly comfort and dad jokes.

"Next time we'll watch something where nobody dies and gets unlimited chicken & beer," He scoffed playfully but you continued, "I'll fight Night City for you if I have to." That earned a watery giggle from him the tension finally breaking.

Eventually you coaxed him up. "Come on, baby bedtime. We'll keep them safe in our dreams."

He grabbed his phone on the way..quickly changing his profile picture and highlight to a soft Lucy-David edit.

You smiled but said nothing until you were both back in bed. He settled against you head on your chest and nestled into the crook of your arm..face pressed warmly to your skin comforting weight and shared heat.

You carded fingers through his hair. " David looks handsome in your profile. "

Jungkook huffed a laugh against you the sound vibrating sweetly. " I'm more handsome but. " You nodded in his hair anyways.

You kissed the top of his head grinning.

He giggled properly then, nuzzling closer and pressing a sleepy kiss to your collarbone. "Love you... thank you for not thinking I'm dumb."

"Never, baby. Sleep now."

One and a half weeks later, jungkook came home from a long day of shooting and practice, bag slung over his shoulder, calling out your name softly as he kicked off his shoes.

The custom showpiece was waiting beside the TV where you'd placed it-a beautiful illuminated diorama glowing softly. Miniature Night City rain streaks on the glass, holographic billboards flickering, David and Lucy standing close with arms around each other under a hopeful sky. Tiny details everywhere..Rebecca's shotgun as a fierce guardian, Sandevistan glow on David's arm, Lucy's hair catching the light, and the engraved plate..."Some stories don't get the ending they deserve... but the love never fades.

You heard his bag drop with a thud from the kitchen where you were finishing up a snack.

"Baby?!" he shouted, voice cracking with emotion.

You stepped out just in time for him to crash into you-strong arms wrapping around you in a bone-crushing hug, lifting you slightly off the ground. He kissed you fiercely first...then softer...again and again...tasting like pure gratitude and love.

"You got it made? For me? They're... together. Safe." His eyes were already teary...that fluffy vulnerable look returning as he pulled back just enough to stare at you in awe. "How did I get so lucky? You protect every silly part of me. My childish heart...my silly obsessions... I don't deserve you."

You cupped his face...smiling through the warmth blooming in your chest..and kissed him back-slow and deep..hands sliding into his hair. "Ggukie, of course I do. You protect all my silly hobbies and interests too-the random late-night cravings, my weird playlists, the way I get emotional over the smallest things. How could I not do the same for you? I love every soft inch of your heart. David and Lucy get their little forever here... and we get ours."

He hugged you tighter...face buried in your neck again, a few happy tears slipping free as you both swayed gently in the hallway. You stayed like that-kissing...whispering fluffy nonsense...laughing softly.

Later that night he pulled you onto the couch, head back on your chest...the showpiece glowing warmly nearby.

"Best girlfriend in any city," he murmured...already half-asleep and content.

You kissed his forehead. "Only for my favorite human."

It’s what you need, laying as you are on the linen sheets of your bed, dressed down to your lacy underwear that you thought would make you feel better, somehow would recharge your dead battery that was stuck on zero percent for longer than you care to admit. Father issues, dissatisfaction at your workplace, at your home life, at life itself. You were tired, your concentration running thin as you were watching your well-loved K-drama that you have seen a hundred times before. Through your vision, your own non-romantic interest would fly by, smiling down at you in your dejected state and form. Your body knows him more thoroughly than your heart, stirring erratically at the memories that would begin to flood your system. Tongue, lips, hands. His cock that he would tease you with, giving it to you and not giving it to you purposefully because he enjoyed the sight of your desperation for someone like him—a person who has seen the worst of life, its characteristics engraved upon his skin, and yet you still yearned for him, yearned for those scars. You didn’t have to tell him, but he knew. 

He knew by the way you would so very often trace the scar upon his shoulder, either with your fingertips or your lips. You were friends, fuck-buddies to be more precise. You were aware that someone entangled in a special friendship such as this shouldn’t do something like that, but you couldn’t help it. Yoongi taught you many times to listen to your body and you were doing just that. 

Following your body’s inclination to sink into his soul that he wasn’t too scared to let you inside of. 

He allowed you to do it to such an extent that the threat of his quick orgasm would appear and he would slip out of you, distract himself between your legs, make you come twice in a row—perhaps as a playful punishment, or perhaps as a reward. 

He saw you—and right now you need to be seen, folded in your forest-scented exhaustion while the river flows on, the trees sway on and everyone else passes by while you remain fixed on the same spot, stooped in your ungratified, seemingly unnamed problem. 

You can text him, ask for a quick fuck, something he’s very well acquainted with, used to at this point—so much that everytime you leave his place stuffed full of his cum, he stuffs you with something else as well. 

A promise for the next time.

A package of something to make you look forward to your tight-knit time spent with him. The last time, he had promised to take you to a running sushi restaurant, where you didn’t linger for long because you got fed up with the way other people would steal the sweet plates you wanted to try. He had fucked you in his car to make you feel better about your innate misanthropy and while he was balls-deep in you and you struggled to catch your breath, he promised you ice cream. With each thrust that squeezed your soul, he described how you’d enjoy each lick, the details of the flavor and how he’d buy you any ice cream you wanted. You hadn’t realized it then, within the stupor of your mind-numbing pleasure, but now as you are recollecting it, you perceive how bothered he was by the way other people ruined your night with him. 

And that rips open the restraints around the butterflies in your stomach. 

You want some ice cream—and more than that, you want to see him. Close your mouth around the adrenaline he’s always so willing to fill your life with. 

You don’t know what he’s doing at seven PM on a Thursday night. You usually meet him on Fridays or during the weekend if he’s working the day before. You’ve never shown him your neediness—and there’s a certain dangerous feel to it, baring yourself naked in this way, despite the fact he’s seen, touched, and licked every inch of you. And it’s hard for your brain to comprehend that you yearn for him when your social, emotional and physical battery is dead. If anything, you should be resting as you are, get right in order to be at your best for the next time you see him. 

But alas… 

With a sigh, you turn to your other side and reach for your phone that you’ve been charging, gliding your hands down the cable, imagining it’s his arm. And with a frustrated furrow of your brows, you tap on the circle above your messages. A pinned picture of him that you took, his face caught in his gummy smile against the dark backdrop of his car interior, filtrated with the twinkling lights of Seoul’s city buildings. Another sigh leaves you, one that exasperates you because why are you so needy for him? Why can’t you be a normal girl, independent, okay with your own company shared with the fictional people that you love? You’ve spent your girlhood like this, and happily so. Why does growing up mean you need the male energy more than your own? 

Biting your lip, your anxiety spikes up, but your desire for Yoongi overwhelms it, wins. And that settles a layer of calmness over it, gives the command to your fingers to type what they need to type. 

hi

what are you doing 

The bubbles don’t emerge from the dark motive of your chat until a few minutes later, the green of his message brightening up your phone—and your life, too. 

About to have a concert. Having a shot right now for your health. 

Oh, shit. A strange concoction of disappointment and a deep, low, murmuring stimulus rises in you. The swan in you elongates her neck, interested, but still dispirited considering her options. She will have to fold back into her form, and continue on her long, somber voyage back from the dead end, dwelling on the thrill of the flirtation of the man that she likes a little bit too much. 

Staring at the thick canvas of trees and shrubbery that aren’t letting you in to see him, you think about what to type, your thumbs hovering in the air. Life dislikes you; life wants you to suffer—

A ringing tone of your phone tugs you away from your distressed thoughts. The Latin letters of Yoongi’s name expand across the screen behind that picturesque and private shot of him, enlarged, stirring your heart. Silence spreads through your mind and your thumb quivers as you slide it across the bar to accept his call, placing the device against your ear. 

It feels as though you’re pressing the side of your head against his, especially so once you hear the warmth of his raspy voice pronouncing your name in his accent, marked by the liquor he drank prior to your messages. 

Enlivened, your body is. Just from that. 

“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, and the swan sails a little bit more swiftly, her tucked-in wings fluttering against her feathery body. You play with your necklace, your trembling so, so terribly evident. You’re glad he didn’t video call you, but the phone call is much more intimate and pleasant. 

You huff out a noise of desperation without meaning to and cringe at yourself, crunching up your features. Yoongi calls you by your name with a tiny hint of alarm and you curse yourself, silently. Your misanthropy gets pointed at you. 

“Noth—”

“Should I cancel my concert right now?” he suggests, cutting in, and you can hear the drunken playfulness in his voice, the one you have enjoyed on many occasions. Even acted out on your pleasure from it by making him, physically, feel good about it. You wish you could suck his dick right now, right before his concert, so he gives out his best for his fans. 

The sighs are ceaseless and you don’t bother to stop them at this point, your enlivened body soaking up in a swelling, unmet desire. 

“You’re sighing,” he notes, and you discern a cube of ice clinking in his glass, then a swallow of his throat, as if the indication of your yearning got him going, got him needing that burning liquid. “Are you horny for me?” 

Enlivened, your butterflies are, starting a war just from that sole question: desire versus your mental health. 

And using the vanilla scent of their wings, they remind you of the fact that you’re an adult woman and that you’re allowed, and more than allowed, to do whatever your body asks for. And if it’s asking for Yoongi, you’re going to go the extra mile to get him. 

Brazenly and femininely—and a little bit slyly. 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m really craving that ice cream you promised me,” you say, lowering down your tone, and you play with the lacy lining of your bra. Think you can tease him with it for a good effect. “I’m wearing a nice lacy set right now.” 

Yoongi sucks in a breath and lets it out in a sigh that is entirely redolent of you, making your mouth curve in a soft smile. “What color?” 

Your expression of a muted joy expands as you tell him. “Red.” 

He swears, raspily, and the shade of your lingerie becomes more vibrant in the dimmed yellow light of your bedroom. And there you feel it—a more intense tendril of lust slithering down your sternum, moving your body side to side against your sheets in need. And the whimper that comes out of you is more primal than it is forced. 

At the sound, Yoongi pauses. You imagine him biting his lip, the gears in his brain turning, and he doesn’t disappoint you. He never does. 

“Do you have a dress of the same color?” he asks, small pants escaping his mouth, and you smirk. 

“I do.” 

He chuckles in personal delight. “Wear it for me. The set, too. I want to see it. I will pick you up after the concert and get you that ice cream.”

Your butterflies spring to your lungs, making it hard for you to breathe. And you don’t know whether to be glad, to be happy, to jump on your bed or to get ready. All those emotions simultaneously gather in you, spreading sparks of excitement down your nerve endings. And most of all, you want to hug him. 

You want to hug your adrenaline-infused angel. 

“Okay,” you agree, prolonging the vowel, the muscles in your cheeks aching. “How long is the concert?”

His delight leaks out through a deep hum, one that causes you to tense your body in feverish eagerness. “Two hours. Can you wait that long for me without touching yourself?” 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Think you can wait however long for him, just as long as you get to see him. “I can, but my panties will be ruined. Sticky and uncomfortable.” 

The hum is strangled by his strained intake of breath, turning you woozy, your fingers itching to slide beneath your said panties, knowing his noises alone would make you come in seconds. You weren’t wet before he called, but now you can feel the center of the fabric dampening the longer you talk to him. 

“I’ll take them off as soon as I can. I promise. Hold it out for me.” 

And you believe him. You compress that promise into your hand, warming it up with your body heat before you tuck it safely into the chambers of your heart—and you wait. 

You wait for him to fulfill the myriad of his promises. 

You did hold it out for him, and brilliantly so. You watched one episode of your drama with a little bit more vehemence, despite the fact Yoongi swam past your thoughts more times than you can count. You’ve never watched him perform in real life as his own private life was always kept in secrecy from his fans, but your curiosity led you to search him up online and watch a playback of one of his more upbeat songs. Dressed in a long black coat, white shirt and a tie, your mouth was wide open, as well as your eyes, as you took in his ferocious energy, enhanced by his passion, and you never looked at him the same as before. He became someone else, a figure of brutal yet tender power and it made you want him even more zealously. 

The memories of that performance resurfaced in your mind every now and then, and his Agust D persona would melt into the male interest of the show, deepening your desire for him as you dreamed. 

Dreamed of reaching different highs with him. More profound, more devastating. 

A dream that could never come true. A promise that would never flow past his mouth. 

You didn’t let that ruin your night, however. As the second hour wrapped around you and your body lacked the heat it needed, you shut your laptop and stood up to your feet, walking over to your closet. Your fingers found that red dress you had spoken about first before your eyes did, silky and sleek amidst the thick, woolen fabrics of your winter clothes. It was the only nice dress you had, one you haven’t worn before, and you were thrilled you got to wear it for him tonight. 

It fit you like a second skin, hugging your curves just right, fading into the lacy linings of your lingerie. One would have to sharpen their gaze in order to notice it—and you wondered if Yoongi was going to scout it with his eyes first or with his fingers. 

The unknown excited you, so much that your panties gained that stickiness you mentioned in the phone call. And when you sat down to slide your feet into your black strappy heels, the feeling was so intolerable that you cringed—and your brilliancy ended there. 

How were you going to sit against your cold arousal for another hour? 

The awaited text didn’t come through until you were dousing yourself in your vanilla perfume. Yoongi was downstairs, waiting for you in his car. Left my lights on for you, he had typed to reassure you because he knew how anxious it made you, looking for his parked car in the dark when you couldn’t see anything. 

Your heart blossomed two times bigger when you checked it from your window. Yoongi in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, the headlights filtering through the mist of the deep of the night. You smoothed a hand down your tummy, calming your butterflies, and, reapplying your lipstick, you grabbed your coat and went outside to meet him. 

He spotted you long before you lifted your head to smile at him and he reached over to the side and opened the door for you. The motor was running, keeping the warmth intact for you, and you sighed in relief when you entered it—only to realize that Yoongi had turned on the seat heater for you. 

You melt into the leather, closing your eyes, the ambience of the present moment nestling upon you like the most delicate layer of snow that dissolves when you feel a swift breath along your neck and it’s Yoongi, lengthening his arm and closing the door while keeping his twinkling gaze on you and giving you a pleased smile. 

The butterflies kick against your stomach. 

“I was going to do that,” you say because you truly were—it’s just that the snug, comforting heat he prepared for you made you want to stop and bask in it as the short walk from your apartment building to his car numbed your bones to such an extent that you needed the time to defrost. And he quickened the process by placing an even warmer hand upon the nylon of your inner thigh that the slit of your dress and your trench coat exposed. “It’s just so cold.” 

He fondles the fabric of your tights on the top of your thigh with his thumb. A gesture of comfort that diffuses life down your legs and colors your cheeks in a shade of pink that irradiates the subdued atmosphere of the car. It’s hard to breathe—and it’s hard to resist him, keep yourself cool and not swing your leg over. 

Fuck the ice cream. You want something way creamier. 

“It’s only right I close it for you after I opened it,” he reassures, the deep tenor of his voice puncturing right through you, looking for your core, and you shift your hips, the discomfort of your wetness not allowing you to relax as much as you need. Yoongi’s eyes flick down to your movement and he parts his mouth as that distinctive smirk of his divulges his enjoyment in seeing you so horny for him. “Are you still sticky for me?” 

It’s now that you take the time to fully look at him. There’s a certain glossiness to his long hair that tells you he went home and took a shower before he got inside his car and drove through the quiet night to meet you. You can smell the rosemary of his shampoo and the usual minty aroma of his body wash, blended with his natural musky pheromones and the wood, the tangerine of his perfume. He’s the synthesis of your internal woodland, the breath of the trees that your swan inhales and a punishment, all in one; and you’re not sure if you can hold out any longer. Both emotionally, both physically.

“Very sticky,” you say, wrapping your hands around his arm, descending your fingers down the bulky, wooly material of his winter jacket like you were touching your charging cord—a temporary dream come true. You enclose your palm around his knuckles, think that if he feels how wet you are, he’ll realize that you sentimentally require more than he normally gives you—that your flesh will somehow tell him and give him the bravery to do so. 

But Yoongi doesn’t move an inch. His fingers remain fixed on the inner of your thigh, digging dents into the skin as you feel the bulging of his bicep the more you push his hand towards your wetly clothed cunt. His smile falls, his eyes droop—and the energy is charged with such unnamed intensity that you let go of your pursuit, slipping your fingers beneath the edge of his sleeve as a sign of your submission. 

That quickly. 

“You promised to hold out for me, didn’t you?” he asks, waiting for your agreement, and you nod, feverish, dripping with perspiration, with this great need that towers over you. “Then, be like Daddy and keep your promise or you’re not getting anything.” 

A shiver cascades down your spine—not merely from his authoritative voice, but from the role he dipped into that immediately puts you into yours. You begin to giggle, palming your mouth as the blush in your cheeks bursts and tears of overwhelmingness add a certain glint to your eyes that sparkles beneath the yellow-tinted car interior lights. And using this fatherliness of his, he interweaves your arousal around his long, piano fingers, announcing he’s its King. 

Your essence trickles out of the confines of your panties. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whine, still giggling, you can’t help it. Yoongi takes after you, blessing you with that gummy grin of his that you adore so much. Your heart enlarges. 

“What exactly am I doing on purpose?” he challenges, kneading the flesh of your thigh, and he senses his answer right away. Your essence travels to his hand, stopping there, and once again Yoongi’s smile falls, eyes plummeting to it, hand lifting—and fingers gathering that warm slick. 

And it drips onto his own pants-clad thigh when he plunges his fingers into his mouth, shocking you to your core. 

“Yoongi—”

He hums in titillation, interrupting you, and smacks his mouth. For a brief amount of time, he seems to be in his own world as he tastes you on his tongue. And then, he takes those same fingers, turns the key in the ignition, moves forward the shift stick, and without sparing you a glance, he drives out of his usual parking spot and doesn’t hesitate to correct you. 

“Not Yoongi. Daddy.” 

You clamp your mouth shut. Think you need some kind of plug to stop your arousal from flowing down your thigh. Yoongi doesn’t mention what just happened throughout the whole drive, but you do notice his semi-hard manhood poking out of his groin area. You salivate, but don’t tempt him, squeezing your thighs together so tightly that your muscles cramp. 

You’ll save it for later. 

You listen to him talk about his concert experience of tonight while the drum in your clit matches the beat of the songs of his playlist. He speeds down the road, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and the shift stick, and he doesn’t look at you until he halts the car at the first red light. 

He smiles at you, knowingly. A dirty, dirty smile that turns your world upside down, vexes you deeply—enough for you to swivel your head in the other direction to ignore him because if you looked at him any longer like that, you’d be unbuckling his pants. But Yoongi does what he pleases. With his index finger, he whips your chin back to him, leans over and grins before he presses his lips against yours. 

A gentle, gentle kiss. One that does not mirror his demeanor. 

Your walls flutter, your whole body, too. Shock seizes you in its grasp at that gesture of affection and you can’t breathe—he’s stolen all of the oxygen in your lungs. The trees sway and bend, the swan in you dances quite buoyantly, despite the fact that a storm is coming. 

A storm of your emotions. 

He’s never kissed you like that—out of the blue, at the red light. He kisses you when he’s drunk, handsy and touchy-feely as he everlastingly is, but he doesn’t kiss you just like that when he’s sober. 

“You doing good?” he murmurs against your lips, ripping away the fingers of your shock, and it feels as though you’re waking up from a dream—only to glide, boundlessly, into another one. Yoongi waggles with your chin before he pulls away, the yellow light bathing him in its shade momentarily before the green blinks and he jumps back into his own world. 

Does he really think you won’t erupt in this storm? Disintegrate into smithereens and wipe everything clean that he is? 

“What was that for?” you ask, softly, your lips numb and aching for more of his tenderness, one that you would, in all honesty, die for. You trace the print of his own lips on yours, feel its heavy warmth, and you might as well be drunk just from that. 

You need a shot. And not just one. 

Yoongi bites his bottom lip. “You’re holding out so well. I thought you deserved it.” 

You roll your eyes back—not from raw annoyance, but from the pristine pleasure you receive from the dominant, fatherly energy of his words. Suddenly, you don’t know what to do with your hands, what to say, what to think. What you do know is that you surely will be crying into his pillow by the time this night is over and he’s fast asleep. 

But you can’t cry much. Can’t wake up with puffy eyes. Can’t reveal to him the gravity of your feelings. 

You don’t even remember the moment you realized you loved him. Think you loved him the first time you laid your eyes on him, but you buried it deeply in you—so deeply that you didn’t even recollect your feelings when Yoongi told you, straight away, that this was just a friends with benefits kind of arrangement. Truth be told, this business is the sole kind of relationship you can give him as you hate men. Always hated them. But you don’t hate him. 

He’s not them. He’s different. 

You may have wanted adrenaline and joy tonight, but as you dwell in this state of mind of yours, you slouch deeper into the leather and come to a heartbreaking understanding that you’ll never be happy in this life. 

The night-clothed streets pass by you in soft shapes in colors, disappearing instantly out of your view. And the woodland, the trees and the swan, they disappear, too. Shrouded by the fog of your abysmal sadness. 

***

Yoongi took you to such a small hotel that its luxuriousness pierced your eyes with its glorious light. You thought you were dining and ending the night at his place, but once Yoongi ordered your favorite shots of sweet rum with cocktail cherries, you perceived you were staying here. Perceived he was unknowingly giving you the opportunity to drown your feelings in alcohol as well. 

You almost didn’t wait for him to take his own shot before you downed yours, but hearing the click of his tongue, you stopped midway. And to make sure you did wait, he placed his palm upon your wrist, bringing your arm down onto the table as he ordered your dessert. 

Chocolate ice cream, just for her. Thank you. 

He made everything worse. 

You weren’t sure why you wanted to be so good for him, listening to every order of his that came to his mind. Why you wanted that validation, that praise. You could just do whatever you desired—it wouldn’t scratch your relationship with him. You could be bad and he wouldn’t mind. Hell, you think he would even enjoy it. But why is it your inert yearning to please him so much? It’s devastating—and it’s your personal ruination. Because the more you do things that caress his ego, the deeper the abyss of your feelings for him goes. 

You shouldn’t. Not in the construct of your friendly relations. For the sake of your well-being.

You pry his fingers away and take that shot, watching his eyes grow large in their surprise. You never slide the cherry along with the liquor into your mouth, so once you swallow it, you open it wider and begin to chew it. His brows twitch, his own mouth parting at the sight and he leans back into his chair, completely submitted and enthralled by your act of defiance. 

And it feels good, going against him like that. Living your life by your own decided rules, and not his. 

You don’t hesitate to gulp down the other shot, but it’s not the slight burning of the liquid that gives you the buzz. It’s the way he seems to be completely pleased by your self-will, smiling lazily at you with his head tilted to the side. It propels you to steal his shot, too, and the brief facade of his pleasure collapses. A dark tendril of concern lines his eyes and those brows that twitched furrow, casting a dusky shadow over those slits. 

Now he’s aware of it, the tornado that spins within you. But he doesn’t know the cause of it, the decadent poetry verses that cover it. 

And he’ll never know—he’ll never read them. Because you’d much rather keep it in secrecy than risk losing him for all eternity. Feelings can be hidden, feelings can wander off, lose their bearings until they no longer remember that your body used to be their home. But Yoongi… he’s a person that you meet once in a lifetime. And losing him would mean that you lost not just your life, but the blood pumping in your veins as well.

It’s wrong, being attached like that to someone, regard him this way. And you’re cognizant of the fact it’s temporary—and for that sole reason, you bask in it. Because your life would be prosaic, and not poetic, if you didn’t. 

That is the motto you carry in your pathetic, but strong heart. 

And the darkness of his concern, it intoxicates you more than the last shot you take. 

The backdrop of dining and chattering people sway, just like your past trees, behind him. Manifestations of foreign lives you’ll never witness twice in your life, that are a part of you today and will part from you tomorrow. Yoongi, in the middle, remains stable. A beacon of light, unmoving, a great pillar of fixedness and steadiness. He peers at you through the thickness of his eyelashes, his aura solemn, no longer playful. Your sighs emit out of you in a constant stream while your eyes roam at everything in motion but him and he seems to strongly, strongly dislike that. 

“What’s up with you?” he asks for the second time around this evening, but the question has a loftier ring of seriousness to it. It passes through you, puncturing you until it pokes out of your back and transforms into a pair of monumental wings. Ones, upon which your feelings are mockingly hung, for his eyes to see, but not to recognize.

And the swaying of your body brings forth wetness to your eyes, for it is an anamnesis of the inner world you lost due to the comprehension of your feelings. 

“Nothing,” you say for the second time around, too. A hefty blanket of silence is thrown across the table, scattered with empty shot glasses that were meant to be shared between the pair of you. Unable to look at him, your eyes drop to them, count them—one, two, three, four—and then your irises wind up at his clenched fist. At the white valleys of his knuckles that are composed only when his fingers are wrapped around a microphone. And the blanket of the silence is warmer than the warmth he has given you—a sweltering layer of heartsickness that you can’t bear. With your drunk brain, you think you should pierce it, as if with a needle, with a response to a question he didn’t ask you. “I haven’t eaten much today, that’s why I’ve gotten drunk so quickly.” 

Yoongi runs a tongue down the inner flesh of his cheek. Ponders the information you have given him before he scolds you. “You didn’t eat and you drank four shots in a row. You won’t tell me what it is, fair enough, but I know you’re hiding it behind the pretense of you being horny.” 

His head swivels to the side, sensing a presence. And he watches as the waitress puts down an ornamental plate of two scoops of chocolate ice cream in front of you. You don’t pay her a second of your time. You set your eyes on Yoongi, on the darkness of his energy that you are ever so slowly and magnetically pulled to. 

Yes, he sees the problem, but doesn’t recognize it. He sees the shape of your wings, but he can’t recognize their color. 

The solidness of his call-out quivers. You’re not sure if you’re hiding it; you’re no longer sure about anything at this moment, but you don’t care. You have to stick to your secrecy, you have to keep your feelings safe and tucked away, no matter how far on the edge of the cliff they are. 

“I’m not hiding anything. I was horny,” you retort, not caring that the waitress is still present, picking up your shot glasses. Yoongi gives you a look while you tip your chin down and gaze at him through your long lashes—just like he did. A taste of his own sweet poison. And then you lift your foot and rest it between his outstretched legs, the sole of your stilettos pressing lightly against his soft groin. 

This is fun. This is the adrenaline you were seeking. Who would’ve thought you would be your own provider of that. 

Surprised by the abruptness of your act, he doesn’t let it show on his face, but his hands drift upwards from his thighs before he settles them around the bridge of your foot. He waits for the waitress to finish her job and, sensing the pressure, she scurries away without asking if you wanted to order another round. 

And in her absence, Yoongi begins to touch you. 

He sails his fingernails from your toes up to the thin strap of your shoe, wrapping them around your ankle. He squeezes your limb once, warning you about something you don’t know, his eyes tiny, tiny slits. Perhaps if you keep up with this, the night won’t end so prettily like it normally does. 

But you don’t believe it. You refuse to. And to be frank, you can’t. 

You shall have your fun. 

“Eat your ice cream before it melts,” he orders like the father he is, pointing at the dessert with his irises. 

You look at it, at the bits of the chocolate bars jutting out of it, then back up at him. “Feed it to me.” 

The slits break, his eyes enlarging. His reaction spreads all across his face—brows curling upwards, mouth parting, his thumb absentmindedly swiping across the skin of your shin, exposing how much he liked your request. Such an intimate place for that to happen. 

Then, he examines his surroundings. Then, he gets up from his chair and sits next to you on the booth, taking a hold of the spoon and your leg simultaneously, hooking it over his thigh. Scoops the ice cream and turns to you, his arm suspended in the air. 

“Open,” he rasps, and your eyes wet first before your mouth complies, opening wide for him. Yoongi slides the spoon into your mouth with expert gentleness, careful not to hurt you, and your first tear of the night cascades down your cheek when your mouth closes around the silver, your tastebuds cheering due to the chocolate flavor that overwhelms them. 

Yoongi, the man that could never disappoint you. Yoongi, the man who has given you more fatherly love than your own father ever did. 

How could you not love him? How could you not want more from the casualness of your relationship with him when he treats you like this? When he prepares a warm faith in men within your chest, a wet soil—out of which the tenderest sprout of joy shall grow? 

The second tear cascades down. The ice cream melts on your tongue. You swallow. 

Yoongi sighs, dropping his hands, the corners of his eyes rounding in an emotion you’ve never seen upon him. “You have to tell me what’s going on.” 

Your wings, swan-like, flutter behind you, ruffling the hair on the crown on his head. “The ice cream tastes good.” 

You brush away your tears, lamenting your foolish mistake, and fold your hands on your lap. Give him a teary smile that you can’t hide and open your mouth for him again. Yoongi doesn’t say anything as he continues to feed you and frown at you, not until another waitress comes and asks if you wish to order another round. His anger is evident in his voice as he turns her down, stating you won’t be drinking any more than you have. 

And again, he makes everything worse when he wipes your mouth clean after you finish the dessert. Pats your head to reward you. 

You hold your tears, watch him pay for you, give him your hand when he leads you towards the elevator up to the room where you’ll be staying tonight. 

Him, completely sober; you, drunk out of your mind. 

He doesn’t let go of your hand, even as you and him stand side by side, the silence as thick as death. You can’t stand it, can’t do anything else but to break it all over again. Though this time, you don’t do it with words. 

You do it with your actions. 

Stumbling on your feet like a freshly-born fawn, it’s only then that Yoongi looks at you. Holds you steady as you move in front of him to face him. He doesn’t swim along the current of all these brown shades of the elevator, but you can see a deep emotion waving through his ice-cold eyes that heat up, melt and droop when you envelop your arms around his neck and press your face against the side plane of his, kissing him there a hundred, a thousand times. You sink your fingers into the hair at the nape, tracing circles along his scalp and Yoongi shudders, breathes evenly against you, and it reminds you of the wind that swept past your woodland—the one that made your trees sway. 

All of that is gone because of your mistake. 

And something tells you that nothing will ever be the same. That something groundbreaking awaits you once these elevator doors open. 

And they open too quickly. 

Breaks your wordless actions that speak your gratitude for his fatherly behavior by gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of the elevator. Doesn’t let your aching feet touch the ground until the snugness of the tiny room welcomes you in. A queen-sized bed, a mirror across the wall that faces it, a round table by the balcony. It would be stifling if you were here alone, but Yoongi, somehow with his domineering energy, enlarges the room—makes it his. 

He empties out his pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. A white lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His jacket follows next, hooking it around one of the chairs, and once he notices your wavering feet, he sits down at the edge of the bed and sheds your trench coat, throwing it over his own jacket. Bends at the waist and takes off your heels, one by one. Only then, when you’re comfortable, does he set you down in the center of his lap. And you realize that the mirror is right in front of you. 

You watch him through it. Watch his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck; watch your own form disappear into the buffiness of his body as his hands begin to roam. His watch glints in the dim light of the room and his own being coalesces, becomes one with the murkiness. 

You want to do that, too. Forget who you are. Forget what you’re feeling. 

Tears prick at your waterline and you let out a pained sigh. Another foolish mistake of the night, one you’re about to pay for. 

“Talk to me,” he begs, a wisp of a tiny whiny weaving into his voice inconspicuously, but you catch it—and it vibrates through you, weakening you. It makes it so much harder for you, his unyielding need to know what’s troubling you, but how can you tell him? How can you risk never seeing him again? 

You remain silent, painfully so. 

Yoongi lifts his head from your neck and stares you dead in the eye through the mirror, chilling you down to the bone. 

“You truly think I’m just a guy you fuck?” he spits, his anger on full, unabashed blast that you should’ve seen coming with your restrained behavior, but it’s better to take his anger than to take his absence—and you shall devour that emotion of his. His question causes a hiccup to ensue in your chest, the secrecy of your feelings leaning over the edge of the cliff. Dangerously, dangerously close. “That you can’t confide in me? You think I’m just gonna fuck you and pretend I didn’t see you cry?” Your eyes dart away, a heavy load of agony settling over your heart, but Yoongi prevents you from looking away. Makes you look at him by grabbing your chin and keeping your head still, facing the mirror. “Is that what you want? You want me to be this kind of asshole?” 

You bite your lip, not knowing what to say, not knowing who you want him to be, not wanting to be in this situation at all. But Yoongi can’t stand your silence. Can’t stand the privacy of your trouble, as if he inertly knows that it has something to do with him. 

He softens his touch, but he doesn’t do the same with his voice. 

“Answer me.” 

You cry out in unnamed desperation, which propels Yoongi to lift your head up to him, so you can look at him—so you can see how much this matters to him. The emotion in his eyes vivaciously thumps, urging you to speak to him. He holds you to him like this, gripping your cheeks with the littlest amount of pressure, sucking in small breaths and you can’t. You’re going to explode if he keeps at it, and you’re going to die.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, tiny cries emitting out of your throat, and it’s almost a cry for help. You bunch up his T-shirt in your trembling fist, seizing the solidness of him like your fear seizes you, and you don’t know whether to run or stay put on his lap like this. You’re appalled about where this is going and you’re certain that the same dead end is impatiently seeking you—

Yoongi shushes you. Averts his hand and caresses your hair down. Kisses your forehead, where he lingers a few long seconds that subdue the expression of your storm. Waits until your breathing evens out, so he can unravel the words swelling in him. 

“Even if you asked me, I couldn’t be this kind of asshole to you,” he reveals against that plane of your face, punctuating his sentence by pressing his nose against yours. And you can’t believe his actions, you can’t believe the kind of affection he’s bathing you in; it lessens your fear, slashing it apart until there’s nothing left of it. “Something is hurting your heart and that bothers me. And what pisses me off most of all is that you think I can’t help you.” 

You sniffle and slide your hand upwards to his neck. Try to memorize every inch of this paintwork that your life is graced with as tomorrow won’t have the same paints, the same brushstrokes—

“I’m not gonna fuck you. If you want to be touched, I’ll touch you, but don’t think for a second you’re coming tonight, not if you won’t talk to me,” he murmurs and you gasp, lowly, your wings slumping limply.

The promise of him fucking you was your only salvation for tonight. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, your mouth falling agape, unbelief clutching you at the intensity of his stubbornness. 

And you want to know the meaning behind it. 

“Why?” 

He scoffs, kissing your cheek as if you were a baby he’s cradling, and you can’t take it anymore. You untangle yourself from his grasp and stand up to your feet, your back against the mirror. Yoongi peers at you disapprovingly and then he shakes his index finger at you. Your legs mimic the same movement, trembling, weakening at that. 

“You need to be taught a lesson,” he says and flattens his lips, pauses before he opens his mouth again, but you stop him, despite how much you like it. 

“No, Yoongi. Why are you treating me like this?” 

He props his knuckles against his thighs. A powerful, powerful stance. Curls his lips around his teeth. “Like what?” 

You reflect him. “Like I’m something more.” 

Yoongi chuckles, humorlessly, at that. You spewed it out so rapidly that you don’t realize what you said until he lets out that noise that returns the drum to your sensitive parts. And briefly, as if you uttered something stupid, you grow smaller and smaller—until his following words change your life once and for all. 

“Because you are and because you always have been,” he rasps, the corners of his mouth downturning for a split second, exposing his own secrecy that brings you to your knees. They scruff against the white carpet, stained by time, and Yoongi’s eyes flash with light to see you in this position. 

Your heart hammers with more life than it ever had, with a kind of adrenaline it never felt before, and wetness clouds your vision, misting this situation in a cloud of disbelief. Your lungs fail you, shuddering underneath his hard gaze, and they swell greatly when Yoongi clasps your face in his hand, the one that pointed at you so fatherly, so devastatingly. 

“You’re not just a girl I fuck and I know I’m not a guy you fuck. What we have is irreplaceable, what we do has always been something more, beyond the label we gave it and I regret it,” he lets out, a pained sigh—just like yours—wafting over your features, and Yoongi leans over, propping his elbows on his knees, his other hand joining your face, fingers gripping your hair on each side. “I should’ve treated you more properly, with respect. Take you out on dates. Get to know you. Wait before you let me touch you… because that is what you deserve. You’re not a girl to mess around with. You have a dignity that needs to be taken seriously, that needs to be respected and I wish I had done that. I wish…” he trails off, clicking his tongue in ultimate regret, and you break. You break, break, break. Sob in his hands that hold you so steadily, that give you life, adrenaline and a new meaning to your whole being. Suffocate under his watch, the earth-shattering notion that this has changed the course of your trajectory of your relationship with him forever constricting your throat. “I wish I had allowed myself to court you like you deserve. I wish I had been better mentally, but I’ll make everything right if you want me to. If you want me as much as I want you, I’ll make it right. I’ll try my hardest.”

Your own words, your heartstrings tangle up in a complex manner. Your tongue twists, your speech held back, and you have no control over what comes out of your throat. You’re crawling through a limbo that has no end and each movement you make, the way back gets erased. You need to keep going before it swallows you, but you need him to lead you. You need him inside your skin, inside your heat, inside your mouth. You need to be connected to him in a way you’ve never been connected to him before. You need his breath in your lungs—and your attachment to him bursts in flames. 

Sated, elated, magnificent. 

“Fuck me and make me yours, Yoongi.” 

He sucks in a breath as if he didn’t expect you to accept his favor. The light in his eyes soaks his irises in wetness and his mouth trembles in a tender emotion before he smashes it against yours. And within that lip lock, the swan in you is reborn. 

A baby swan, learning how to sail upon this new, new river—needing her father more than ever before. 

The kiss is hard and the kiss is catastrophic. Yoongi moves his mouth against yours, sucking every bit of your old life out of you to fill you up with newness. Lifts you up and sits you back on his lap. But the kiss is too brief and you soon perceive that his anger hasn’t been shunned out. 

Wet and blue flames lick over his black pools. 

“Not until you tell me what’s bothering you. What I said still applies.” 

The zipper slides down, the straps follow suit—and your silk is ripped away from your body that Yoongi turns over and moves to his preferable position, cradling you sideways like a child. And there—as he gives you a once over, studying the red lace of your lingerie, the swell of your breasts, the little valley of fat upon your tummy, the ruination of your panties and the stickiness of your thighs—there you realize that he’s as punishing you as much as he manipulating you into telling him. 

And it’s as arousing as it is bad. 

His free hand begins to roam while the other one holds you close, wrapped around your back, preventing you from running away. It ghosts over your breasts, causing your spine to arch into his palm and his throat to emit a delicious groan that drenches your panties. His fiery hand ventures down, his tongue gracing you with little praises of how beautiful you are, and when he reaches the V-line of your private parts, he discovers how much his deep voice and his touches affect you. 

He lifts his fingers and catches them glistening in the orange light. And this time, he doesn’t plunge them into his mouth. No, he sinks them inside your own. You swirl your tongue around them, coaxing that throaty noise of his that makes your hips buck up. Your tangy sweetness stupefies you and your so-loved woodland is remolded by that intimate act. By your connected gaze that could start a foreign war and bring the world down. 

“Suck on them,” he orders, and you comply. Hollow out your cheeks, make sucking noises as you find everything you ever searched for in his eyes. Stability, warmth, a father. Switch, cutely, between sucking them and dancing your tongue around them. His index and pinky fit just right between the elongated clefts of your cheeks and he coos, grows hard underneath you, kisses the tip of your nose, onto which he whispers: “Such a good little girl.” 

You moan and he reacts so trenchantly fast, withdrawing his fingers and using them to slide your panties to the side, placing them on your clit and not moving. 

“So swollen,” he comments, kissing you for a beat of time without closing his eyes, without missing this moment. “I like it when you’re like this. Swollen, dripping and so horny for me. Like I’ve never taken care of you before.” He glides his fingers down, past your lips to your hole before going back up, rooting on your throbbing clit before starting over. He etches desperation into your veins, stirs your butterflies to madness, and you breathe heavily. “No one will ever see you like this. No one, you hear me?” 

Your nod is automatic, thoughtless, and he’s pleased to the core. Enough that he begins to massage circles on your clit, your wings fluttering, no longer limp, but full of zest. And he can sense it—and it touches him so much that he deepens the pressure while the circles remain agonizingly slow. Your body writhes. Yoongi smirks down at you, grins fully when you clutch the nape of his neck and make little noises into his T-shirt. And just as soon your vision begins to blur and you reach the cusp of your orgasm, he stops.

“What’s hurting you?” 

He reciprocates your feelings, so you have no reason not to tell him. It’s more of a problem with your speech. You’re so fucked out that you can’t speak. 

Yoongi waits for a few seconds before he spanks your pussy. Maneuvers you so you can look at yourself in the mirror, your back against his chest, and he collects your arousal while he pins back your thigh, drifting all four of his fingers along your femininity, stimulating you and punishing you at the same time. Then, he lets you see your slick trickling out of his digits. 

“Look how wet you are, don’t you want to come?”

He’s a dark figure behind you while you are a small creature, spread wide, drooling, dressed in a sinful shade of red that doesn’t indicate her purity, whose smeared red mouth leaks loud, whiny whimpers when he sticks one of those fingers inside your heat, adding another one right away once you accommodate around him. He fucks you with a force that reverberates throughout your whole body and his name that pours out of your mouth like a prayer is a cry for help all over again. He pumps his fingers and pulls away, edging you in such a sinister way that drives out your tears. 

He worsens your condition—like he invariably does. But the rapidness of his pace, it unlocks your mouth, it untwists your tongue, and you begin to babble. 

Incoherent words, nonsense noises; sounds that blossom in volume when he withdraws ultimately, pushes the lace of your bra away from your breasts and kneads them with wet fingers. 

And you erupt, at last, when he flicks your nipples. You flood his pants-clothed thighs and knees, your slick streaming all the way to the carpet. And the river continues on with his words.

“I know you want this cock. I know you want it deep in you. But you’re not getting it if you don’t tell me right now what it is you’re using me to forget about,” he whispers into your ear, tweaking your nubs, his hands descending down your body and pinching your clit. You cry out, the aftershocks of pleasure dizzying you, his manipulation technique in full effect, and you’ll give it to him. Because of his cock, because of his affection. “You have three seconds. One, two, three—”

“I love you,” you confess, screaming it out of your lungs, and his eyes enlarging and his mouth parting in shock is all you see before you’re thrown on the bed.

Before your panties are ripped in half and flung behind him. 

Before your pussy is eaten and fingered in a way that makes you come in four heartbeats. 

Yoongi’s skilled tongue flicks your clit, his fingers curl in that special spot that bespeckles your vision with the stars of the night sky beyond the hotel room window. And you don’t latch onto the fact you’ve drenched him with your juices until he straddles your thigh, arches over you and kisses you with love-drunkenness, his fingers sliding back inside. 

And he doesn’t start fucking you until he confesses something, too. 

“I love you, too.” 

His digits drill you, his eyes pierce your soul and your orgasms are countless like this, not bound to time, not bound to anything at all. You squirt on him, bathe him in the newness of your relationship, cleansing off the old. And then he’s inside of you, murmuring reassuring words against your mouth about how that shouldn’t be troubling your heart. And you cry, you sob, you scream, overtaken by it all, your mouth numb by his constant hard kisses and if you ever belonged to him in the past—you didn’t. Because at this moment, as he stuffs you full of his cum, you’re interwoven into his DNA for all eternity. 

One that he nurtures as he holds you in his arms and asks you about how long you’ve loved him. And he in return tells you that he loved you the moment you first had a taste of what he could give you—laughter, guidance, and orgasms. All from the first date. 

And when you kiss him for the last time before sleep steals you away, you know that you’ll never lack adrenaline in your life ever again. As long as you’re with him, you’ll be on the receiving end. And his unchanging promises will make you look forward to each day, your batteries charged and green—like your blooming woodland.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

warnings: heavy daddy issues (ofc), dom/sub dynamics, punishment, spanking, edging, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), nipple play, deep-throat, degradation kink, squirting, the horniness is too much, bratty behavior, smoking and vaping, dirty talk, no condom, multiple rounds, multiple positions, miscommunication trope, jungkook is delicious and cruel.

note: i jinja can’t believe this is real. jungkook came live on hoseoksluna’s comeback and i still haven’t recovered. i can’t believe that i finally wrote something that i’m proud of and that i’m finally showing it to you. while he was live, i was making the same matcha that is mentioned in the fic and it just feels like a dream come true, a story coming full circle. you’ll see what i mean by the time you finish reading this fic. please, don’t forget to give me a warm welcome and give me ALL of your thoughts. i missed you all sooooo much, and i’m already thinking about what to write about next. I LOVE YOU ALL, ENJOY READING. MWAH.

The days were cruel. 

In an unimaginable way that made you cranky. The days were blistering hot; the sun grazed its round face against your skin too feverishly. The bees foolishly thought you were a flower, put together on this earth to refresh them and fill their backs with pollen, sending you into a spiral of fear of such great weight that the whole town heard you yelp and scream. And your boyfriend was out and about in the faraway city of Seoul, bulky and masculine, but still the same Jeonggguk, making his name bigger in the world by crafting an album with his closest brothers. 

You were alone with the bees. And you were alone with your… loneliness, which had many shades. 

Blue for when you missed the quintessence of his presence. His softness, and the gentleness that was the true core of his openness, his warmth and his lovingness. All of which was palpably manifested through his most prominent love language: acts of service. Making you breakfast, fixing you a quick lunch, making you dinner with snacks and desserts in between. Washing your fruits, then watching you eat them with the kind of joy only a person like him could radiate. Making you matcha. Filling up your water bottle without you ever asking. Tying the shoelaces of your favorite sneakers or helping you with the clip of your most-beloved heels. Washing your hair, lathering your body in your colorfully scented body butters and creams… massaging you. 

The very gesture interlaced with the second shade. 

Burgundy was for when you missed the physicality only a man like him could offer you. The big muscles he worked when he jackhammered his fingers in and out your heat just to see how many times you could squirt for him in two minutes. The rawness of his competitive nature that would come up to the surface more vehemently than ever, more eagerly and more yearningly than the world had even seen. For you, he would unload your burdens, your bad days and your moods with his mouth and his cock, fucking it out of you until your mind was blank, praising you for taking it so wonderfully, for letting him empty you out of the lousy and filling you up with something else he very much enjoyed watching leak out of you. 

You missed him. You fucking missed him. And counting the days wasn’t helping when your body flushed with this burgundy shade. Has been flushing for weeks. Your own fingers weren’t much of a help, cramping when trying to mimic his speed and his technique, and cumming on your own was as dissatisfactory as not cumming at all. 

You were coming home on your own. Getting the groceries on your own. Matcha, skincare. Even the cleaning was bland and dull without the melodious sound of his singing voice, the warmth of his humming, the depth of his conversational skills. 

He isn’t supposed to be returning to the stillness of the town for another couple of days, but you can’t spend another minute delving any further into the realm of your memories with him. Living there, instead of the reality—of your life with him, the life he changed forever. You’re not the type to bother your partner while he is at work, but he has been gone for such a long time and the messages and phone calls haven’t been so frequent, and the liquid heat that pools beneath your panties just isn’t so bearable at the moment. 

And you’re hot. Dying of heat. And you want some ice cream. 

Before your mind is registering what your body is doing out of its own fervent will, you're listening to the ringing on the other side of the phone. A bee buzzes to the left side of you as you make yourself more comfortable on the plushy chair Jeongguk got for you on his balcony, the noise mingling with the repetitive other one. And when he picks up, you don’t even realize it—because the bee flies towards you. 

You scream. Flit your hands. Shriek at it to go away, and the slender yellow creature quickly flaps its wings in the other direction. Away from you, frightened by your reaction, expecting a much different one. 

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest and you take a minute to calm down. It isn’t until you hear Jeongguk calling your name that you snap back to the present moment, and the flesh relaxes at the sound of his voice. 

“What happened?” he asks, a hint of amusement lacing his deep, raspy voice, which divulges to you that he might have a fraction of an idea of what just went down. 

A pout naturally forms, the heavy feeling of his absence expanding in your soul. “A bee attacked me.” 

He chuckles, but the sound is so soft and amiable that it doesn’t scar your heart. On the opposite, his sympathy reloads the void within your sternum, and you suddenly feel the need to grab onto something in order to ground yourself.

“No,” he coos, prolonging the vowel, and you squeeze the suppleness of your bare thigh as you feel his voice reaching the very middle of your lap. It doesn’t really make the situation better. “Are the bees bothering you?” 

“Yes, they are,” you bite just as soon as he asks the question, as if it were his fault that they kept stumbling into his balcony. Perhaps, they miss him, too. “Because they’re looking for you.” 

Jeongguk hums, thinking about what you just said. Clicks his tongue and sighs. “Are they?” 

You hum just the same, in agreement. Don’t expect his following question. 

“What about you?” 

Your breath hitches in your lungs, and your heart skips almost immediately. The thought of what he would do if he were here skyrockets into the canvas of your mind, and the burgundy hue lengthens. You need him. You need him to protect you from the bees, fuck you on this balcony and then take you inside for a continuation of the pleasure, deepening it on the bed. 

“Yes,” you admit, shamelessly, sinking your teeth into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Way more than they are.” 

He chuckles, his raspy adoration spreading in the sound, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together. And you squeeze them harder when he says, “oh yeah?” 

You nearly whimper. Or perhaps the noise does come out, you don’t know because you’re so overwhelmed with your need for him that everything feels stifling and tight and he has the right pair of hands to undo the knots and the damage. And soon, you do know—because Jeongguk does the thing you didn’t have the guts to ask for.

“Princess, put on a pretty dress and wait for me outside. I’ll be there in fifteen,” he murmurs into the phone, zapping you with an amalgamation of shock and pure joy. You gasp, springing up to your feet, and it takes a minute or two before reality descends over your mind, and you engulf him with your words of worries and are you sure’s, which you don’t really hear. Not over the drum of your heartbeat. 

But the one who instigated it also stills it with the smooth, homely melody of his voice. 

“Oppa will manage, don’t you worry about it,” he reassures you, smacking his mouth as he licks his lips. Momentarily, you think about the kind of noises it would make somewhere down below between your thighs until he continues his sentence. “You worry about that dress. The prettier it is, the harder I fuck you in it.” 

You let him hear your sharp intake of breath. Let him hear the influence of his dirty words as they course down your body with the whimpery sigh that leaves your parted lips. And a bud of embarrassment opens and flourishes in your cheeks when he laughs. 

At you. 

And you’re reminded of how truly mean he can be in bed, even though he doesn’t look the part. For a blink of an eye, you fold yourself into the earliest memory you can find in your mind. Of him edging you with his fingers massaging your swollen clit until your tears lined your vision and you had to beg him to make you cum. You feel the center of your panties dampen at that, but you can’t go any further into that recollection. The teasing snarks of his band members and harmonizing voices in the background snap you out of it, and you feel so empty that your mouth corners downturn. Empty with the kind of void only Jeongguk can fill. 

You’re horny, sweltering, and you miss his body. Miss him. 

“Alright then. Can you get me some ice cream on the way?” you ask, tracing invisible patterns on your thigh, your sweat creating a heavy layer on your skin, one of utmost discomfort. The throbbing in your sensitive bundle of nerves only adds to that, despite your phony nonchalance. 

And Jeongguk makes it so much worse. 

“It depends,” he says, ever so seriously, and your bottom lip juts out in a bratty way. “Have you been good while I’ve been away?” 

If being good meant you stroked your pussy while your face was buried in his pillow during those two long weeks of him sleeping in a cold, foreign bed somewhere in Seoul, then yes. You were good. 

Exceptionally good. 

And you tell him. 

“Very good.” Your voice springs to an octave higher, playfulness lacing it sweetly, enough to coax out a soft grunt out of your boyfriend, only for your ears to hear. You surely do hope that none of his band members are around and that his phone is fixed to his own ear because you murmur: “I’ve played with my clit so much that it hurts now.” 

Well, it was half truth, half lie. You did go hard enough last night that you couldn’t do another round, whatever number you were at—you can’t really remember. The muscle became so sensitive and so sore that a sting shot up your sternum when you tried to touch it again, so you let it be. And this morning, in the shower, there was no pain to speak of. You merely said it just to pull his attention to this very pressing matter: your fingers weren’t enough to satisfy your need for him, and you yearned for his own, for his tongue, and for the manhood between his legs that tore up your old life and construed a brand new one. 

Jeongguk growls into the phone, and you can hear the loud, indignant thud of his car door closing. A smirk is drawn on your lips, that very easily. The promise of being redeemed by his ruthless strokes hangs in the air and sweat, excitement and a dark layer of a sensual craze coats you tighter, drives you mad, pushes you into that little role you found your home in the moment you met Jeon Jeongguk. 

The sub space welcomes you, and your boyfriend locks you inside with his following words. 

“That doesn’t sound like you were very good,” he disagrees, and you can almost see him flexing his jaw and gritting his teeth, the action causing that delicious dimple to make a dent in his chewy cheeks, the one you like cumming on so wetly. Because if there’s anything that he’s fundamentally against, it’s you touching yourself without him being present. He regards it unethical when he reminds you every now and then that he owns those dewy little princess parts. And whenever he leaves, whether it be for a tour or promotional events, he very sternly orders you to be good and to not touch your little clit. 

You’ve never had the guts to disobey. You were always eager for his praise and validation whenever he came back to find you dripping wet and swollen, two, three weeks without an ounce of orgasm dopamine. This time, you gathered the courage to rock the boat—but not because you had the craving to be bad, but because there was something different about his absence. 

Be it the aftereffect of the military, you simply couldn’t go any longer without this key part in your life—because truth be told, the sex was everything to you. Intimacy with Jeongguk was the tree of your spine that held your body upwards, its lengthy roots the pathways of your veins. His pheromones, sweat, the mint of his breath, the milkiness of his body wash clinging to his body—that was your oxygen. His grunts, moans, growls and whimpers were the music you needed for your soul’s and mind’s refreshments. And his cum…

You moan his name, brazenly and crazedly, at the thought of his cum. And you perceive what you’ve done when Jeongguk austerely calls you by your own, and you dumbly make a confused noise in response. 

And he’s seemingly had enough.

“That’s it. I’ll deal with you when I get home,” he grumbles, and ends the call. The beeping noise signaling what you’re about to face takes its time getting through the mashed potato your brain has become, and it is the clamorous fluttering of another pair of a bee’s wings that propels your body to awaken and jump to action. 

You grab your green glass of matcha and your phone, and you run back inside. Though the lack of solidness to your brain remains. 

Your thighs are slick with your yearning, your mouth dry and ashy. You feel as though you’ve done something very wrong, and that a punishment awaits you. A great punishment that might elevate your relationship or utterly diminish its wonderful spell. The bee tries to get inside through the transparency of the window, and it reminds you of all the times you got in trouble on purpose for your father to notice you. You realize that you’re nearly doing the same thing now, though not with your father, but another equally important male figure in your life—bumping your head against the glass again and again, despite the fact you know and you’ve seen that the way doesn’t lead there. 

Asking for his time, for his attention… not with your words, but with the rosy wickedness of your actions. Lies, pretense, challenge. 

You’re ashamed of your actions, and it is an ice-cold, prickling sensation beneath your skin. And because of it, your matcha tastes bitter when you slurp it all in one go, no matter how much you sweetened it with the honey Jeongguk bought. The same honey he told you to eat a spoonful of everyday for good health and your throat, made scratchy with the persistent cough caused by your constant smoking. 

How he cares for you, and how little you appreciate it. 

A certain inkling to fix yourself inflames your heart, and because of that—you listen to what Jeongguk told you to do, and you pick out the prettiest dress you own. The one you can’t really wear outside, but only inside due to the sheerness of the fabric. Black and short, ending barely beneath the suppleness of your butt, with an additional slit to accentuate your thighs. Teeny tiny straps, easy for his teeth to tug down your shoulders. And the stretched, long tiger stripes that adorn the fabric, and that do absolutely nothing to cover your nakedness. 

You don’t feel sexy in the dress. Not even when you fluff up your hair. Not even when Jeongguk takes his time and you smoke two cigarettes on the balcony, waiting for his matching black car to appear on the driveway. Not when you’re trembling with the weight that you got yourself in some serious, irredeemable trouble, which results in him not wanting to come home to you at all. 

But the beeping of the lock does find your ears. The quiet shuffling of his feet, the rustling of a plastic bag, the jingling of the plush animal hung over the strap of his bag. You’re not smoking anymore, so you let the balcony door open, and you don’t look back when the shuffling of his socked feet draws closer and closer— 

His warm, large, calloused palm touches the crown of your head. 

No hello’s are spoken aloud, but shared intimately and silently between the interlocking of even warmer, plumper lips. You didn’t even get to get a good glance at him, and he’s deepening the kiss, as if compensating for all those weeks he didn’t get to kiss you at all. His body heat is soaring, dipping into your skin, melting down the severity of your guilt and shame, and if he didn’t pull away and almost fix everything with the intensity of his stare, you would break into liquid, sorrowful emotions. 

Dark, doe eyes, twinkling. The extreme, bottomless outer space of utter blackness, which holds everything. The eyes of a wounded animal, having lost his mother and his home, belonging to a man, capable of making his own home. And that’s the essence of Jeongguk, this split persona that you will never cease to love. 

Hardness and softness, meeting somewhere in the middle. 

Silky hair, falling into that gentle creek of his eyes, damp with the summer air. He glints in the sun—in fact, the entirety of the star reflects off of him as he soaks it, and you soak him, too. Enough that you split into two sides, in which you’re happy to see him and at the same time, you feel as though you don’t deserve to see him at all. 

But Jeongguk sinks his fingers deeper into your hair, bends at the waist again and sinks a tender kiss into the arch of your forehead, lingering there, inhaling you. Spreads the sun into your body until light catches you, takes a hold of the heaviness you carry inside. Doesn’t take it away, not at all. Merely holds it with you, for it’s his job to make it disappear. 

And he does when he withdraws his hand to rummage in the white plastic bag in his other one, and pulls out your favorite strawberry popsicle. 

The sun rays burst in your eyes. Push at the back of them, inviting your tears. 

But they don’t come. Jeongguk stops them with his words. 

“Do you deserve it?” 

The intensity of the moment thumps between you and him, and your guilt threatens to seize your emotions, but Jeongguk crouches in front of you and unwraps the sweet treat you hankered for all day. Holds it up before you, seemingly waiting for your answer, but he doesn’t. 

He speaks again. 

“Did you miss me that much?” 

Now he waits, now he wants to consume your answer with the way he narrows his round eyes, with the way the corner of his puffy mouth twitches upwards and stays there. The amusement fans off from him, and he’s not doing anything to hide it. As a matter of fact, he gladly allows you to see it, bask in it, settle in it. 

That’s the core of his meanness. As small as it is, as shrouded and imperceivable as it has been all this time, its influence is boundless. It straps you down, renders you boneless. But something in its heart requests the presence of your former naughtiness. 

And he proves it to you by his sudden impatience. 

Jeongguk stands up. Your impassioned eyes travel far up with how tall he is, and you can’t help but regard how pretty he is against the gradient of blue and ochre upon the canvas of the sky. A momentary observation that steals the breath out of your lungs before the nerve center of your inner challenge is incited. 

He lifts the hem of his oversized dark gray T-shirt and shows you his groin. 

Not even the excessive bagginess of his jeans can conceal the hard-on he’s sporting. 

His girth, pumped full and thick, creates an outline in his pelvis that causes you to salivate. It reaches his left hip, being fastened to the side like that by the tightness of his ivory Calvins, which peek out from the waistband. His fist also reveals a little bit of his tummy as he holds up his shirt, and there’s so much drool collecting in your mouth that you have a difficult time swallowing it all. 

Your eyes flick back to his manhood, and you think about how easily your lips could glide along its side after you’d slobber all over him. That familiar heat brushes across your mound, your folds moistening, and your mind is wiped clean. 

Jeongguk appears to be intently watchful of your return to your sub space, and you adore the feeling of it. Adore the feeling of him stepping into his own role as your dom. The dynamic is unspoken, always has been, and something tells you that this fact is about to change. 

“You see what you’ve done to me?” he rasps, his arousal clawing at his voice, clawing at you, stimulating your body to want more, yet giving it the sense and the focus it needs to hear what he’s trying to tell you. The popsicle melts and drips at his side, making a mess on the balcony floor. “I had to drive so slow I had the cars honk at me and cuss me out because all I could hear and see in my mind is you moaning and touching yourself to the thought of me.” He grunts, and your muscles jerk in response, calling out for him. The sun is scorching hot inside you, swallowing every bit of your being. And you’re not ignorant to the pang of disappointment that collides with it, when he lets the hem of his shirt drop. “And when I get home, I see you in this dress. Tell me, why are you making it so difficult for me?” He lets his shoulders droop, can’t stand the distance, parts your legs with his, meets your forehead, one hand on the back of your chair, the other—the busy one—in front of you. “I need to fuck you,” he breathes out, fumes, bites his lip. “I need to spank that ass raw for making me rethink everything I’ve ever done or felt.” He pauses, tilts his head, and when that icy dollop of the popsicle plummets to the inner of your thigh, you mewl so devastatingly that he growls and sinks his nails into the plush of the back of the chair. Sucks in heavy breaths through his teeth, inches closer and closer to your lips. He can’t see what the popsicle has done to you, not just yet, because—“I need to watch you play with your little clit for me. I need you to misbehave. It’s just so—” 

And he doesn’t finish his sentence because he kisses you senseless. 

Promptly, he parts your mouth open and slips his tongue inside, groaning at the taste of redemption because he was wrong for forbidding you from being intimate with yourself. The movement of his lips closing is harsh, bruising, but you take it all, take in this newness, this change to the dynamic of the relationship, and you submit so easily that it feels freeing. 

He’s in charge, but he’s given you freedom. 

“I’m gonna make it nice and wet for you.” 

And it is now that, as he kisses you for the last time—more tenderly than before, as if the indication of your pussy softened him, that he notices the ichorous pea of the pink popsicle that has dropped onto your thigh. His hand is tinged with the runny mass, creating veins of white and the same pink, which cascade down his wrist. One of the sun beams, the richest of them all, shimmers in his eyes, and the heaven’s canopy darkens when he swears and dips to your smeared thigh, without averting his gaze, and collects the pea with his wet tongue. 

The moan that comes out of you in response instigates him to grip both of your thighs and push your hips forward, nearly over the edge of the chair. And he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time, and nosedives into your scorched dewiness, seizing your pussy with his whole mouth. And the sensation of his flat tongue against your lips, your outer folds and finally your clit… you let your head drop back and flutter your eyes shut, your moans a continuous stream, which supports his tongue’s potency in licking that already swollen pearl over and over.

But Jeongguk doesn’t like that you’ve closed your eyes. His dominance manifests in full glory, and he withdraws, much to your disappointment. It takes some time for you to fully emerge out of that stupor he’s caused you with his prowess, but he hastens the process. Skillfully so. 

“Look at me while I eat your pussy or I won’t,” he slurs, stupefied just the same, as if he craved your pussy just as you have craved him, and he’s drunk on the sentiment of it all. 

Your eyes flung open, barely, drooping within this overbearing energy. 

Jeongguk’s mouth cracks into a soft smile. “That’s it,” he praises from between your thighs, which he pushes further back into your chest and spreads as far as they can go. Then, he faintly kitten licks your clit. Makes your body zap with the delicate, yet strong surge of pleasure he gives you. Your moan is breathy, but he wants more. You can see it on him long before he voices it out. “Are you not speaking to me?” 

Then, he shocks you with his following action. 

He runs the tip of the popsicle over the top of your bare mound, stopping right at the sensitive spot before your clit. Your chest shudders, the stimulation so cruel but so good, evoking the memory of the first and the last time he edged you, the last time he was mean. You don’t even remember the reason, only the fervent moment was dug deeply in the soil of your mind. And you don’t even know why you’re not speaking—you’re overwhelmed, overfilled with yearning, which is dotted with the last bits of guilt and shame you have. 

But the awareness of what you need dawns upon you. 

You need a conversation. 

“I thought I was in trouble,” you admit quietly, your lips forming that natural pout of sadness. Jeongguk’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice and at the meaning of your words, and time beats twice as he comprehends the information you’ve given him, his irises fixed on your own before they slope down to your pout. 

He licks his lips. Meets your eyes again. Dominant, sharp, ready to resolve. 

“You were,” he adds his own admission, keeping the eye contact intact as he slides the popsicle further down. Its iciness on your clit releases a vulgar moan out of your mouth, the pleasure so vivid and so loud within your body, unlike anything you ever felt in your life. Your thighs shake in his hold and he presses them harder against your chest, his fingers making dents in their thickness. He lets the popsicle dwell there, moving it up and down ever so slowly but firmly, and you feel your dewiness drip down your skin. You rock against it, your eyes flitting as they roll back, and Jeongguk laughs, bitterly. “Until I realized how much I liked it.”

You whimper. The coldness, his words—it’s too much. You furrow your brows and push his hand away, sticking your knees together in overstimulation. Jeongguk obliges, getting the message, replaces the popsicle with his mouth, warming up your pussy. He sucks your clit, watching as your long lashes fan over your eyes, but before you could focus on the pleasure and on your eventual orgasm, he’s gone. 

Ponders his thought before he releases it. “I never thought you would do that,” he continues with his admission, kissing your clit, your fold, your pelvic bone. Your heart jumps, the subtle pleasure enabling your brain to think. “Rub your pussy to the thought of me, I mean,” he explains, brushing his lips over the skin of your inner thigh. Your hand extends out and rakes through the soft ebony of his hair above his ear, encouraging him to carry on. “I always thought you would do it while watching someone else, and I wouldn’t survive that.” A graceful patch of rosiness forms on his cheeks and he shies away, into your thigh, having shown his emotions and the apparent, deeply-set insecurity strung throughout your relationship. 

And it clicks. 

The reason why he doesn’t let you touch yourself is because he’s possessive. And his self-esteem is so insubstantial that he thought you’d rather watch other guys than envelop your self-pleasure around him and the memories he perfumed your life with. 

Your heart sinks, heavy and laden with his burden. It wrecks you, the fact he thinks so low of himself, that he thinks he isn’t worth your alone time while he’s away, and you sit up. Surprise him as you do so. Grab his face, hug him to your chest and hold him like that. 

Hold him as you affirm him of reality. 

“I spent these past two weeks with my nose buried in your pillow because it made my memories of the way you fucked me seem more real,” you say into his hair, the scent of milkiness, honey and cotton filling up your nostrils, intoxicating your brain. Jeongguk listens with his mouth parted and cheeks flaring, his breath heavy against your bosom, and when he kneels and drags you down with him to sit you on his lap, you let him. Gaze into the darkened, dreamy creek of his eyes. Take a dip inside. Try not to grind against his hard manhood, but his wandering hands already begin to do the job. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, tilting his head to go for your neck, peppering the column with the softest kisses and the graze of his teeth as his hands control the back-and-forth motion of your pussy against his denim-clad length by gripping your ass. The popsicle has been discarded forever ago, you guess, and his smeared, cold hands get warmed up easily by your scorching skin, which he fondles, squeezes, all while still maintaining the control. 

But you haven’t finished. Not quite yet. 

You run your fingers through his hair and sigh in all the world’s delight. “Why would I look at different guys in porn when I have the hottest man in the world? Just your selca would make me cum in a minute.” 

He groans, and his hot breath is the last thing you feel before the sinking of his teeth overcomes your senses. 

Jeongguk bites your neck. And you definitely need a cigarette or two after this. 

The drumming in your clit heightens. You can almost hear its music in your head when he soothes the bite with the lap of his tongue, sucking the skin right after and… you’ve nearly forgotten what you two were talking about, had he not backtracked—right there, upon the column of your abused neck. 

“I still want to punish you, just for the fun of it,” he says, and you take two seconds to remember what you did to deserve the play-pretend punishment he speaks of. That much he emptied out your brain with that one singular gesture. “Can I?” 

Oh, and he asks. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

You whimper his name, his delicious, pretty name, and force him to look at you. Teary eyes, more rounder than ever, tender and lenient, so terribly weak and horny. And those cheeks, so cutely stained with his carmine meekness. You could eat him, you could chew him—and you wouldn’t have enough. 

Such a lamblike man, begging to punish you. 

“Punish me,” you purr, puckering your lips through the unfolding of your seductiveness. “I’ve been so bad, doing something you told me not to do.” 

The game begins, and Jeongguk is a man of his time. Leads your legs to wrap around his torso. Raises himself to his feet with you clinging to him like this without huffing a breath of exhaustion, and you squeal in surprise—reckoning soon after that he probably lifts more than you weight. You’re not ignorant to the tingle it brings to your bundle of nerves, and you grind against his stomach, pepper the same kisses to his neck that he gave you, but when he shifts his hands and holds you with just one, you pause and see that he’s fetching the abandoned popsicle and incorporating it into the game.

Your stomach jumps.

In a minute, you’re thrown on the bed. The gossamery, white canopy, hung over it, rustles with the incoming summer wind rushing through. And with your legs spread, sticky and and half-soppy with your essence, you watch him watch you. Watch him suck on the popsicle and swallow the sweet delight, his Adam’s apple bobbing in that very way you find so appealing. The strawberry scent clasps to him, and you’re so hungry for him that merely the treat retracing its pathway down his ashy-pink wrist makes you drool. Your breathing accelerates, and you wonder why he’s not doing anything—just to soon realize that this is a part of the punishment. 

And he confirms it with his following words. 

“You’re not getting the ice cream,” he decides, sternly, coaxing out your slick. It’s bare and raw for his eyes to see, but he doesn’t look there. He intently studies your reaction, reveling in the way his power over you affects you, and all you can think about is how his meanness has finally come to take its rightful place. He smacks his mouth, hums, makes this so much worse for you, makes you crave something that only he can decide if you can have or not. 

And he smirks. 

“Besides,” he continues, sticking out his tongue to catch a large dollop, flattening it on the side as he drags it back up, pulling a pathetic moan out of you. Your body vibrates, your muscles tense up and your hands fist the covers. “I haven’t heard you apologize to me, have I?” 

The two words collect in your mouth, but you swallow them. Just for the fun of it. 

The hefty silence wafts between the pair of you, charged with the intensity of the moment. You narrow your eyes at him, playfully, and like him, you drag the tip of your tongue over the arch of your upper lip. His brows twitch, and you’re sure something else you’re severely hungry for twitches, too. The notion of it brings your hands to wander over your stomach, nearing dangerously close to your breasts and perked nipples, poking through the black, pellucid fabric. 

“I have nothing to apologize for,” you say, your voice a low vibrato. Jeongguk chuckles, finishing the popsicle, his stained, tattooed hand glistening in the dimmed light. The yellows and blues outside have darkened to the fullest, too, resembling the coat of the bees you fear so much. 

His smirks deepens and slightly widens, that dimple exceeding yet again in rearranging your guts. “Bratty fucking mouth.” 

Your breath hitches, stopping your panting, and the dynamic impacts him just as well because abruptly, with his clean hand, he pulls out his pink vape and takes a hit. And you’ve never witnessed anything hotter. 

And you were wrong. Prematurely wrong. Because as he puffs out the ivory, strawberry-scented smoke, he straddles you and kisses you, madly. Bites your lower lip when he pulls away. And then, then, he uses your open mouth to stick the middle two of his popsicle-coated fingers inside. 

He hits your gag reflex, and he moans when he hears it, unbuckling his pants. Doesn’t let you clean his fingers in all entirety because as soon as he pulls out his drooling cock, reddened and swollen, he stains it pink with the residue of the sweet treat. Holds it for you at the base, grabs the back of your neck, and pushes your head to take him. 

“Here’s your popsicle, baby.” 

That is the hottest thing you ever witnessed. 

The heavy feeling of him, the warmth, the veins all across your tongue when he swiftly fucks your mouth. It was all worth the turmoil, the waiting. Your eyes are fixed upwards, unblinking, boring into his as he grits his teeth, trying his hardest to last. And you can’t really believe it, having him in your mouth like this, finally. You feel as though you’re merely soaring on a cloud of dreams, and you need something to ground yourself with. 

You grab his fingers. The dirty, tattooed ones. 

Jeongguk slows down. Pulls out of your mouth. Bends to your level. Your heart skips a beat, regarding his sweaty, aroused countenance. “Did it taste good?” 

You nod, without hesitation. “I want more.” 

Your throat is raw. You missed this, missed being changed so visibly by something so vulgar. And you want to be devastated to smithereens, only to be put back together with the same healing hands and kisses. 

But Jeongguk shakes his head. “No.” 

But he fondles the knuckles of your fingers before he lets go, a fond reminder that this is just a game. Grabs a fistful of your hair to give you a nasty, wet kiss before he continues them down your neck and collarbone, only to hastily turn you around to your stomach. Your short dress has ridden up so much that he doesn’t need to do anything to see your full bareness. And he fleetly observes his favorite part on your body before the rough palm of his hand smacks down on it. Hard. 

The burning sensation makes you yelp into the covers, but he wants to hear it. Comes over to the side and grabs your face. 

“On your knees.” 

You comply, sticking your ass up in the air, drawing out a pleased hum out of his chest. He follows the arched curve of your spine, landing another spank to the other cheek. Harder than the last one. 

“Apologize,” Jeongguk orders again, inches closer to your lips until they’re almost touching, brushing up and down, ever so slowly and torturously. “I know you can do it,” he whispers, encouraging you, the words sending a thrill of shivers down your back. “I know you wanna be a good little princess for me.” 

Goosebumps dot your flesh, and Jeongguk chases them. There, over the small of your back, connecting them as if they were sparkly beads of constellations, created for his slender fingers. He permits your heart to beat two times as you purposefully keep your mouth shut and, snickering to himself, he squeezes your ass harshly before he spanks both cheeks. 

Shifting your mind from the acute pain, he straightens your body, letting you kneel on the bed as he tugs you flush to his body, one arm wrapped around your back. You’re so small before him, hidden by the mass of his muscles. If someone were to come in, they wouldn’t see you at all. Jeongguk coos at that, arching a little over you to place his lips against your ear. 

The proximity, his breath, his cock pressed against your ribs, the hardness of his body rubbing up against your perked nipples—you can’t take it anymore. Your own breathing becomes irregular, and you grip and pull at his useless clothes, asking for friction, for relief, for the open oasis that his cock offers—

“Not tonight, huh?” he asks mutely, kneading the back of your thighs, your ass, the womanliness of your hips, stilling your motions. “Tonight you wanna be Oppa’s little slut?” 

Your mouth falls agape, the soft gasp faultlessly emanating the shock your body is loaded with. Your heart pounds, painfully so, and you think he can feel it because he shifts into his gentleness by the way he draws back and cradles your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. His nose pokes yours, as if to say—hey, I’m here, we’re playing, but I’m here, and it makes you smile, composes your emotions, settles you into a restful state, in which you’re ready for the next step. 

“Answer me,” Jeongguk demands, and your smile grows, the most girlish blush adorning your cheeks. He squishes them at the sight, fighting his own grin from forming on his lips, and you feel so comfortable and so at ease, despite the fact you’re about to be absolutely ruined. 

“I wanna be your little slut tonight, Oppa, and I want you to fuck me like I deserve,” you purr, giving him the answer he wants, and it is now that his proud smile finally blossoms. A meadow of flowers bursts open in your heart, seeing that fatherly smile, and you long to do anything he asks, anything he desires, just to have that soul-stirring, life-changing smile fixed on you. 

He hums, pleased. “You know what I want,” he says, changing the course, closing the distance and planting a singular, hard kiss onto your lips, onto which he adds, “I want you to show me what you did.” 

With that, he pushes you onto your back, lifting your legs in the process as he crawls on the bed. Nods at you to get to work while he pins your limbs back, your trickling dewiness and swollen clit on full fucking show for him. You can’t help but silently laugh to yourself, and your bratty ways propel you to grasp his leaking dick and pump it a few times. Jeongguk hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, swiftly grabbing your wrist in order to make you stop doing that. But you have your other hand, too, and it mirrors your previous action, enveloping the room in your loud giggles when Jeongguk sighs, moans and growls, pinning both of your hands back. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, drooling dick to your tummy. 

“You’re a naughty fucking girl, you know that?” he scolds croakily, diverting your wrists to his singular fist, merely prolonging your giggle with that, in spite of the fact he doesn’t find your own game amusing. Your breasts bounce in their tight confinement and he notices, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down. “Let me see those tits.” 

And he tugs down the neckline, so roughly that he almost rips the straps. And when his large hand seizes both of your breasts, the callouses on his palm stimulating your nipples, your giggles fade out, replaced by irregular loud breaths that make the atmosphere so much more serious and desperate. 

“That’s what I thought.”

Your nipples are the most sensitive part of your body, and Jeongguk knows. Leans down, and lightly laps at your pointed nub before facing you, smugly. A cruel tactic of discipline because he leaves it at that, doesn’t give you more. Even when you sway your body, puff up your chest so the bud gets to his mouth. No, he stays put, and that ever-relentless smirk on his face stays as well. 

And the tactic lengthens when, all of a sudden, he slips his swollen tip inside your heat, keeping it there, not going any further. The unexpected stretch nips at your muscles, and you let out a huff of uncomfortable breaths, your brows scrunched, your face tense. It’s now him who laughs as he drifts a finger down the middle of your sternum, the place between your tits. Down and up, down and up, deflecting and moving towards your nipple, which he teases. Your hips lift, a natural reaction that he clicks his tongue at because with the motion, as small as it was, it helped you get him deeper inside you, but as it seems—Jeongguk plans to irrevocably destroy you. 

“Don’t move.” 

He pinches your nipple, sending violent surges of pleasure all across your body, and you don’t stop your hips from moving—because you need to be fucked right now. As a matter of fact, your motions vivify and quicken, circling around his tip, grinding until you break sweat. It happens so fast, time makes haste, and you just—

“I can’t take it anymore,” you cry, longing for the entirety of his cock, for his drive, stamina and roughness. His tip does feel good, but it’s not the same. “Please—”

Abruptly, you’re maneuvered over to your stomach, your hips sprung in the air by his hands in order for you to perk your ass up while your face is planted on the mattress. His tongue takes a long, proper drag across your entire cunt from the back like this, and you hear him moan indistinctly at the taste before he plunges his cock inside you, and doesn’t give you time to get used to the achy stretch. 

He bottoms out. Digs crescent moons into the fleshy parts of your hips as he uses them to give you fast, hard, mini strokes that despotically scramble your brain. Your hair, a bird’s nest, unfurls around you like a pair of black wings, bouncing with each movement. You can’t breathe, you can’t think; you can only feel—the monumental weight of his cock, hitting just the right spot above, the very hastily rising heat in your lower tummy, its pressure heightening when he flattens you on the bed, and merely fucks you into the mattress. 

You can only take it; there’s nothing else for you to do. 

The pleasure is bigger and more all-consuming than anything you ever experienced. His balls slap against your clit, and his hand joins, too. Crawls from underneath, not only to lift your pelvis higher how he likes it, but to rub your clit to madness. Not once does his pace stop, nor does his pace ever falter. And now, with his fingers flicking your bundle of nerves, the pressure in your core is at its highest, needing so very little to throw you over the edge. His other hand comes to meet your jaw as he leans over to eclipse his body over yours, and his lips, once again, find your ear. 

“Is this how you did it?” he taunts, and that is all it takes to make you cum. 

To make you squirt, in fact. 

Your vision fills with streaks of white as your body trembles, even under the tower of his body. Jeongguk holds you through your orgasm, grunting as he listens to you moaning his name over and over again. You feel his eyes digging into the side of your face while your own roll back and stay there, despite the fact you’re drenching his cock and every other guy wouldn’t dare to miss the show. He swears, he moans, but he doesn’t stop flicking your clit, even though your juices have long pushed him out. He puts you first, taking your orgasm to the finish line, paying attention to the telltale sign of your body slackening against him, your eyes opening and your hands reaching for him—which is precisely what you do, when you come out of the euphoric limbo he just put you through.

“Fuck, baby,” you call out for him, still dopey, still so out of it that you can barely catch your breath, and your baby brings you back to life by spreading kisses down your nape, after which he rolls to the side with you, his hand roam down your torso—across your tits, which he momentarily squeezes, down your stomach until he reaches his destination. 

Your soppy little pussy. 

His other hand wraps around your shoulders. “So prettily wet, shibal,” he comments, touching your cunt all over, just to look at his fingers. Glistening, your squirt juices leaking down his palm like the popsicle earlier. There are still dried crumbs of it that you didn’t get to clean off, and your head spins. “I can still feel you dripping down my balls. Fuck, I missed you so much.” 

Oh. Your mind spins faster, the aftershocks of the orgasm rendering you utterly numb and powerless, but maybe you could clean them up for him… as a sign of gratitude for giving you more than you asked for or needed. You didn’t get to touch them after all. 

You begin to move, but he disagrees. 

“No, stay, we’re not done yet.” 

Jeongguk locks you in his embrace, and it is now that you perceive he’s taken off his shirt in the middle of fucking your brains out because you sense the nakedness of his chest. You snuggle deeper within his arms, turning your head to look at him and ask for a kiss. 

He’s as fucked out as you are. 

Hair disheveled, silkier than it were with the amount of sweat that clings to the strands. Eyes shining with the merciful light of desire, wet, narrowed and deep. Not dark, not lustful, but pure. He’s love incarnated from forever ago when love, in its truest form, truly existed, and you’re so lucky to have him that you don’t know what to do with this blessing. 

He slides himself back into your heat, his eyes rolling back as your tight walls constrict around him, welcoming him home. Jeongguk fucks you like this, from the side, while he busies his hands on your nipples and clit. Fucks you in missionary. Fucks you in the air until you’re giddy and crazy, throwing your head back, high on his cock and the constant pleasure he showers you with. Fucks you against the balcony window, upon which both of you simultaneously cum. You, for the fifth time; him for the first time. The glass is stained with this elixir of your shared love, and it’s something both of you embarrassingly laugh at once the game is over. 

After a much needed shower, you sleepily wipe away the memory of your wildest sex while Jeongguk makes you a large glass of matcha. You wait for him on the balcony as soon as you’re done, your muscles sore and limp. Gaze at the last of the yellow hues before they fully disappear beneath the horizon, thinking about how much more devastatingly you’ll miss him when he’ll, too, disappear to Seoul tomorrow morning and you’ll be alone again. 

The slow, homely melodies of his rnb playlist creep into the balcony, spreading across the canopy of the trees in full bloom, which lean forward towards Jeongguk’s voice as he harmonizes with the singers. You listen to him, fondly, regarding his vocals as tangible warmth whilst they lull you to slumber. 

And in no time at all, you don’t hear him come in. Had he not caressed the back of your head, like he did when he came home in the afternoon, you wouldn’t know he’s joined you. Your favorite green, ribbed glass of matcha is in his now clean hand, the matching straw waiting for your lips, and you smile up at him. 

Get up to your feet, kiss him, and allow him to fold you on his lap while he holds your drink for you. Milk and honey, with a green heart formed in the middle of the foam. Abel Tesfaye begins to sing Niagara Falls, his comforting voice the cherry on top, and you’re happy. Happy to be with him, happy to be listening to your favorite artist, happy to take your first sip of the matcha whilst Jeongguk lights up a cigarette with one hand. 

But so is that unrelenting bee, unfazed by the thick smoke. 

You yelp, clinging to Jeongguk, but he only chuckles, tightens his grip around you and hides you with his body. The story comes to a full circle—the bee looked for him and now has found him, sniffing his tattooed arm while you strain your muscles in fear so much that you can’t breathe, the bee too close to your liking. 

“If you don’t move, she’ll fly away. Relax. She won’t harm you,” he comforts you, kissing your temple, your muscles unflexing as he draws back his lips. You let out a sigh, choosing to believe him. “She can probably smell the matcha.” 

You doubt that, reminded of the conversation you had with him over the phone. “No, she was looking for you.” 

He coos, smiling against the side of your head. “That means she’ll leave now.” 

And she does. 

She touches him for the last time, and, as if she listened to his words, she turns around and flaps her small wings away, going for the trees, which hold more promise for her than the pair of you. 

Jeongguk takes a puff of the cigarette, placing it between your lips. You take after him, exhaling it out into the evening air, his free fingers quick to pull the glass straw to your lips, encouraging you to take your long-awaited first sip. 

The taste consoles your senses, but also magnifies the homesickness that has begun to carve out a hole in your heart. He’ll be gone in the morning, and you’ll go back to going through your routine all by yourself. You’ll make your matcha alone and you’ll smoke alone. On this very chair, on this very balcony. And it saddens you so much that you can’t bear it on your own. 

“I’ll miss you so much.” 

Jeongguk rubs his nose against yours, kissing it sweetly. “I know, I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll be back. You have to be patient for me.” 

You nod, knowing it’s true. You’ve done this before, and time and time again, it was proved to you that the distance made the heart grow fonder. The sex better. The romance more profound. And this time around, you both have something to look forward to when he comes back home. 

“You have to come back soon. You know I have to show you the bad thing I did,” you flirt, grinning, and Jeongguk’s eyes widen as he comprehends what you mean. 

And he laughs, heartily. “Yes, you have to show me how you play with your pussy.” He hums, kissing you twice on the mouth. Leans his forehead against yours, noses connected. “I’ll skip work. Call in sick or something. The members can cover for me. I’ll figure it out.” 

You laugh with him, not realizing in the moment that he meant every word. Down to the last detail. And that they, too, will come full circle. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

warnings: faint silent treatment, emotional distance, relationship problems, anxiety, swearing, jealousy, possessiveness, fluid dynamic — dom/sub, nipple play, fingering, handjob, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), raw sex, teasing, edging, mention of threesome and cuckold.

note: hi my bubbas i’m sorry for being mia :( i was dealing with lots of mental health stuff, work was too much, i had two fics in the works that got me in a writers block in the end and yesterday i had too much to drink and right as i was slowly waking up, this is what i fantasized about sfhskfjslkfsjlkfjs. it’s kinda trash, but i just needed to WRITE, so that’s what i did. i hope you somewhat like it, let me know your thoughts! this might be my shortest smut fic? :O

Jungkook was mad at you, silently. 

There was no fight. No exchange of words that would part the ever so incandescent dynamic between the pair of you, one that would even inflame the onlookers, igniting them with a fire so bright that it would burn them with either jealousy, envy or a passion so intense, they would leave your presence with a bubbly, buoyant feeling that there is still some good in this world. And in their curious, concerning wonder, you admitted to yourself that something was different.

Because despite his dissatisfaction, he still treated you with the same respect and love that you were used to. 

Home-cooked meals three times a day with snacks in between. Water bottle ice-cold and filled every night. He slept facing you, and whenever heat crawled low in his abdomen, he would let you know by lightly touching your ribs, a physical language well-known and well-loved by you. You would arch your back and perch your bum against his groin in response, and he would take care of everything else. Slide down your pajama bottoms, take himself out of his own and slip it in, only to pull your body back to him by grabbing your neck because he can’t bear any distance. Skin to skin always, with his lips busy with some body part of yours. 

Physical distance—there he never lacked, but in terms of the emotional one? 

He fucked you good every night, but during the day, between the little hours you had for each other, you forgot the feelings that would pepper your chest whenever he would tell you he loved you. You forgot the kind of colors your flesh would flush with whenever he would mindlessly touch you just to touch you and not to initiate sex. You forgot the baritone of his voice whenever he would check in with you, talk profoundly and straightforwardly with you or the tenor whenever he would simply baby you. You forgot everything, and for the longest time you ignored the gnawing feeling that your relationship was sinking. 

Until your friends spoke up, and their worriment tangled your thoughts into a dusty chaos of confusion, sparking up darkly a bundle of anxiety that made your body tremble throughout the day. Why wasn’t he acknowledging the obvious problem with you, coming to you as he invariably did, discussing things as if he were your boss and you were his employee? And why did you insist on wearing your rose-colored glasses, being as trained as you were? 

When that regular night out ended, you didn’t sleep a wink. You untangled, as much as you could, the strings of your thoughts, pried away the large fluffballs of dust from it, and while Jungkook slept soundly beside you, you prepared yourself for the long overdue confrontation. Emotionally first, physically second. You wrote your new, night-scented thoughts down in your notes app, forcing your eyes open as they became heavy with tiredness, erasing and typing, thinking deeply. And when the sun rose and spilled its golden ink across the darkness of his room, you lost the war and let your eyes close, dreaming, without sleeping, of each step you were going to take. 

What you didn’t expect was Jungkook’s manhood stirring you awake. 

His arm has found your sternum during the sun’s voyage to the sky, pressing you tightly to the heated snugness of his body from behind. His cock digs right into your tepid heat as he’s positioned lower on the bed than you, his face buried in the nape of your neck. His heavy breath fans across the sensitive skin there, quickens the process of your sleepiness wearing off and arousal coming up to the surface, and it becomes shallow when your hips instinctively rock against his. 

And then, silence. He stirs awake, too.

You become attentive to every morsel of the moment. Of the stuffiness of the room’s air. Of the warmth of his little breath against your neck, of the movement of his chest against yours, of his hand placed beneath your breasts, which now begins to function. 

It slides up, brushing over both of your nipples that immediately perk up for him, tingles scattering down your body with a faint wave of pleasure. 

You let out a soft whimpery noise, the confrontation slipping out of your mind. Especially when he maneuvers you by drawing you to your back, still against him, his other hand sneaking around your waist, joining the first one after it pushes down the covers. And Jungkook uses the same momentum to drag you down, your head beneath his, and bunch your sleep shirt up to your neck. 

No eye contact, no words—until he comes across an obstacle. 

You left your phone on your chest. Face up, notes open, sleep mode disabled. But you’re calm because for any other guy, your plan would be bare for his eyes to see, but not for his—not for his sleepily star-dotted eyes, not fully awake, not fully functioning. He discards the phone carelessly, throwing it somewhere out of your view, and you soon know where by the noise it makes when it hits its destination. 

Oh, he’s horny. And there’s something different about the foreplay this time around. 

Jungkook turns back to you and takes your face into his hand. While he leans down to kiss you, his other hand finds your nipple—his lips enclose around your top lip simultaneously as his fingers gently squeeze your nipple, and as your whimper deepens within his mouth at the feeling of him, of his cold piercings, of his hands, he grunts back in appreciation, zapping your clit with life. The hand that held your face travels down your neck, his tongue working its way into your mouth after a couple of mind-numbing, harsh kisses, and you let him. You let him squeeze your neck, you let him pinch your nipple, and when you gasp for air and he lets you breathe, you allow him to sink his fingers into your mouth and gather your saliva. 

And that’s when you gaze into each other’s eyes for the first time this morning, and it’s as though you were looking through a portal of utter dystopian, upside-down realm. 

Darkness swirls around his black irises, a whirlwind of emotions swooshing past, his disorganized eyelashes reflected in them—all beneath a coat of sleepiness across his eyes. Emotions of many names, of passionate origins, but none of which you know as intimately. There’s anger, there’s resentment and there’s pain, but none of them call out for your name. 

And it hits you. His dry hand drags down your bottoms, your legs kick the covers all the way down, and his wet fingers graze along your swollen clit. Up and down, up and down, while your mind comprehends that he solves his problems by fucking them into you. 

Which isn’t working very well. Hasn’t been. 

And just like you erased your points in your notes app all night, you erase your plan altogether and begin writing a new one. Its complexity opens in your mind like the autumn sun across the canvas of the morning sky and develops as he slowly rubs your clit in lazy circles. You moan and he responds by deep hums and heavy breaths that hitch in his throat whenever you squeak as he puts a little more pressure. And when he can’t take it anymore and dips both of those fingers into your hole, the tightening of your walls against them takes the plan to utter completion. 

You don’t let him make you cum. You rise from the bed. 

“No.” 

You don’t listen to his protest; you don’t yield to his ever consuming dominance, pushing against his hold and crawling between his legs. 

His manhood stands tall and achy, stretching the black fabric into the air, a wet patch on his tip darkening it so deliciously that your saliva wells in your mouth. Jungkook rubs the sleep away from his eyes, and you can tell that a small twinkle of light parts the darkness in the middle—the very unbelief that your intimacy has taken a different route after such a long time. And when they finally function like the rest of his body, they soften. 

Its darkness trickles into your own, and you use its potency to help him. 

You move the fabric out of the way, sticking your tongue out to wet your lips. The sight of him up close takes your breath away, precum rolling down the veiny side of his fully hard shaft, and you can’t wait any longer. You catch the drop with the flat of your tongue, retracing its trail up until you can wrap your lips around his head. 

Jungkook rolls his eyes back, growling, the noise melting into a soft moan of your name as you swallow him more. You can’t remember the last time you did this, and you don’t let yourself be led by your experiences, but by your intuition, which guides you to double-fist him and make up for the more than a half of him that you can’t take. Your hair shrouds you from him, but Jungkook is quick to fix it, gathering your hair in his own fist. His eyes narrow in an intense arousal when you spit on him and let your hands do the work, moving up and down, focusing on his tip to make his chest shudder, and the satisfaction you get when his chest does just that makes your pussy drool on his bedsheets. 

And you can’t help but take him back to your mouth, throating him until you gag and light erases the rest of the darkness away from his eyes. 

You straighten your spine and straddle him, attuned to his panting. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing down your veins with its ichor, and Jungkook holds his cock steady for you as you begin to sit down on him and—

Oh. 

The feeling of him entering you from this angle, your mouth falls open at it, your eyes getting lost somewhere in the back of your mind. Jets of pleasure paralyze your body when you bottom out, your bum against his thighs, and the sensation of being so wonderfully full propels you to lean down and brazenly kiss him in a personal thankfulness before your plan takes place. 

Your hips lift and sit back down roughly, coaxing out his grunts. You play with his new piercing for a little while, tracing it with your tongue in circles before nibbling at his bottom lip, teasing him, getting him to a state of frenzy, in which you already swim. You bounce on him, straightening back up, letting him watch your breasts collide against each other. And when you speed up, high on his cock, his pheromones and the little dominance you’re experiencing, you begin to play with your tits. 

Which drives him crazy. 

He grabs your hips and takes charge. Fucks into you. Makes you scream, squeeze your eyes shut and knead your breasts a little more harder—but briefly. You peel his hands off, taking back what was stolen, slowing down the pace, but Jungkook furrows his brows, digging his nails into the high tops of your thighs on his way back to your hips. 

And before he can catch a hold of them, you tightly grab them, and using the space above due to his low position on the bed, you pull them over his head, and laugh in his face. 

“No,” you say, mimicking him, brushing your lips against his, the new piercing provoking you, your laughter ricocheting off the blush blossoming across his cheeks. “I want to fuck you.” 

He’s stunned, speechless, swallowing thickly. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his cock twitching inside you, and you begin to grind your hips. He inhales sharply, his blush deepening and staining your own cheeks when he complies and intertwines his fingers with yours. 

Butterflies kick against your stomach. 

The frenzy absorbs your entire being, taking control of your mind, your mouth and your movements. You grind harder but slower, mewling as you move to his ear and search for his soft spot. Right there beneath his earrings, next to his seven tattoo. Your tongue laps the sensitivity there, your ears eager for his response, and Jungkook sucks air through his teeth, his moan but a whisper, an echo, but it’s enough. 

“You woke up all big and hard,” you purr softly, pecking his soft spot before sucking it. He groans, squeezing your hands, his hips instinctively bucking up into you. Your chest flourishes with delight, but still you slow down the pace even more in punishment. “What did you dream about, huh?” 

He scoffs inconspicuously, a noise not meant for your ears, but you heard it, curiosity tensing your muscles. He takes after his instincts and slowly, ever so slightly, he rolls his hips against you. “You.” 

Fuck. You stifle your moan, leaping over to his neck, to his biggest weakness. More to pleasure him than to punish him. 

“What did I do?” 

He waits until your heart beats once. To prepare you or to trouble you. 

“You don’t wanna know.” 

You pepper a few kisses on the side of his neck, bothered by his response. You clamp down on the skin, using a little roughness laced with careful gentleness, and you decide to speed up your pace. 

You decide to kill him, in fact. 

Facing him, you begin to bounce on him hard and fast until his eyes roll back. Your tits swing in his face, and you can vividly see his desire to take your nipple into his mouth. As you stop at his tip, per your killing plan, and squeeze around him, you circle the nub around his mouth, never letting him catch it. 

And you repeat this until he growls and sternly calls you by your name, the promise of his climax dripping off of him. And you use this very moment to unfold your original plan. 

“Why are you mad at me?” 

Your nerves broil, your own orgasm reaching the edge of paradise. Tingles nip at your fingertips squeezing his hands, and the adrenaline pumps harder in your system when he furrows his eyebrows even deeper. 

“I’m not fucking mad at you,” he snaps, trembling, glistening with sweat, breathing irregularly, and this is perfection at its finest—him, letting his emotions out without hesitation, without his usual coping mechanism. 

You stop at his tip again, your nipple at his mouth, and he closes his eyes to catch his breath. Calls you by your name again. Swallows. Croakily moans. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he warns, his lips skimming over your nipple, sending shivers down your back, and you’re done for. The gravity of how much you love him dawns on you, and you yearn to help him, to make him cum, but not until he speaks up. “You’re so fucking tight, baby, I can’t last like this.” 

“Tell me what’s going on and you won’t have to,” you say, lowering down your elbows as your arms begin to ache. 

Jungkook doesn’t let your heart beat once before he speaks. 

“Don’t move,” he orders, and you stay still, easily slipping back into your submissiveness as the feverish atmosphere offers it. You realize he would maneuver you to his liking if he could, but he can’t, and that brings a smile to your face. 

One that just as quickly fades away. 

“It bothers me how my friends look at you,” he reveals, his lips tightening in a straight line, dimples on full show. Your heart drops to your stomach. “Hobi, Yoongi. Fucking Mingyu can’t take his eyes off of you and would probably eat your leftovers if you threw them at him like to a dog. It pisses me off.” 

You cock your head to the side, and it’s your turn to furrow your brows. Is this why he barely spoke to you? Is this what he fucked into you every night?

His jealousy? 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

But Jungkook continues. 

“Whenever you speak, their eyes light up and they blush. They don’t even have the fucking decency to hide it in front of me. Fuck, they don’t even care that I’m there and that you’re mine,” he spills, fuming, red in the face, and you can only part your mouth in absolute disbelief. “And last night I dreamed about Hoseok fucking the shit out of you while I watched. I wanted to tear his head off but you wouldn’t stop looking at me. I didn’t know if you liked it or wanted me to step in or if you just enjoyed me watching you.” 

You gasp. The imagery of his dream passes by your brain like a cloud, and your walls squeeze around him, your essence moistening him even more. Before you know it, your hips move back down again and Jungkook swears. 

His possessiveness has always been a stronghold in your relationship. A thing that made you so wet that you oftentimes couldn’t wait until you got home and you left your regular night outs early and Jungkook had to finger you in his car. And the idea of it cracking, of him sharing you with his friends—

Jungkook rolls you over. Grabs you by your neck with both of his hands with precise gentleness and starts fucking you properly, his strokes a sharp, biting contrast to it. 

“You like it? You like the idea of him fucking you?” he checks against your lips, kissing you roughly, just once, and your mind is swept clean. Numb, pleasured, cock-filled. 

Cocks-filled. 

“Is this how he fucked me in your dream?” 

Jungkook bites his lip before he snickers, bitterly. He squeezes your neck, just a little. “No, he had you up in the air facing me. He was fucking you from behind, baby.” 

You moan, arching your chest into his, writhing on the mattress, so close to your orgasm. His cock drilling in and out of you makes a wet, squeaky noise, accompanied by his now loud groans, and you need to cum, you need more. 

“And it made you hard.” 

He nods. “Yes,” he admits, despair radiating off of him like a wine-drunk perfume. “It made me rock fucking hard.” 

His cock twitches, and it triggers your own orgasm. The rope tethers, an ecstasy bursting through the bond that connects you to him. Your vision fills with dots of stars, redolent of those in Jungkook’s, your body convulsing, and being lifted in the air and sat on his lap. He continues fucking his cum into you like this, and when you come down from the high, you bounce on him, milking him until he convulses just like you. 

And then he kisses you. And he kisses you so nastily, all tongue and roughness, that you’re ready to go again, but you can’t. Not until you talk to him. 

You rake his hair back with your long manicured fingernails, holding him like that. “You can’t do this to me.” 

“What?” he asks, still dazed, heart-shaped stars drifting back and forth in his glistening eyes. 

“You can’t not talk to me when you’re dealing with something like this,” you begin to explain, suddenly very aware of his cock being still anchored inside of you. “First of all, you should’ve brought this to me first, and then you should’ve talked to them.” 

The corners of his lips drop down. “And tell them what? Stop looking at my girl like this?” 

You blink at him and cock your chin to the side, furrowing your brows. “Yeah?” 

He laughs, humorlessly, letting his eyes stray away before lifting them back to yours. “Nothing would’ve changed. It would’ve only made it worse.” He lays you back down on your spine and slowly pulls his shiny length out of you. His cum streams out of you, a rivulet of thick white—the liquid of his love, and he collects it with his fingertips and pushes it back into you, entering you. “It would be a form of provocation for them and next thing I’d know you’re being fucked in the air. Not happening.” He curls his fingers and sets a killing pace, fucking you so hard that you fist the sheets, a payback for your own killing technique. “Only I get to fuck you how I want, arasseo?” He leans down to your clit. “Say it.” He lays his tongue flat against it, sucks it briefly, before he begins to flick his tongue deftly. 

You come so vivaciously that your body screams out the word he wanted you to say. You squirt, sprinkling him with your essence, and Jungkook laughs in delight, at last. Closes his mouth over your clit, humming as he kisses it. You come again, a mini orgasm zapping you.

And with your essence running down his lips, he kisses you deeply. “So, no. I won’t talk to them, but I’ll better myself and talk to you.” 

You nod your head, satisfied. The baritone of his voice echoes in your brain, rooting in your every nerve ending, and the colors you forgot come back to you. The flush, the feelings, the warmth, it all returns to you at full speed, and you’ve never been happier. 

And while Jungkook washes away the drops of cum from your thigh in the shower, all you can think about is how much you look forward to the next night out. And you know you need to ask him to cum on your panties to make the experience more fun. 

Because fun is what the pair of you needs. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

"Umm, I was actually thinking that new movie on Netflix, the one with the blindfolds." Jay struggles to take his heavy boots off.

You furrow your eyebrows, "Birdbox?"

Jay nods. "Yeah, that one."

"That movie has been out for forever now Jay." You can't help but laugh at how far behind your boyfriend always is. Last week he had ask if you both could try a "new" dance on TikTok that had lived on that app for months.

Jay smiles and grabs some popcorn as he plops down beside you on a fluffy pillow.

You let out a laugh as you grab a bag of skittles. "Jay, we have to get you caught up. Have you even seen Kissing Booth 2 yet?"

You can practically feel Jay's eyes roll at your words. "As if I have even seen the first one."

You give him a playful shove while picking up the remote and typing in his chosen movie.

"Did you get some drinks?" Jay asks. You throw your hands in the air. "Drinks! The one thing I forgot!" You shoot up from your spot and head towards the kitchen.

"Your ass looks great in those shorts," Jay yells. You give a little shake on your way towards the cabinet. You can hear his chuckle.

You walk over to the cupboard and swoosh it open, grabbing at the big bottle of sparkling water, but accidentally knock it back. You curse under your breath, stretching onto your tiptoes to reach further.

You continue to complain as you strained to reach for the bottle, not noticing Jay's presence until an arm reaches from behind and grabs the bottle with zero struggle.

"I couldn't continue to see you struggle like that." His voice tickles your ear and sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. Trapped between the counter and Jay, you had little to no room as he teasingly brushes his crotch against your ass.

You turn your head to see a smirk play out on his face. "Oh sure, you hated seeing me struggle." You push him away while you make your way back to the living room.

While you pretended that his gesture was annoying, you secretly wanted more. The fabric of his jeans created its own bulge that ran across your ass quickly, but with perfect enough tease that you want more. But you would never give Jay the satisfaction of knowing it turned you on. He can't win that easily.

Jay sat back next to you with the bottle and two cups of ice. He goes to hand you a cup, but before it could touch your hand, he lets go. The ice falls, making you yelp as the coldness interacts with your legs.

Jay takes the bottle and cup from his hand and sets them on the table before leaning down to help clean up the mess.

Okay, hold on," He started scooping ice in his hands and placing it back in the cup. His hands whisk past your open legs, coming in contact with your thighs and close to your sensitive area. When his hand reaches to grab at an ice cube close to your inner thighs, your body shivers in response.

"Just a little more, almost there," Jay whispers. He cleans the ice that had fallen around your feet and shins but makes sure to not forget to give them a slight touch, causing another tremor, but this one is violent. You cross your legs over one another and grip them tightly, trying to wash away the sudden tingles that appeared. His warm hands with the mix of his naughty words cause an unexpected arousal out of you.

Jay notices this shiver and looks up at you with that million-dollar smirk. "Oh my god, is this turning you on?" He sounds jokingly, but you can hear the change of tone in his voice.

You jerk away your legs as he finishes picking up the smaller pieces. "No." You say, matter-of-factly. But Jay's smirk just grows bigger and bigger. He lays the cup on the table and sits back beside you.

He goes to poke your thigh and laughs, which causes you to smack him in the chest. You start the movie and feel Jay's hand slide over your thigh again, but this time it was there to stay.

five minutes into the movie, he starts to rub your thigh gently, and you don't protest. The warmth of his hand and the friction it was causing stirs you crazy. You take deep breaths and can tell that he's noticing your change in pace.

To your surprise, he turns and places his soft lips on yours making you hum in realization. Seconds later he pulls away teasingly.

"You're mean," you whisper, and Jay giggles, not taking his eyes off your lips. He takes your hands without looking and guides them on his own thighs.

"Jay -- the movie," you whine, but you already knew that this movie was long over before it even began.

"So?" He mumbles, biting his lip. His hand hadn't moved from your thigh, and you didn't want to move yours from his.

You give an exaggerated sigh before wrapping your arms around his neck. Jay couldn't help but smirk as his eyes wander and look you up and down.

You're wearing my shirt -- it looks good on you." His smile widens. Jay loves his shirts large, so this shirt on your frame was 3 times too big, hiding your shorts underneath.

"But I bet what's underneath is hotter." He teases in your ear. You roll your eyes as he takes his hands and lifts your shirt high enough to touch the waistband of your shorts.

"Jay!" You whine.

Without having to ask, you let him raise the shirt above you, arms stretched high above your head. Beneath was a dark purple sports bra that had complicated straps that fell against your back. This was the perfected timing too, cause you had been meaning to show him your brand new buy.

Jay massages your back as he takes in your figure. This turned you on so hard, the way his eyes scanned your body made you feel like a treasure box, special and golden.

With that little push of motivation, you straddle yourself against his lap, which earned you a shocked "oh" out of Jay's mouth.

You give a slight giggle while you scoot in and his hands move to caress your hips.

"Is this turning you on?" You tease near his ear. Jay let out a shaky breath before brushing his lips against yours.

"Yeah," he spoke, giving your lips a quick kiss, "I'm really turned on." You can't help but gasp when you feel his hands squeeze your ass and massage gently.

Jay takes it upon himself to move you back and forth against his jeans and you let out a soft moan. He connects his lips on yours and you sigh into the kiss, speeding up the light sways against his groin.

He suddenly breaks the kiss and it causes an angry groan out of you. "Jay please don't tease me right now."

"Hold on." He lightly tapes your ass, gesturing for you to get up and you do.

He strides confidently over to the couch you had pushed to the corner and sits back against it, patting at his thigh.

You blink in confusion, wondering what the difference between the padded floor and the couch was going to do.

"You wanted me to sit on your lap on the couch?"

Jay slowly shakes his head. He pats at his thigh again. You turn your head in pure confusion at what he was getting at, and your temper was rising seeing as he left you with a tingling sensation that continued to torture you.

"I want you to sit on my thigh."

You blink in surprise. "You want me to sit on your thigh?"

"Mmhm." He ground his lips together while he explore your body again.

You ponder for a second. You did love to play with his thighs when you were sucking his cock, and you sat in his lap anytime you could. You remember the way his thighs went from a pasty white to a light tan and the strains of hair that ran along his skin and teased you as they led up his shorts. You had never thought about it before, but sitting on Jay's thigh sounded more appetizing than anything else.

You sigh loudly and draw in a deep and annoyed breath, but you knew how much you want this. You picked his left thigh and straddle slowly with Jay's hand guiding you over. You position your hands on his shoulders as you situate yourself just right on him. You could feel Jay's eyes on you, waiting with excitement.

You squint at him, "how long has this fantasy been on your bucket list?"

He chuckles, "a very long time." His hands find the bottom of your shorts and bunch them up, revealing your cheeks. He grabs behind your knee and drags you closer, adjusting himself to be as close to you as possible.

He pecks softly at your neck. "I want to watch you get off on my thigh." His words were barely a whisper but it causes a shaky breath out of your mouth.

"Jay--" you could feel your hips start to automatically sway.

"I want you to let go of all the stress you've been feeling, right here on my lap."

You could feel your body begin to flush in heat, and you felt your head getting dizzy. "Kiss me." You moan out.

Jay takes his lips off your neck and plants them hard on your mouth. You cup his face and move fast against his lips, letting your tongue dance in his mouth. You can't help but let the moans out as you increase your movements just a bit, feeling your hips sync in perfect motion with his slow thrusts.

Jay's hands find their way up to cup your breasts and let his fingers play with your nipples through the thin fabric. In minutes, they became hard and sensitive.

Your whine came out high-pitch and you could feel Jay's lips lift up in a smile. You break the kiss to be able to take a moment and focus on your movements. Jay takes his chance to move his mouth back and your neck to suck and lick. You tilt your head back and moan his name quietly.

"Good girl," Jay praises. Your mouth was gaping open, hot and wet. Jay strokes your lower back gently, helping you grind down harder on his leg. You feel yourself freeze as he takes over and flexes his thigh in short pulses. "That's it, let me give you what you want."

You have a hard time moving again because of just how good his leg felt coming in contact with your arousal, "come on, don't stop."

You force your hips to grind again. Your knee was against Jay's groin and you could feel his erection grow within seconds. He even let out his own moans. That was enough motivation for you to move faster.

You guide your hand over his bulge and you feel his leg jerk up immediately, making you jump.

"Fuck," he moans, "I wish I would've taken my jeans off, I want to feel you make a mess on me."

Jay's words turned you on harder than they should've. You bury your face in the crook of his neck and can't help but let the heavy moans out. You feel the wetness in your panties and were sure they had leaked out from your shorts and onto his pants.

Moments later, your pace had decreased and you could hear Jay's impatience ring out in your ear. "Come on y/n," he grabs at your hips and pushes you down harder. "I want you to come on my thigh, please baby," Jay begs.

You dig your nails into his arms as you begin slamming into him. You could feel your legs shake and tremble. You felt yourself arriving at the edge.

"You're right there. Keep going, you're doing so well princess." You whine into his neck at the nickname he calls you. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop," he repeats. Your hips grind vigorously against his thigh, your breathing growing frantic and faint. Jay grabs you in a hug tightly, his muscular arms wrap around you and squeeze gently. You fall into the moment as you wrap your arms around his neck and let your orgasm go.

Your thighs tighten around his and you jerk hard. You catch Jay's lips again and cry into them. Jay holds you firmly and rubs at your back. you continue to squirm against him even when you feel your orgasm depleting. Jay loosens his grip on you and you sit up, feeling him watch as your face twisted while you rode down from your high.

Once your breathing went back to normal, you giggle at how easy it was to get off on his thigh. "Oh my god," you sigh on his shoulder. Jay spanks your ass lightly, giggling with you.

He pulls you up and cups your face in his hands, giving you a soft kiss, "thank you for making my dreams come true." You can't help but smile at his words.

"Of course." You leap off of his lap and try to find your balance on your feet. You stretch out before placing yourself back on the couch.

"Did you not want to move back to the blankets to finish the movie?"

You shake your head, "nope." You pat your thigh and jay looks down at you with shock.

"Your turn."

“Yoongi…oh my god, you’re so sweet…”

Yoongi answers you by taking a bite out of the cake. 

“You! Hey, what are you doing?” You squeak, moving it away quickly but too late. A chunk the size of his mouth is missing from the cake. Parts of the chocolate covers his lips. He chews proudly, eyes gleaming.

“You are so annoying.”

“Mhm, this is a good cake. More.”

Yoongi chases the cake with an open mouth. 

“No. You are totally ruining the cake”, you are laughing, fleeing him as best as possible.

“I can do what I want as the birthday boy.”

“Not this. You are being gross. Eek, Yoongi stop! You’re ruining the cake!”

You roll out of bed, running through the bedroom while Yoongi chases you. Laughter is everlasting. He catches up with you, chomping his teeth as he holds you hostage by your waist.

“Wait! Wait don’t! I’ll drop it! I worked really hard on it!” 

Yoongi stops, rubbing your waist. The cake gets put down on the desk.

“You-”

Yoongi twirls you and pushes you against said desk, claiming your lips in a kiss before you can whine. He tastes of chocolate cake, his touch is possessive. No chance to scold him, no more talking. Just kisses. Deep, passionate kisses. The kind only Yoongi can give because once he kisses you, it’s never just half-hearted.

Resisting him is fruitless, giving up is the only way. Somehow you still forget that this man is into you. Really, really into you. And when he shows you, it always ends up surprising you.

His deep purr tickle your lips, his tongue traces them. He feels up your waist and hips, crotch pressed against yours.

If you do not stop this, he might eat you instead of the cake.

“Yoongi.” 

He chases you, eyes half-lidded and gaze obsessed. You stop him with a finger on his lips. Yoongi solves the issue by nibbling on said finger, like a dog getting a bone. It is gentle and cute.

“You ruined the cake.”

“I took a small bite out of it. It’s still fine”, he says and bites your hand.

“Did you wake up a biter today? My hand is not consumable.”

“You’re very consumable, actually.”

You scoff in amusement, “really?”

He smiles and nods his head, making you roll your eyes at him which only increases his smile. He lifts you up under your ass, carrying you back to bed.

“You know that you light up my life, don’t you?” he says.

“Oh Yoongi.”

The sun kisses his face, his hair shimmers in shades of dark brown and gold. Like a black cat that seems to glow in the sunlight. He buries you under him, knees on each side of your hips and elbows by your head.

He is not wearing a shirt, skin feeling like heaven under your fingertips. Tracing his body might be one of your favourite things to do. Especially in the morning when he is still toasty from the blanket.

“So you baked a cake this morning”, he talks in a soft voice, resembling a purr. How you love to listen to him.

“Yeah, I got up before sunrise. I was paranoid that you would wake up from the noise the entire time.”

“I didn’t. I slept like a baby.”

“You did. You didn’t notice that I decorated the room?”

“You did?”

Yoongi straightens up, looking around the bedroom while you take the moment to memorise every inch of him. His arms, his chest, his soft tummy and the faint happy trail leading into his briefs. His thighs, his pink knees and his feet tangled in the sheets. His weight on you is familiar, his warmth is raised because of you.

“You decorated”, Yoongi comments, eyes sparkling.

Blue balloons kiss the ceiling and paper garlands decorate the window frames. He looks back at you. Your gaze has softened and yet seems hungrier. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did. I love your birthday.”

“I can see that.”

“Do you like it at least a little?”

Yoongi lowers himself and kisses you. 

“I love it, my princess. Thank you for everything.”

“But that’s not all. I have more planned.”

“Do you now?”

You put your hands on his butt. Yoongi has to smile because of it, but does nothing to stop you. 

“Yeah. You should see the rest of the house and I’ve got presents in the living room.”

He smiles against your cheek, kissing it repeatedly.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. And I thought we could spend the day listening to music and cooking together. I found a few recipes we’ve never tried, we can try them together.”

His favourite activities. Yoongi feels so good.

“I’d love that.”

“And before you leave bed, I wanna give you a birthday blowjob.”

“Huh?”  He shoots up, eyes widened. You seem confident. “What?”

“Birthday blowie. You know, you relax and I go like this on your dick”, you say, making very explicit slurping noises. 

“Okay, okay stop. I know what a blowjob is”, he stops you, pressing his hand to your mouth.

You wrestle his hand away, holding it instead. You make more noises.

“Stop”, Yoongi whines, covering your mouth with his other hand. Which you obviously tug away again.

“Just in case you didn’t know”, you state.

“Funny.”

“You deserve it, my love.”

“If you think so”, he murmurs, suddenly flustered and totally shy. 

You sit up, touching his waist. 

“What do you think of my plans?”

“They’re alright.”

“Really? Only alright?”

He rubs his neck shyly. “They sound good.”

“Yeah? Everything?”

He blushes, looking to the side. “I guess.”

“So you’d let me blow you?”

He nods his head.

“Perfect. Then get off me.”

“Wait. We’re doing it now?”

“Yes. No time wasted, baby. Let’s get this cock sucked and those balls gargled”, you say in a fake accent, rubbing your hands together.

“You are not making me excited for it when you talk like this”, he murmurs, climbing off your lap with a pout. He lies down. 

You snicker, “I know you want it cowboy. Let me be your throat goat.”

Yoongi sits up again, “actually I changed my mind. Why are you talking like this?”

“Okay, okay I’m stopping. Sorry”, you laugh, climbing his lap. 

“Tch, you suck at dirty talk.”

“This wasn’t dirty talk. I tried to relax you by being a weirdo.”

“You weirdo did the opposite, I’m tense.”

One must know that you and Yoongi share a kind of humour some people might consider as rude. It is because you know each other so well that you can walk the fine line between rude and funny. The current conversation is light-hearted, even if some people would not see it as such.

You take off your birthday hat and put it on him instead. He lets you, thinking to himself that you are beautiful in the sunlight. 

“My birthday boy should wear the proper attire.”

“It’s pinching my chin.”

You fix the rubber strap, letting it snap him when you let go.

“Hey”, he whines.

“Does it still pinch?” you snicker.

“You’re in a jokester mood today, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. I love your birthday.”

“I’m starting to see that.” 

You climb off his lap and the bed. Yoongi rolls to his side, propping his elbow up and resting his head against his hand. This is nice to him, being so intimate and comfortable with you is nice.

You open the black morning rope you are wearing and let the it fall to the floor, holding your breath in anticipation.

The sunlight illuminates you from behind, warming your skin but nothing makes you burn up more than the way Yoongi looks at you. You are wearing one of his favourite sets of lingerie. Black hand-woven lace with a real ruby on the front of your bra. Real silver frames it and matching stocking halters with black stockings complete the look. Yoongi gave it to you as a present “because he felt like it” and he refuses to tell you how much he paid for it.

“I bought this for you”, he says, gaze hungry.

“You did.”

“You wore this before. Milan, then Paris again. One time in summer as well, it was sunny that day.”

“You remember?”

“I remember everything, my love. Come here, let me hold your hand.” He reaches out to you. 

You take it, heart racing when he kisses your knuckles. His lips are incredibly soft.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t make me say talking like this.”

He hums, “mhm, sorry. You’re right. Mhm, princess”, he kisses your wrist then looks up at you, “let me look at you closer, come here.”

You climb his lap again. Yoongi keeps you from sitting down with his hands on your hips, using the position to litter your stomach and chest with kisses. He outlines the edges of your lingerie with his fingers, eliciting goosebumps on your skin. It feels so good to be touched by him.

“I love this set on you. Fuck, you’re making it look amazing.”

He travels his hands along your sides, following the movements of your body as you sit down on him. They stop on your upper back, fingertips drawing mindless circles. His eyes spill over with adoration.

“You’re so beautiful, my beloved”, he whispers.

“This is your first present.” 

“I love it”, he says, smiling at you.

You giggle, stubbing his nose with yours. Yoongi purrs, kissing it. This is going down as his favourite birthday. It cannot get any better than this.

You suddenly put your hands on his chest and push. Yoongi falls with a chuckle, eyes gleaming hungrily when you pin his wrists into the pillow. Perhaps this day is getting even better.

“Now it’s time for your second present.”

“What’s my second present?”

“The blowjob.”

“Oh, so that’s a present too?”

“Obviously.”

“Then do your worst. Let’s see if you can get me hard.”

“You’re joking right?”

He smirks. 

“Oh I see. You’re being a brat.”

“Never.”

You laugh and tug the birthday hat down over his eyes. Yoongi laughs, wriggling his wrists free to fix it but you push them back down. 

“Leave it.”

“I can’t see.”

“I know. You already saw me.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Yeah, it was.”

He laughs, writhing under you. This kind of bickering makes his stomach flutter.

“Now stay.”

“Mhm.”

You leave his lap and roll out of bed. Yoongi enjoys the moment, listening to your steps and your busy shuffling. You return soon, climbing his lap and kissing his chest. Yoongi arches into it, purring in contentment. He likes being touched by you.

“I’m back.”

“You are.”

“I think you’re wearing too much.”

“Take it off then”, he allows you, having his eyes closed even with the hat darkening his vision. It just feels better like this.

With his consent, you wrestle his briefs off and throw them on the floor. Your hands feel up his legs, eyes focused on his dick. So tempting and sexy. You cannot wait to taste him.

“You already have a semi, just saying”, you say, kneading his thighs.

“Your eyes aren’t working right.”

You snicker, “you’re such a bad liar.”

“Mhhm.” 

“This is gonna be easier than I thought.”

“You wish.”

Yoongi has to be the most adorable brat ever. He loves to pretend as if he wasn’t easy to turn on when in reality he gets hard so easily, and he knows that he does. It still doesn’t stop him from lying. It’s adorable because even with the most raging hard-on, he will still insist that he is not hard.

You kiss his neck. Right on his favourite spot, listening to the blissed sigh he lets out against his will. One kiss. Two. Three. You tug on his earlobe and whisper sweet words against his ear.

“You’re an adorable brat.”

“If you say so.”

“Mhm, I do.” You kiss his cheek, then straighten up. “Can I tell you what I have planned for you?”

“Not today. Just surprise me. I trust you.”

Hearing something like this from Yoongi is a huge deal. He loves discussing the sex before it happens, so having him give up control to such an extent – blindfolded on top of it – just shows how safe he feels with you. 

“Alright, then I’ll surprise you. Your safeword is snowdrop. Like always.”

“I won’t need it.” 

“You are a sweet talker and a sweet talker should get some cake”, you say, stubbing his nose.

“Okay”, Yoongi says and opens his mouth, ready and willing. Again, he is so adorable.

You use a fork to feed him, eating a bite yourself afterwards. He chews, humming in contentment. With his vision denied and his other senses heightened, the cake tastes even sweeter. He can really taste how much effort and love you put into it, cherishing every single second.

“More?”

“Yeah.” 

The second bite is just as delicious. You adore his sense of touch right with it as you dance your fingertips along his chest. Goosebumps cover his skin, his nipples flush and harden. You don’t touch them just yet, working up anticipation.

“Another?”

“Yeah.”

You set the fork on the bedside table next to the cake after feeding him and pick up two of the candles. You light them, letting them melt over his chest while he is still busy with chewing. 

The first droplet of hot wax drips on his skin, forcing him to flinch and grunt. The second candle follows, eliciting another flinch from him. He gulps the cake down, gasping for air.

“What was that?”

“Candles.”

“It’s-” Two droplets hit his skin, sending shivers through his body. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

“Too hot?”

“No, keep going.”

“I will.”

The candles aren’t the biggest and the wax is probably not the hottest, but the sensation is still intense. Because you are using two candles, they melt at different times and therefore drip on him differently as well. He cannot figure out a pattern, anticipating each new sting with a fluttering tummy.

You concentrate your attention on his chest for now, painting circles around his nipples. You can count four droplets by now, the fifth hits his skin right this instant. Yoongi purrs, fingers twitching on the pillow. 

Pink and blue. You did not choose these candles specifically but it looks pretty now that you are thinking about it. Blue because it is his favourite colour, it covers his right pec. Pink because everything feels pink and pretty when you are together, it covers his left pec. You let the candles meet in the middle, covering his sternum with a bigger spot of wax. 

“Ahm…”

Having Yoongi make sounds is a big deal. He is very silent when he receives, so getting him to be vocal means he is genuinely enjoying this a lot. Of course he does, he is a masochist at heart.

Perhaps it is time for his nipples. First his right, then his left. 

“Fuck, a-ah”, Yoongi tenses his thighs, hands closing to fists.

“Intense?”

“Yeah. Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“You’ve got the prettiest nipples”, you say, placing the candles aside for now so you can massage them while the wax is still warm. The pain should turn from stinging to pleasurable. 

The touch goes straight to his cock, leaving warmth in his tummy and tingles in his legs. Yoongi has to touch you, purring your name as he does. His hands run along your arms, rubbing them up and down. Every now and then, they stop and squeeze. 

Yoongi communicates through touch and right now he is telling you that you feel like fucking heaven. Your stomach tingles like crazy, knowing you can make him feel good.

You kiss his collarbones, then his neck, fingers still working his nipples. A bite seals the deal. Yoongi loves getting bitten. It might very well be his kryptonite. 

He curses, hugging you so he can pull himself closer. You dig your teeth deeper, increasing the pain and therefore his bliss.

“Princess”, he sighs, sucking on your shoulder. It’s wet and needy. You release his neck, the relief of it is warm and tingly. Yoongi cradles the back of your head, trailing sloppy kisses from your shoulder to your lips.

Denying him feels cruel but necessary. The party hat is on his forehead. Funny, but not where it is supposed to be. You take it off, kissing him afterwards now that you have space. Yoongi purrs, sinking back into the pillow. His neck pulsates and hurts where you bit him, his nipples are burning and his chest is still sensitive. 

It cannot get any better than this and still, you make it even better by dragging your nails down his skin. Dull pain joins the mix. Yoongi thrusts against nothing.

“More”, he begs, breaking the kiss just to mouth at your chin and jaw.

“So about you not getting hard easily?”

“I never said that.”

“You are such a liar, oh my god”, you laugh, smooching him once before you sit up, trailing your gaze down his body. He is blushing all over, tummy heaving up and down quickly and flushed cock standing ready against his dark pubes. How pretty. 

You search for his eyes, meeting them. His gaze is confident and anticipating. He is feeling himself. It turns you on so much.

“I wanna make you feel so good. Fuck, Yoongi”, you get out and bury your face in his thighs. You leave open-mouthed kisses on his skin, following them up with hickeys and rough bites. 

Yoongi is gasping for air, legs parting on their own as you mark them. He swears that they are currently rubber. His thighs are so sensitive and you are biting them. This is insane.

“___”, he croaks, reaching down to touch his cock. It hurts too much not to.

“Ah!” You slap his hand away. “What are you doing?”

“Is not cool, let me touch”, he mumbles, pouting. He reaches for himself again only to be stopped by you gripping his wrists and pinning them by his head. You are towering over him, taking up his entire vision and his heart in the process. He hates that you are just hovering over his cock, wishing for nothing more than your weight on it.

“No touching”, you scold him. 

He wiggles, chest tingling when you apply more strength to keep him down. His bratty heart is so happy with you.

“Do I have to tie you up? Mhm?”

“You don’t have it in you.”

You scoff, eyes widening in shock. “I see.” You tongue your cheek, gaze darkening. Yoongi feels butterflies in his tummy because of it.

You let go of his wrists and climb out of bed, scurrying to the dresser for one of his ties. 

You and Yoongi keep some clothes at the beach house. Formal attire is part of said emergency wardrobe and Yoongi’s black tie has definitely come in handy many times. Mostly during sex though.

You climb his lap with the tie between your teeth so you have both hands for grabbing his wrists. Yoongi is mesmerised, letting you work his arms into position while he stares at your breasts. He feels no remorse for his gawking, thinking about all the ways he will make you feel good later. He will definitely fuck you against the kitchen counter. This lingerie set is doing it to him so bad.

You fold his hands so they are interlocked then take the tie out of your mouth to use it. Three wrap-arounds and a tight knot. Yoongi hisses, squeezing his own hands. You are definitely making him feel it. The pressure around his wrists is intense.

“Stop whining.”

“You’re being rough.”

“Obviously. You like it.”

He has nothing witty to say to that so he simply purrs and eye fucks you passionately. 

“So. This should prevent you from acting up” you say and tug his tied up hands into his vision. Yoongi opens his folded hands, wiggling his fingers. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I know. It gets your dick hard.”

He chuckles, following it up with a groan when you drop his hands on his chest. Not too high but the impact still lingers for a second before you replace it with new sensations. Licks and bites down his tummy, closer and closer to his aching cock.

Almost there. He can practically feel your lips on him. Almost. Yes. Now. 

You swerve past his cock, sucking on his right thigh instead. Yoongi hurts. The last time he got head was two months ago. It wasn’t your doing, but simply Yoongi’s own fault. He never asks for it and when you insinuated, he mostly stirred the scene into him giving pleasure instead.

It’s been so long and being denied right now, shows him how fucking needy this can actually get a person. He wants to reach down there and touch himself.

“Is somebody impatient?” you ask in a fond chuckle and Yoongi has to realise that he did indeed reach down there, fingers buried in your hair.

“It’s been two months.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Yoongi pouts. You laugh and kiss his thigh, before parting his legs. Yoongi lets you, just as he lets you put them over your shoulders and hold them tight. The path you kiss down his left thighs feels endless to him and soon takes on a turn he did not expect. Past his cock, just brushing his balls and settling on his rim. You lift his hips a little, forcing him to lose his footing with the mattress. His toes curl as his feet fling into the air, a throaty moan slips past his lips.

You purr, nose buried in his balls and tongue outlining his hole. He smells so good. Clean, masculine and with a hint of sandalwood. If it was possible, you would bottle his scent and use it as your own personal drug. Combined with his taste, this is heaven.

“I don’t- I- ahmmmm”, Yoongi puts his tied-up hands against his forehead, eyes squeezing shut. His stomach is tensing, warmth spreads from his hole. You are grinding the flat of your tongue against it, nose stimulating his balls. Two of his most sensitive spots are getting attention. And, fuck, it feels good.

His legs are restless. It’s cute because it’s only really been a minute. Greedy, you drag your tongue from his hole over his rim until you land on his balls. They are soft and tense under your licks. You massage the spot next to them with your thumbs, increasing the pleasure and his restlessness.

“So perfect. Every inch of you is perfect”, you praise, sucking the incredibly tender area between your lips. You suck and suck and suck until Yoongi cannot help but mewl. Only then, do you release him, repeating the gentle torture on the other side.

“Please”, he croaks, hands falling to your head again. 

“Do you want to stop?” You are taunting him. 

“No. Suck my cock, please.”

“Mhhmm my love”, you purr, nuzzling your nose against his balls and kissing them hungrily, “hearing something like this from you feels like ecstasy. Mhhhm.”

Entirely blissed out and droopy, you kiss your way up to his tip, loving and adoring every inch of his shaft. You hold him in your right hand, using your left to massage his balls.

“I missed your cock.” You kiss his frenulum. “Missed him so much.” You kiss his tip. “Next time, don’t wait two months”, you finally sink him between your lips. 

Yoongi releases all of the built-up tension in a shudder and throaty moan, hands slipping from your head to lie on his stomach, twitching and tensing. So warm. So fucking warm. He forgot how warm your mouth is. It’s like he has never been inside your mouth before and experiences actual heaven for the very first time.

Your tongue is soft and wet, your lips are applying gentle pressure, your teeth grace him every now and then which Yoongi absolutely loves. Everything about this is perfect. Why did he deny himself for two months? Why did he do that?

You slip off him, against his wish, littering his wet tip with kisses and kitten licks. The stimulation like this is precise and more intense. It’s like you are tracing him with your fingertips, pleasuring his most sensitive spots. Yoongi squeezes your head with his legs, exhaling shakily when you part them again.

Your chuckle tickles him, your lips touch him when you speak.

“You taste so good. Fuck, my love”, you purr, lapping up his pleasure which he just cannot stop leaking. You squeeze him right under his tip, which only makes him leak more.

This is so amazing. Yoongi throws his hands over his eyes only to remember they are tied up. So he lets his right arm plop over his eyes, which doesn’t really work and he ends up with only one eye covered and his hands hitting the headboard. 

“You okay?”

“Hit my hands. It’s fine.”

“Do you want to be free?”

“No. Please suck my cock, please.”

“I fucking love this side of you, my prince”, you growl, fulfilling his wish gladly. You take his cock back inside and relax your jaw so you can bop your head up and down safely. 

“Fuck. ___, ah aha a-ah”, Yoongi moans and gasps sharply, gripping the edge of the headboard. 

The view is sex in itself. Yoongi’s dark hair is messy covering his eyes, his cheeks are flushed and whenever he takes a deep breath his abs come out and tense. Fuck, his arms are flexing so much in this position and to make it even better, every now and then he nuzzles his face against his right arm to suck on his own skin.

You swear that you tear up at the view. Or maybe it’s because his dick keeps hitting the back of your throat. It’s intense but once you get cock-hungry, you can’t think of anything other than eating cock as sloppily as possible. You want it deep, moaning around him as you push it just a little deeper each time.

You jerk off what you can’t fit, squeezing his balls. Your throat won’t last long in this rhythm, but this isn’t the point anyway. A mixture of gentle and rough, of slow and fast is what makes this as good as it does. You want him aching for more, only to beg for less once he realises how overwhelming More actually is. 

Spit runs down his veiny shaft and makes jerking him off easy. Your lips hit your fingers every now and then, his taste coats the inside of your mouth. Yoongi’s legs slip from your shoulders but stay open, toes bunching up the sheets underneath them. He bucks his hips against his will, voice pitching as he gets just a little sloppy with it.

You push his hips down, dominating over him even with your differences in strengths. He mewls and purrs, writhing on the sheets and biting his own arm. His brows are furrowed, his nose is scrunched. Not getting to fuck your face is edging him. He wouldn’t verbalise it, but his body is talking to you.

You make it up for him by slipping your right thumb to his rim to massage it. You slow down with your mouth, now focusing on sucking rather than throat-fucking.

It elicits all new kinds of noises from him like whined mewls and sharp inhales through his teeth, followed by shaky exhales. Yoongi rolls his head to the other side, sucking and licking his own arm just to make it easier to bear.

Not receiving for two months and then getting sucked off like this is unbearably pleasurable.

It’s rhythmic. It’s intense. Your lips move and grind along his shaft. Your tongue is stiff and stimulates his frenulum constantly. And you suck which forms a bubble of warm pressure around his tip, making him want to fucking burst.

Yoongi acts before he can think. In his blissed out, soul-getting-sucked-out-of-his-dick-state, he reaches for your hair and rips the tie in the process. 

His accidental crime is loud, stopping the scene for a moment when you shoot up in shock. Your fingers are frozen on his cock, thumb against his hole unmoving. Yoongi is frozen as well, foggy eyes glued to the tattered remnants of his tie.

“Did you just rip it?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He is honest. His surprise is genuine. You lessen the tension with a chuckle, sitting up to take his hands and peel off the ruined fabric. You kiss his wrists.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No. I didn’t feel it rip. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. That’s hot. Guess you just have to behave on your own from now on.” You meet his eyes. “I wanna put my fingers inside you, so you have to be good.”

He exhales shakily, sinking into a cozy and warm yet incredibly needy state. He feels himself nod his head, excitement growing in his stomach.

“Perfect. Now remember: behave or else.”

“Okay.”

“How long has it been? Two months again?” you ask, preparing your fingers for him with a healthy, perhaps even a little excessive, amount of lube. You don’t want it to hurt.

“I’ve been in a giving mood lately. I can’t help it”, Yoongi is pouting, eyes focused on your hands. They look so sexy when they are wet and messy.

“You’re almost always in a giving mood.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, hey. I’m not attacking you, just teasing because you’re gonna be sensitive.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing wrong with you wanting to give, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“But now that you’re letting me take care of you, are you excited, kitten?” You purr, eye fucking him as you kiss your way down his thigh. You wrap your left hand around his cock again, spreading the lube in up and down motions.

Yoongi feels like puddy when it comes to you. He wants to focus on the thigh kisses, on your handjob, on your fingers massaging his rim but he can’t decide on which thing because everything just feels so good.

“Mhm, my love? Are you excited?”

“Yeah”, he breathes, searching for your hand on his cock. He finds it just in time for your finger to sink into him. The stretch is familiar, making him feel whole and very hot. 

“Fuck”, he groans, squeezing your hand. It doesn’t embarrass him how easy it was for you to breach him, solely because you make it feel so fucking good. “More fingers. More, please.” 

As a matter of fact, he begs for more and when you fulfill his wish by slipping both your middle and ring finger inside, Yoongi swears he sees the creation of the universe for a second. 

He moans loudly, pulling his left leg up and hugging it against his chest. He will never ever wait two months again. Holy fuck, he missed out on so much.

With a thumping heart, you take his cock back into your mouth, only adding to the growing pleasure he experiences. You do not pump your fingers in and out, no, you know exactly where you want them. You flip your hand and curl your fingers, pressing the pads of them against his prostate. His walls clench around you, his cock leaks onto your tongue. He tastes like lube but you will clean him of it thoroughly.

“Holy fuck.”

Yoongi sometimes forgets how easy pleasuring him comes to you until you remind him. 

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

Your moan tickles his cock. Yoongi doesn’t know whether the pleasure comes from his tip or his prostate. It’s everywhere, spreading down his legs and up his torso. He slams his leg back into the mattress, feeling restless. He has to do something. Maybe grab his own pecs and pinch his nipples. The view of it makes you moan again and forces your fingers to part just slightly so his hole experiences a stretch while you milk him.

“Please don’t stop, please.”

You couldn’t even if you wanted to. Yoongi is your drug. The very thing you currently need to survive. His juices are making your senses hazy and give you an unbearable, insatiable feeling of hunger. His throbbing hole is so eager for your fingers, pulling you in as if he missed you. You need to suck him dry. You need to have all of him.

“You’re making me cum, you’re really making me cum. Really. Is…really…___ you’re making me cum”, he whines, stomach convulsing repeatedly as you send him straight to heaven. 

Denying him comes to your mind for a second, tempting you but you have him riding on such a wave of pleasure right now which will be difficult to replicate it. You would hate to ruin this for him. You are going to keep sucking him, keep jerking him and keep massaging his prostate just so you can torture him afterwards. That’s a good plan. Such a good plan, making you purr around him.

“You have to stop or else I’ll cum in - ah - your mouth”, he warns, tapping your head repeatedly. You give him your answer by leading his hands back to his nipples while you continue to fuck him senseless.

“Really?”

“Mh-hm.”

“Oh.”

Yoongi grows silent, which means this is going to be intense for him. He takes one big breath and holds it, hands stilling on his nipples and stomach curling into itself while his hips slowly move upwards. 

They twitch once when it hits him before his body begins to shake on its own and the breath he held leaves him in ecstatic mewls.

You suck him through it, massaging his throbbing prostate because he deserves to feel eternal. His taste is amazing. You cannot stop gulping him down like a starved animal finally getting food.

Seven times you let him thrust his hips, seven times it takes him to empty everything and then it should stop. 

Should. 

You move your fingers out of their stiff position, pumping them in and out his tight hole. Your grip around his cock is possessive, keeping him right where you need him to be.

You bite his tip, dragging your teeth up on it and applying enough pressure that it hurts.

Yoongi mewls your name, hips fleeing the torture even if there is no escape. You keep fucking his hole, keep biting him and squeezing his overstimulated cock. This is the most amazing torture Yoongi has ever experienced. 

You do that so many times. Soft mouth followed by intense pain as you drag your teeth up his tip. And all of this after the orgasm he just had. 

Yoongi knows that he hasn’t arched his back in a very long time, but fuck, he has to arch it right now. He doesn’t know whether he wants you to stop or to keep going. It hurts, but he loves pain so much which makes it amazing. He feels conflicted and tortured and ecstatic and fucking good. So good.

Pain feels so good when you are its creator.

“I feel dizzy.” 

You do it another time, licking up every single droplet of his sweet, post-orgasmic spill. 

“I-I feel really dizzy.” 

You curl your fingers when you are knuckle deep inside him and you spread them when you pull out. Being stretched from the inside out is a different kind of intense. 

“I can’t see”, he whimpers, feeling like passing out. He hopes that you don’t stop. 

You won’t stop. You know that he still has one more for you. Yoongi is never satisfied with only one. He is a fucking glutton for pleasure once you get him there. 

You know that he still has more to offer, you just need to hit the right spot.

You let go of his shaft and take his balls to squeeze them. 

Yoongi wails and arches his back even harder.

“I’m cumming!”

There he is. That did the trick and fuck, is it messy. You can’t keep everything in your mouth, resulting in his pleasure to spill down his cock and balls. 

You have never heard him say your name as many times in a row as he does right now. It’s like your syllables are his own personal prayer and fuck, does it make you feel good. So fucking good that you feel yourself come undone just by squeezing your thighs together and enjoying his orgasm with him.

Yoongi grows limp after his orgasm, fighting for air he dearly needs. This was it. He is spend (for the next hour at least). And you know that he is, taking care of him with soft licks and kisses. You got him messy and you need to clean him, doing so while you recover from your own high. This was intense. 

You lick his rim as you pull your fingers out. He is clean anyway so you don’t worry. Yoongi purrs, reaching down to stroke the back of your head. You look up. His eyes are still closed and he looks completely wrecked, but fuck, does he seem happy. His body is covered in a thin layer of sweat, the wax once covering is chest is speckled all over it in ruined pieces. 

“Yoongi, my love”, you get out, feeling the incessant need to hold him. You kiss a path up his torso until you reach his lips. You and he lose yourself in slow, exhausted kisses, limbs tangling together and bodies melting with each other. You end up on your sides, having to break the kiss for some air. 

He smiles, rubbing his nose against your face like a cuddly cat.

“I’m happy”, he whispers.

“I’m happy too.”

“Mhm, your breath smells like me.” He snickers and presses his nose into your cheek. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I felt in trance, no joke.” You exhale into your own palm. “Does my breath stink?”

“No. Just smells like my cum. Ah, so embarrassing that you had to swallow”, he whines, covering his eyes, “I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t too bad for you.”

“Yoongi, what? You taste amazing, are you serious? I loved it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. I love your taste.”

He snickers again, pulling you closer. He is so cuddly and clingy, which he only gets when you really made his soul leave his body with his orgasm.

“Do you want me to return the favour?” he still can’t help but offer because this is just who he is.

“I actually came with you.”

“Huh? Really?” he gasps, head shooting up to gawk at you.

You snicker, booping his nose, “you’re not the only one who cums from giving head just saying.”

“Oh. Okay.” He blushes and hides away in your chest, nuzzling his face between your breasts.

“You’re adorable”, you say, hugging him with all your limbs around him. “I’m never letting you go again.”

“Good.” He hugs you back. “Me neither.”

“Except for breakfast and for when you open your presents. I hope you’ll like them.”

“I will, my princess.”

“God, Yoongi I can’t believe that today’s your birthday. Mhhm I’m so happy”, you say and squeeze him tightly.

Yoongi can’t help but chuckle, patting your butt. He is happy too. Really fucking happy.

“Y/N, stop it right now.” 

Your boyfriend breathes the command faster than you can even open your mouth to greet him. With a roll of your eyes, you put your phone on speaker and sit it on the floor beside you. Rummaging through the cardboard boxes littering your apartment is easier done with both hands. 

“Why hello, Taehyung. What a pleasure to hear from you.”

“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” From the whine in his voice you’re positive he’s wearing a deep pout, bottom lip jutting out as far as it can. You love kissing his pouts away. 

But not this time! And not just because you’re on opposite sides of the world. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s so late there and I’m sure you’re very tired from displaying your dick to all of America for three hours.” 

The cardboard box in front of you has “BEDROOM” scribbled in your father’s handwriting on the side in thick, black Sharpie. It’s full of little trinkets and random decor. A Shooky plushie is crammed into the corner in between a cracked Army bomb and a small framed photo of you with your parents. You smile to yourself despite your boyfriend’s huffing over the phone. Your father had given you a strange look as he helped you pack the items as if to ask, Really? Do you really need these? 

Just because you’re dating a member of BTS now doesn’t mean you can’t cherish your old BTS merch! It’s not weird, in your opinion. It would only be weird if you made it weird. And you weren’t making it weird. 

“I did not display my dick!” 

You roll your eyes for probably the fifth time while you ponder where to put Shooky. You’d kept it on your dresser in your old home in the States. Something tells you Taehyung won’t appreciate the lack of a Tata beside it. 

“You were thrusting and throwing it around! And pointing at it while doing it, too!” 

“Y/N!” 

“Don’t Y/N me! I have my TikTok evidence!” 

With your cracked Army bomb in hand, you open the app in question, scrolling through your favorited videos until you get to the one. The one uploaded only a day before. The one you’d texted to Taehyung which prompted his immediate phone call. 

“And what does the caption say?” you ask but then cut Taehyung off before he can answer the question. “It says, and I quote, ‘I will never forget Taehyung doing this. I looped this for hours. Kim Taehyung lives in my head rent-free.’ Hashtag Taehyung. Hashtag HipsDon’tLie. With the woozy face emoji. And do we need to discuss the music choice?” 

“Y/N, can you please-” 

“Slut Me Out,” you deadpan in a monotone voice. “That is the song they chose for you.”

The other end is silent for so long you start to feel bad. Every time your jealousy spikes, you seem to act on impulse rather than thinking through how you might make Taehyung feel. Yes, he sometimes plays his part in the group a little too well, but you also knew that this was his job. It’s his job to make people get excited - excited for the music, the group, and himself as an idol. 

Still, your opinion is the most important to him, and you know that. 

“Jagiya…” Taehyung sniffles and you feel your heart shatter. 

Fuck, you really are a bitch, aren’t you? 

“Tae, I’m sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know, I didn’t really think anything of it. It’s just an act, y’know?” 

You did know. Away from the stage and the cameras, Taehyung is quiet, almost shy. He’s happy to be a silent observer of whatever chaos his members create. He gifts everyone with puffy cheeks and boxy grins, sometimes a boisterous laugh that manages to make your heart soar every time. But the soft-spoken soul you listen to old school R&B with while you smoke strawberry swisher blunts on the balcony late into the night, and convince that yes, the apartment is soundly built and no, the balcony will not randomly fall out beneath you… That person is different from the person you see wearing a resting bitch face in interviews or the person who chews away at imaginary gum during concerts. 

You find all versions of Taehyung endearing, although the fake gum chewing is kind of embarrassing if you wanted to be perfectly honest. 

“I know, Tae. I’m sorry I’m being judgmental for no reason,” you insist and you hope he believes you. Complaints about his idol status typically resulted in red eyes and sniffles, yet sometimes you couldn’t stop yourself from pushing his pressure points despite his sensitivity.  

Your apology puts Taehyung in a better mood because his following comment is cheekier than you expect. 

“You get jealous a lot, jagi.” His smug tone is close to bringing back your irritation. 

“I am not jealous of some fans in a stadium, thanks.” 

“Good,” he says more cheerfully. “‘Cause I only have sights for you.” 

That makes you laugh and you feel your earlier heaviness disappear. “You mean, you only have eyes for me?” 

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

You shake your head as if Taehyung can see you. A few photo strips are beneath Shooky in the cardboard box. You silently curse your father (respectfully and endearingly) for casually placing something so fragile in the bottom of a box. The photos are of you and Taehyung in a photo booth at a birthday party for an idol you didn’t know. An actor, you think. You thumb at one of the corners of the photo strip that has curled inward. Taehyung’s hair was straight then, and short, falling just above his ears. You much prefer the thick waves he wears now. 

“You’re so cute.” 

“Only for you.” 

“Oh shut up, now you’re being corny.” 

You’re not sure why, but you try to suppress the smile Taehyung’s light flirting coaxes out of you, even though he can’t see you. Accepting his teasing affection has always been hard for you. All the boys are too caring; it makes you uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. You’re just not used to men acting like that. They’re all very different from the men you’ve been around growing up. There’s a reason Taehyung can’t listen to you talk about your ex-boyfriends without getting pissed. 

“Mmm, maybe. I’m also sleepy,” Taehyung slurs. His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear him, so you lift your phone to your ear rather than use the speaker setting. The smoothness feels like a lullaby gentle enough to carry you to sleep, even though it’s still daylight in Seoul. 

“Goodnight, Kim.” You decide for him, knowing he would stay on the phone if you let him. 

Confirming your thoughts, Taehyung grumbles when he speaks next. “I love you, jagi.” 

“I love you, too.” People always talk about the “honeymoon phase” when the butterflies disappear and couples no longer feel the exciting draw toward each other anymore. It’s been less than a year since you started dating Taehyung, but you’re confident that your heart will always flutter when you hear those three words so confidently spoken. Taehyung had been the first to say it; something about that makes you even more sure of your relationship. 

“Can’t wait to see you soon so I can slut you out.” 

“… please go to bed and never say that ever again.” 

In the distance, you hear someone start yelling. The noise is accompanied by a rather aggressive ruffling sound, as though Taehyung’s phone is being rubbed against fabric. 

“Are you two having phone sex?” The second voice accuses, this time sounding much clearer. 

“Hyung, leave me alone,” Taehyung whines. “Y/N, tell him to go away.” 

You let out a long sigh, but the grin finally cuts through the hardened expression you try to maintain. “Goodnight, Jimin.” 

It sounds like the two boys start physically fighting each other before Taehyung lets out a breathy, “Goodnight, baby,” accompanied by Jimin screeching something you can’t understand before the call ends. 

With a shake of your head, you leave your phone on the floor and get up to position Shooky and your Army bomb on your dresser. You’ll figure out what to do with it later, you decide.

Later ends up being three more days of you giving a half-assed attempt to sort through the boxes. Your bedroom is mostly organized by the end of the week with only one more box remaining, shoved into the corner of the room. It’s a bunch of family keepsakes that will make you cry if you start looking at them. 

Right now you want to make a beeline to the kitchen. 

It’s hard not to trip over all the boxes that litter your apartment, most of them already torn open and half-empty. The kitchen hasn’t been fully unpacked, either, so you opt for instant ramen in the microwave rather than dig for utensils to cook a proper meal. It’s pretty bad. You and Taehyung are a terrible match; you both have no idea how to cook. There’s no point in all the fancy kitchenware your parents bought you. You’ll never master any of it. It’s not because you don’t put in any effort, like Taehyung. You’re genuinely shit at cooking. 

And baking? That’s even worse. 

You stand in the middle of your living room while you shovel ramen in your mouth. It’s too hot, so you inhale loudly through your teeth to cool the food off before it scorches your throat. There’s so much you need to do, and it’s making you nauseous thinking about it. Somewhere in the mix of boxes are your Hangeul textbooks that you should be studying in your free time instead of playing video games and video chatting with your friends. It’s only been a week and a half, but you already feel lonely without the constant presence of your friends and family. The boys have been on tour the entire time. Namjoon decided you moving to Seoul while they’re on tour would make your arrival less suspicious, and everyone would be more focused on the tour than whatever an unknown American music producer is doing. 

In your opinion, Namjoon was overthinking the whole thing as he is wont to do. But you let him be bossy because you know his heart is in the right place. It’s not like the public knows you’re dating Taehyung. There hasn’t been any press or rumors about you at all. You’re genuinely unknown.

You prefer it that way. 

Your fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl and you realize you’ve scarfed down the ramen without much thought. You suppose it’s easier to do that when you aren’t using chopsticks. (You’ve managed to master them, for the most part, but you prefer to fall back on forks when you’re alone at home.) 

You place the bowl on top of the large cardboard box in front of the couch. It has the pieces for your coffee table inside, but you haven’t had the energy to put it together yet. The part of you that allows your feminism to leave your body whenever the boys are around is kind of hoping you can get one of them to build it for you. Maybe Yoongi. He’s into that kind of stuff. 

With a sigh, you flop onto the couch and slip your phone out of your back pocket. A few Whatsapp and KakaoTalk notifications light up the screen. You used to be terrible at responding to texts, but moving halfway across the world has made you a better texter. It’s a way to fill the loneliness. 

[Alex] hey bitch

[Alex] this 15 hour time difference sucks ass

[You] I’m sorry 

[Alex] its fine. i’ll forgive you for chasing money and dick

[You] I’m not chasing dick omg

[Alex] dont lie

[Alex] whats that tiffany pollard meme

[You] Stop

[Alex] i know his dick is big. i know it! i know it’s big!

[You] I hate you

[Alex] you didnt deny it. anywayyy did you see this? 

As much as you adore Alex, she’s an expert at getting under your skin. You remind yourself that it’s all harmless as you click on the link she texts you. 

BTS’ V woos fans with his casual rockstar visuals on his return from world tour

Kim Taehyung, also known professionally as V of BTS, was spotted at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Friday. The singer is reportedly returning early to South Korea ahead of his band members after completing the final performance of their…   

You don’t know why you read the shitty k-pop tabloids. You figure it’s the same reason why people make a hobby out of watching bad movies. There’s a weird itch in the back of your brain that can’t be scratched unless you open the link Alex texts you— teasingly, of course, because she thinks she’s being funny. Your friends don’t understand the nauseous feeling you get when you scroll through the article and accidentally click on a link that takes you to an external website flaunting doctored photos of your boyfriend with Jennie Kim. 

BTS’ V and BLACKPINK’s Jennie Spend Romantic Weekend in Paris 

You know it’s a lie because the weekend in question was the same weekend Taehyung flew you to Seoul to do a final walkthrough of your apartment before you signed off on it. Taehyung spent every second of that weekend by your side. 

The article makes you sick anyway. 

You’re so caught up in trying to craft a text to Alex to explain why she needs to leave you the fuck alone that you don’t hear the sound of your apartment’s front door open over the music you’re listening to. 

“I’m gone for a few months and I come home to you listening to some other band?” 

“Holy shit, Tae, you can’t do that to me,” you yelp when Taehyung leans over the back of the couch to hover over your shoulder. 

“Explain yourself.” His voice is warm honey and milk even when his strong eyebrows point downward in mock disappointment. The expression is almost convincing, his naturally sharp features making conjuring up a dark appearance easier. 

“You can’t tell me Stray Kids’ new album isn’t good.” 

“Jagiya, I just got home,” Taehyung whines. “Kiss me and stop thirsting over Australian boys.” 

He touches your chin to tip your head backward. You lean your head against the back of the couch and look up at him. The position makes you think of the iconic Spiderman kiss, seeing Taehyung’s face upside down above yours. 

“Y’know, I worked on a few of their songs. Before I met you.” 

The confession is meant to tease him for making fun of your music choice. Of course, words’ impact often diverges from intent. It’s in the twist of his face and the way he pulls back slightly just before his lips brush against yours that you know you’ve made him jealous. 

“Oh did you?” His hair hangs around his face as he leans over you.

“Mhm, Bang Chan’s accent is really cu—” 

You shouldn’t be shocked when strong hands squeeze your waist and Taehyung hauls you off the couch to stand in front of him. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest. 

“You didn’t work with any other groups before us, okay?” 

You purse your lips to hold in the laughter that threatens to explode from your chest. All you can do is nod in agreement. It reminds you of girls getting upset when they remember their boyfriends dated other people before them. 

“Good.” 

Taehyung dips his head down to connect his lips with yours. The closeness of his body forces you to inhale his cologne and feel goosebumps travel down your arms. It’s been months since you’ve so much as held Taehyung’s hand and you feel like you’ve been starved. Your body trembles so severely that you dig your nails into his biceps to hold yourself upright. You moan into his mouth, already open and ready for you because Taehyung is nothing but giving. 

The kiss isn’t bruising, not yet. It’s slow and deep. Taehyung takes his time reminding himself of your taste. You grip the nape of his neck to pull him down as you meet him by standing on your tiptoes. His height has always been one of your favorite aspects of his physical appearance. Dark, watchful eyes that pierce into your soul might be at the top of the list. 

His tongue swirls around yours, only retreating to suck your bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth graze along the plump skin, each nibble making you dizzy in the head. You normally hate wet kisses, but there’s something satisfying about seeing Taehyung’s lips pink and shiny with your spit when he finally pulls away. Pride thrums in your chest; you did that. You made his tan skin flush pink. You made his eyes dark and sharp. You made his breathing ragged and desperate. 

And, fuck, does it feel good. 

You run your fingers along his sharp jawline and watch the muscles flex beneath his taunt skin. “Don’t clench your jaw like that. It’s not good for you,” you muse, allowing your fingers to skim over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’m trying to stay calm.” 

Your eyebrows fly up with concern. “What’s wrong?” 

“Wanna bend you over the couch and fuck you until you can’t walk,” Taehyung says with such a gentle tone that the stark difference between what he says and how he says it has your body trembling once again. 

You inhale sharply and let your hand fall from his throat. Instead, you reach for the lapels of his leather jacket and squeeze them. 

“Why don’t you?” 

You can’t look at him when you ask. Even though you’ve been dating for almost a year, Taehyung still intimidates the hell out of you sometimes. The darkness of his eyes when he gets horny sends you reeling. You’re sure if you look up, you’ll see The Look. He stares at you unabashedly with an expression of desire so strong you feel like he might consume you just by looking at you.

“You haven’t eaten yet and I need to take a shower.” 

“How do you know I haven’t eaten yet?” With a pout, you finally dare to look your boyfriend in the face. The way he gapes at you is judgmental and doesn’t make you feel devour-worthy at all. 

“I know you,” he scoffs. “You’re just like Jimin. I bet you haven’t even been awake more than two hours.” 

Barely a year into your relationship and he’s already reading you like an open book. You can’t stay salty about it when his bread cheeks come out and he’s giggling at the frustrated “hmph” you let out. 

“I’ll be fast,” he promises with a smirk that collapses into another fit of giggles. The hearty slap on your ass encourages you toward the kitchen while Taehyung makes his way to the bathroom. 

You did already eat, but today is an outlier. Normally, you are like Jimin, staying up too late and sleeping in longer than everyone else. And sometimes you’re like Yoongi, too. You get so caught up in the songs you’re working on that you forget to stop to eat or pee or look somewhere other than at a computer screen. 

The move to Seoul threw you off your usual work schedule. Everything you need to get done is looming over your head like a dark cloud. If Namjoon comes back before you finish editing the English lyrics of his upcoming single, you might die of embarrassment, no matter how many times Taehyung insists that Namjoon won’t be disappointed. 

Taehyung wasn’t lying about being quick. He’s wearing a white cotton t-shirt and grey sweatpants when he returns, hair damp and swept away from his face. You’re still standing at the fridge, painfully aware of how little food you have. Plenty of grapefruit soju, though. Priorities. 

“Do you want ramen?” You eventually ask. When Taehyung doesn’t respond, you turn to give him a sheepish smile. He probably thinks you’re ridiculous. 

Taehyung is sitting at the kitchen table with your phone in his hands. His eyebrows scrunch together and he turns to you with narrowed eyes. 

“Why were you looking at this?” 

He lifts your phone in your direction. The doctored photos of him and Jennie glare back at you. You feel your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.  

“Tae, I didn’t—” You snap your mouth shut because, honestly, it looks bad. It looks bad no matter how you explain yourself because Taehyung’s bottom lip is already quivering and you know you’re both replaying the stupid TikTok phone call in your heads right now. 

The two of you stare at each other for only god knows how long. You’re the first to break; not many people can hold their own in a staring contest with Kim Taehyung. Yoongi is probably the only one. Jungkook would give a valiant effort, but he’d ultimately crumble in a fit of nervous giggles. Taehyung is scary when he wants to be. 

Dating Taehyung started as an unbelievably exciting experience. You had your brush with fame before meeting the boys, but Taehyung was the first idol to give you genuine attention beyond whatever job needed to be done. Not that you’d ever sought it out; you had more dignity than that. No, Taehyung pursued you. Who could blame you when you fell head over heels for the sinfully gorgeous man who seemed larger than life? The long legs, big hands, and chiseled features were dangerous enough. Throw in a glowing personality, quirky sense of humor, and a big-hearted desire to care for others and you had a man who was too good to be true. 

And who are you? Some dumb American kid with average looks, a standoff personality as a result of having a bit of social anxiety (and trouble acclimating to a new country), and a penchant for fucking things up. Maybe it was your fault for not seriously considering how hard it was going to be to date an idol.  

“C’mere, jagi,” Taehyung murmurs, beckoning you. 

You expected waterworks— hell, you’re ready to start crying yourself. Instead, Taehyung wears a tired but soft smile. He holds your waist as you climb into his lap, straddling him. He wiggles a little in the chair to adjust you more comfortably on his thighs. 

“Koreaboo, really?” He gathers your face in his hands, thumbs running across your cheeks. His hands are soft and you regret not washing your face when you woke up. Sometimes it’s not fun to date someone as beautiful as Taehyung. 

“It was an accident.” 

You avoid his gaze, but Taehyung coaxes you back to look him in the eyes. It’s hard. There’s so much passion swimming in them. He blinks up at you with an earnestness that makes your heart ache because you’re always the one causing problems. 

“They could have at least used better pictures of me,” he complains with an exaggerated pout. 

“Maybe I’ll send them some from my private collection.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Taehyung grins as he threatens you, so you grin back. 

“Oh, I dare.” 

Quick fingers dig into your sides and you let out an embarrassing squeal. Taehyung doesn’t let up on tickling you until you’ve got tears in your eyes and your threats to elbow him in the face start sounding a bit too real. 

“Please don’t torture yourself with shit like that, okay?” He mumbles the request into your neck because your arms are thrown around his shoulders. 

You slide your fingers into his hair to cradle his head against your chest. When you dig your nails into his scalp he lets out a low groan. Nothing about the position you’re in is sexual, but you’re quickly reminded that this is the most skin-on-skin contact you’ve had with your boyfriend in months. With that fact in mind, you don’t feel bad when you scoot further into his lap and squeeze his thighs with your own. 

“Tae?” 

“Hmm?” When he tilts his head back to look up at you, he’s got that spacey, blissed-out look on his face. 

“Tell me you love me.” You place your finger against the little freckle on the tip of his nose.

The slow, boxy grin is almost better than hearing the words. Your finger migrates to touch the freckle on his lip. 

“I love you with all my heart.” He punctuates the confession with a kiss on the tip of your finger. “Your turn.” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the reaction he’s looking for. 

“I love you, too. You dork.” 

“So romantic,” he laughs, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he watches you with lust darker than what consumed his expression earlier. 

You sit with your breath burning in your lungs as Taehyung slips his hands beneath your baggy t-shirt. His smooth palms slide up your rib cage until he reaches your tits, palming one in each hand. The tilt of his chin tells you he wants another kiss, and who are you to deny him what he wants? You dig your nails in his hair harder while you kiss him, tugging to angle his head in the direction you want. Small moments like this give the appearance that you’re in control. And Taehyung loves domming while you both pretend you’re the one in charge.

He pulls back with a wet smack. If it was anyone else, you’d be ashamed of the whimper that sounds from your throat as Taehyung removes his hands from your shirt. You grip his hair tighter, but Taehyung just chuckles. 

“So needy. What am I going to do with you?” 

You could give him a couple of ideas. There isn’t time, though. Taehyung is already grasping your chin and tilting it down. 

“Open up for me, okay?” 

Your cheeks grow hot as you open your mouth. You already know where this is going, so you stick out your tongue. Still, it’s difficult not to squirm when Taehyung presses his index and middle fingers flat against the wet muscle. 

“Suck.” 

You swallow around his fingers, sucking as best you can as he begins to thrust them into your mouth. It’s vulgar, the wet suctioning sound of his fingers dragging against your tongue. In and out, a steady pace that doesn’t go too fast. Taehyung has such long, gorgeous fingers. You quite enjoy when he wrecks your insides with them until you’re on the brink of tears. Which you’ve come to find is something Taehyung thoroughly enjoys doing. 

“You miss having your pretty mouth stuffed?”

You know any attempt at a spoken response will come out as a garbled mess. You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. You push your tongue in between his fingers and curl around them. 

“Gonna suck my cock like this, jagi?” He purrs the question, ending it so breathy it’s almost a moan as he eases over the term of endearment. “Show me how much you miss me, hm?” 

Maybe it’s the deep, sensual way he purrs jagi with heavy eyelids and that crooked smirk on his face. Maybe it’s because he bites his lip when he says it or that he lets his lip go with such slowness that you can see the way his teeth scrape across his plump bottom lip as it falls back into place. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoving his fingers just a bit deeper into your mouth. Maybe it’s all of these things that make you shift so that you can press your clothed pussy against Taehyung’s thigh. 

He flexes the muscle as you start rutting against it, rolling your hips to the rhythm of his fingers gliding in and out of your mouth. 

“Look at you.” His lips brush against the curve of your ear, sending a shiver down your back. “So desperate for me that you’re going to get off on only my thighs?” 

You’re not the type to be able to orgasm just from rutting and friction like this, but Taehyung has managed to learn your body faster than you ever expected. He slips his free hand beneath the waistband of your leggings and underwear. It’s the quick circling of his thumb against your throbbing clit combined with the rutting of your hips that sends you over the edge. 

“That’s it, baby, you did so well,” Taehyung whispers praise against the skin his lips have access to on your collarbones as you shudder in his lap. “Love seeing you cum, fuck, doing this shit over KakaoTalk fucking sucked.” 

Taehyung finally removes his fingers from your mouth when you stop moving. Seeing the string of spit that connects his fingers to your lips makes you feel weak, but you’re riding the high of his praise and skillful fingers, so you don’t care. 

He wipes your spit onto his sweatpants and gently holds your chin with his other hand. He gives you a soft smile and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. You can taste yourself when you flick your tongue over the trail his thumb left.  

“I missed you so much,” he admits with a gentle kiss on your lips. “And not just because of this. I missed all of you, everything about you, just being with you.” 

“I missed you, too.”

It’s meant to be a confirmation of your mutual love, but it comes out like a whine. You know Taehyung doesn’t mind from the way his eyes zero in on your tongue running along your bottom lip. You don’t have to say anything more for him to know what you want. He nods once and you’re almost immediately on your knees between his legs.  

“Fuck.” He leans back in the chair and lifts his hips so you can tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” 

You quickly nod your head, though you’re focused on gently taking Taehyung’s cock in your hand. Alex isn’t wrong. Taehyung’s dick is big, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around talking about it. That’s for you to know and for others to wonder about. 

You had to sign an NDA before you were allowed to see it, anyway, but you’d keep your mouth shut even if no legal action would be taken against you for gossiping. 

“Kiss it first.” 

He tongues the inside of his cheek as he watches you. His eyelids droop lower when you plant a puckered, open-mouthed kiss on the head of his cock. You press the tip of your tongue against the slit to lick at the precum already leaking from him. The buck of his hips isn’t unexpected, but you feel like you need to remember how to do all of this after being away from him for so long. Not to mention how tired your jaw is about to be. 

Taehyung seems to sense your hesitation because he allows his body to go slack beneath you. The hand that has reached down to dig into your scalp doesn’t let up, but he doesn’t push your head down like he normally would when you finally slide his cock down your throat. 

He doesn’t buck his hips again, even when you drool so much that the inside of his thighs become just as wet as yours. You squeeze the base of his cock, twisting your wrist to the rhythm you’ve established when you can’t take all of him into your mouth. 

You reach down to gently roll his balls with your free hand. His cock twitches against your flattened tongue and you hum with satisfaction. 

“God, your fucking mouth–” 

You make eye contact with Taehyung as your hand ventures lower. There’s nothing more beautiful than the way his face crumples with pleasure when you massage his perineum. 

“Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop,” he whines. 

You ease up slightly but still suckle on the head of his cock for longer than Taehyung wants. Why not have a little fun? All you’ll end up doing is riling him up even more, and that can only be a good thing for you. 

Taehyung digs his fingers into your hair and yanks you up. It stings, but the pain might as well be white-hot pleasure once Taehyung is praising you with a gravelly voice. 

“You’re too fucking good at that.” 

You don’t even like sucking dick, but you’d do it all day, every day if Taehyung asked you to. But since he made you stop, you have other priorities to take care of, like the fact that there are way too many layers of clothes separating you from your boyfriend. While you were on your knees for him, Taehyung removed his shirt. The white cotton is discarded on the floor beside the chair and his half-dry hair is tousled around his head in a messiness only he could successfully pull off. 

After wiggling out of your leggings and underwear, you climb back onto Taehyung’s lap. His broad chest shudders beneath your touch as you run your hands down to meet his soft tummy. His responsiveness strokes the ego you didn’t realize you have. 

“Y’know, you never gave me the chance to ask you how travel went.” 

“Seriously?” He knows you’re teasing, but you like the mock-irritated tone of his voice. It makes his chest rumble. 

You use your grip on him to stabilize yourself as you grind into his lap. You scrape your nails at the nape of his neck and suck on his bottom lip. Taehyung moans into your mouth, low and throaty, when his cock glides through your wet folds as you roll your hips. He lets you pull his hair, head falling back to expose the smooth plane of his throat. Your lips leave his to latch onto his throat instead. The kisses you give him are slippery and biting and hot. 

“No hickeys, Y/N.” 

Taehyung’s scolding is deep and sharp; you both know he’s not fucking around. It’s a command he has had to throw your way more than once. The idea of marking him up is just so appetizing, but you know you can’t. Sure, makeup can make just about anything disappear, but it’s annoying to deal with and Taehyung isn’t particularly a fan of the side looks the makeup artists give each other when they see dark bruises littering his neck and collarbones. 

Maybe you’ll give him just a tiny one and suffer the consequences later. 

You cling onto him tighter when you feel two of his fingers slip inside of you. Spreading your thighs as wide as you can without throwing off your balance on the chair, you roll your hips into Taehyung’s hand to take his fingers deeper. 

“Please,” you moan against his neck. You can smell your shampoo and body wash on him. Something about him smelling like you makes you feel overwhelmingly possessive. He’s yours. Kim Taehyung is yours. 

He turns his head to the side to capture your lips with his own as he snakes his arm around your waist. The position allows him to pull you tightly against his chest. He holds you in place as he starts thrusting his fingers into your pussy just as he had thrust them into your mouth.   

Taehyung grunts as he keeps his legs spread in the chair, which in turn forces your thighs open when you try to squeeze them closed around his hand. 

“Stay still.” 

“Can’t.” You shake your head and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging the strands harder. 

It’s too much; Taehyung lights a fire against every inch of your body each time he touches you. If he was anyone else, you’d be singed, but Taehyung takes such good care of you. You’re not singed. You’re ignited. 

“You have no fucking idea,” Taehyung takes a deep breath, “No fucking idea how badly I’ve been craving you.” He warms you up with each thrust of his fingers, adding a third until you’re clawing at his shoulders. 

“So, ahh fuck, fuck me,” you gasp, your mouth hot against the corner of his jaw. Your teeth scrape against his skin and he merely lets his head fall back to give you more. 

“No please?” 

You bite his cheek in defiance and get a slap to the ass that only makes you want to bite him more. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” you whimper. 

Taehyung’s steady rhythm against your front wall has your orgasm burning so hotly in your core that you feel like you’re going to cum if he even so much as turns his head to look at you one more time. 

Your thighs are already sore by the time Taehyung removes his fingers from your pussy. He uses your sticky arousal as lube to stroke his cock and you don’t want to think about how excited you are about this. 

“Hurry up.” 

Taehyung raises his eyebrows at you just as he grips the inside of your thigh with one hand. The other he uses to line his cock with your body. You can feel the head press against your entrance, and you try to push your body down to swallow him whole, but Taehyung holds you up to stop you. 

“Impatient cockslut, aren’t you?” Taehyung chides. 

His previously spacey look is sharpened by the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Your body tenses when he spits the insult at you, and he knows it’s making your clit throb even harder. 

“Tae.” You bite your lip because you’re close to begging at this point. 

Luckily, you don’t have to. Taehyung presses down your hip and you quickly take the lead, easing yourself onto his cock until you’re fully seated on his firm thighs. 

Your body burns from the stretch it has to make to accommodate him, but you knew it would. Even when you’re fully adjusted to him, there’s always a bit of a stretch. He also knows he has to let you ease into it to avoid slamming himself straight into your cervix. The first time it had happened, Taehyung genuinely thought he’d broken you. You kind of thought so, too, if you were going to be perfectly honest. The struggle of having a big-dicked boyfriend. 

“Okay?” He’s watching you with those lustful, dark eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum because you’re afraid of the way your voice will quiver if you try to say real words. 

You’re so full, it’s a bit overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. You missed Taehyung a lot, but holding onto each other in such an intimate position is making you realize just how lonely you were without him. 

“I’m gonna move, okay?” 

He waits until you silently nod your head before he adjusts in the chair, scooting down slightly to spread his legs better. You allow him to adjust your legs, bending them at the knee and hooking them over the arms of the chair. With a tight grip on your ass, Taehyung pulls you down onto his cock at the same time he thrusts up into you. 

The pace Taehyung sets is desperate, but you don’t care. Your second orgasm is approaching at an alarming speed. It feels like it’s taking all of your energy to simply stay grounded with reality as Taehyung squeezes you and your hips crash into each other. You don’t even try to do anything, just let him take over your body as he pounds into you. For the most part, you’re a pillow princess and you both know it. Besides, how can you possibly keep up with someone so athletic? Taehyung’s stamina is ridiculous. Neither of you has an overstimulation kink, but Taehyung’s ability to just go and go and go might as well have given you one. None of this has ever bothered Taehyung, though. He likes giving more than receiving. 

“Oh fuck.” Taehyung nips at the base of your neck when you clench around his cock just to feel him shiver. 

There aren’t any rules about him marking you up. The petty side of him likes when you wear the dark bruises in the open, with no makeup or clothing to hide them. It’s a satisfying game he likes to play. He likes that everyone knows you’re getting dicked down and, therefore, are taken. 

You like the secret satisfaction of knowing it’s Kim Taehyung who gives you those marks, and no one even knows. 

What you don’t like is thinking about all the other people Taehyung may have enjoyed giving marks to. 

It’s hard not to let your mind wander. Taehyung has never talked to you about his previous relationships, and there’s no way for you to know about them if he doesn’t tell you. The media can’t be trusted to accurately report idols’ love lives; today has been a perfect example of that. You’re stuck with only your imagination to make up all kinds of scenarios. Maybe Taehyung has been with other k-pop idols, or models, or actresses - people with more money, who are prettier and more sophisticated than you. Hell, you’ve never even asked him about his sexuality. What if he really has been fucking Jungkook! What if they’re in love and you’re just something temporary? 

“I was made for you, jagi. You know that?” Taehyung’s breath is hot against your skin. His words are gentle, but the power with which he thrusts up into you is bruising. “Made for you.” 

It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he can somehow sense the insecurities threatening to pull you out of the moment. As always, Taehyung manages to bring you back to the present. 

Fuck, sometimes you wish he wouldn’t do shit like this to you. You’re already pathetically in love with him. You can’t imagine what more could come next, yet you feel yourself practically bursting from the seams with love.  

Your moans fall in line with the sound of the chair scraping the floor and your skin slapping against Taehyung’s with every thrust. When your mouth falls open, Taehyung presses his thumb against your tongue. With eyes fluttering closed, you suck on his thumb and try to hold on as your body rocks up and down. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh, god, Taehyung.” 

“Yeah, jagi?” Taehyung pulls down on the corner of your mouth until his thumb is dragging spit across your cheek. “Tell me.”

His voice is so soothing it makes you want to cry. It’s unfair. 

“You feel so fucking—“ 

It’s the slick pressure of his thumb massaging your clit that finally has you arching your back with a scream of Taehyung’s name. You’re so loud that you worry your neighbors heard you. There are plenty of people named Taehyung in the world, though, right? He could be any Taehyung. 

If you ask Taehyung later, he’ll probably say he can’t even remember his own name because of how tightly you clench around his cock when you cum. The feeling is so overwhelming that you think you might pass out from holding your breath. You gasp, inhaling more air than you exhale, but Taehyung keeps going. Every subsequent thrust knocks the air out of you until you have the opposite problem and now you can’t keep any air in.

“I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead, baby. Cum inside me.” 

Taehyung whimpers into the crook of your neck as he cums, the suggestiveness of your permission not lost on either of you. You’re on birth control and Taehyung knows a kid would probably ruin his career. So it doesn’t actually mean anything when you tell him he can stay inside; you’re not getting pregnant any time soon. Still, he gets off on coming inside of you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“I was going to make a joke that I should go on tour more often if that means I’ll cum that hard again, but I think I don’t want to go on tour ever again,” Taehyung admits with a shaky laugh. 

Just the idea of Taehyung leaving you for months on end again makes your stomach twist. He brings so much life to everywhere he goes, and you felt like much of that life left you when he did. Even if it was only temporary. 

Taehyung holds you until his cock is no longer twitching inside of you. Once his arms finally fall to his side, you try to untangle yourself from the chair as his body, but your limbs might as well belong to someone else.

“Help,” you squeak hoarsely. You feel like covering your face when Taehyung laughs. 

Taehyung helps you out of his lap, though you both are so wobbly on your feet that you hold onto the edge of the kitchen table when you stand. Taehyung looks wrecked, and you feel wrecked. You’re not sure your knees will ever work properly again. 

“Why are we still listening to Stray Kids?” Taehyung grumbles when he realizes the speakers are still playing in the background. 

“It’s a good album.”

“We should be fucking to my songs.” Taehyung pauses for a moment, thinking.“‘Christmas Tree’ is a fuckable song, right?” 

“You’re joking.” 

Taehyung shakes his head and reaches for your phone. His face is programmed to unlock your phone, just like your face unlocks his phone. You don’t understand how he can stand butt naked in the kitchen, cum all over his thighs, and search for the jazz playlist he made on your Spotify account. 

(“Jazz Hands, Y/N. It’s a vibe.”) 

Once his playlist has replaced Stray Kids, Taehyung wraps you up in a giant bear hug that lifts you off your feet. The hug nearly knocks the air out of you. 

“Can’t believe you made me dirty after I just showered.” You can’t see his pout, but you can hear it. 

“You’re the one who started this.” 

Taehyung scoffs. He starts walking down the hallway, practically dragging you in his arms as he goes. Your toes barely reach the ground, but you’re more content to let your body fall slack and make him do all the work. 

He kicks open the bathroom door and sits you down on the counter. 

“No, you did this. You looked at me with those pretty eyes and said, ‘Tae’.” He tries to mimic your voice by moaning his name. “I’m a weak, weak man. You influenced me. I just wanted you to eat.” 

“Well, I did eat.” 

Taehyung presses his lips together. “Don’t say it.” 

“I’m gonna say it.” You lean forward on the edge of the counter, trying to get in Taehyung’s space, but he’s ignoring you as he prepares the shower.

“Y/N.” 

“I ate…”  

“Stop.” 

“Deez nuts.” 

Taehyung drags his hands down his face, leaving his skin red. His reaction makes you giggle. 

“Technically you only played with deez nuts. Your mouth, sadly, did not ever come near my—” He tries to correct you, but you’re already throwing a scrunchie at his face. 

“You’re ruining the joke!” 

“It’s a bad joke!”

Maybe your sense of humor is way better than his, but as you suffer another Taehyung tickle attack, you can’t help but feel ridiculous for how you’d behaved earlier. How can he look at you with sparkling eyes and a boxy smile that makes him laugh with his teeth, hand coming up to cover his face when you give him your poutiest of pouts— how can you see such genuine kindness and think Taehyung would ever do anything to jeopardize what you have?

“Wassup motherfuckers!” 

You raise your eyebrows at Namjoon and tap the end of your chewed pen against your computer screen. Biting pens isn’t sanitary or cute but you do it anyway. The man’s eyes aren’t on your pen cap, though. He’s staring a hole into the podcast you pulled up because you know he doesn’t want to look at you. 

“Namjoon, why did you start the episode like that? This is not your Automatic Dick era,” you say with a deep sigh. 

“Beoryeo.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The song. It’s called ‘Throw Away’, not… Automatic… Dick…” His correction dies on his tongue when he sees the exasperated look on your face. 

“That is not the point.” You shake your head and exit the website. You’re not in charge of PR. That’s someone else’s problem.

Your attention turns to the newest draft of the song you’ve been stressing out about since you arrived in Seoul. 

“This, though? This is fucking beautiful.” You adjust your laptop on the coffee table so Namjoon can better view the document. The two of you are at the dorm, lounging in the living room. 

There are a lot of highlighted lines and many comments throughout the document. You wish you were like the members who scribbled their lyrics in cute leather journals, but your brain is too much of a disaster and broken by technology. If you don’t have your laptop, you can’t write lyrics for shit. 

“How are you so eloquent in Korean, but in English, you’re so…” You wave your hands around like you’re rifling through the air for the rest of your sentence. 

“Casual?” 

“Yes.” Sure, we’ll go with that, Joonie. 

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you!” 

At least he thinks you’re eloquent. The boys probably think you’re spending all your time in your office easily pulling masterpieces out of your ass when in reality you’re Googling, “what’s the word for when you can’t remember a word?” 

It’s lethologica, by the way.

You love Namjoon, but sometimes you think he has too much faith in you. Writing songs is hard. He of all people would know that. The difference between you and Namjoon is that when Namjoon struggles with writing he gets all emo, buys a bunch of weird furniture, and flies to another country to look at foreign art. When you struggle with writing, you just go home and play video games with Taehyung until you’re ready to try again. 

You’re both practicing avoidance, but Namjoon’s method just looks a little more dramatic than yours. Despite his assumptions, that doesn’t mean you’re better at handling yourself. You just do things differently. 

“We’re so lucky to have Jagi PD!” 

Namjoon groans and covers his head with the hood of his hoodie as Jungkook flies into the living room. 

Strong hands cup your armpits to lift you off of the couch. While Jungkook is crushing every bone in your body as he hugs you, all you can think about is how you were kind of a little bit sweaty, and now Jungkook has his hands all in your armpits. 

“Jungkookie, don’t pick people up without their consent.” 

Hobi enters the room behind the younger man and gives him a stern look which makes Jungkook immediately put you down on your feet. 

“Sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a pout and galaxies in his eyes. You give his shoulder a playful smack. His baggy black t-shirt sticks to his skin, and you’re less worried about being sweaty. Jungkook is soaked. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m tough.” You flex your nonexistent muscles to make the precious maknae laugh his pout away.

“You should come train with us, Jagi.” 

“Jungkook,” Namjoon exclaims from where he still sits on the couch. 

He turns to his friend with wide eyes. “What?”

“Stop calling Y/N ‘jagi’. Taehyung is going to kill you.” This time Jimin pipes up. 

You hadn’t realized he’d entered the room, too. The three newcomers are varying degrees of sweaty with pink cheeks and wearing workout clothes. You suppose they’ve just come back from working out or perhaps a dance practice. They’ve all been back from tour for a few weeks now, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned about the Bangtan Boys it’s that they never fucking rest. 

It’s exhausting just to think about it. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a shrug. “I think ‘Jagi PD’ is pretty fucking funny, to be honest.” 

The nickname Jungkook created for you is cute in your opinion. You are a music producer. Jagi PD is better than using your last name. It could be like your stage name. Maybe you can get Namjoon to credit you as Jagi PD under the songs you write. Using your first and last name seems lame when it’s paired with fun names like SUGA, RM, j-hope, and Slow Rabbit.

“Pretty fucking funny,” Jungkook repeats. He gives the other men a triumphant look before launching himself onto the couch with Jimin. 

Hobi chooses to sit on the couch on the opposite side of the room with Namjoon. From the way Namjoon has nestled back into his seat, it’s clear that his song will have to wait. It’s for the best. You’re not thinking about music anymore. 

You can’t blame Jungkook for interrupting your work, but the true source of distraction saunters into the room with his arms full of grocery bags. 

“Hey, jagiya,” Taehyung greets you sweetly with a kiss on your forehead as he walks through the living room to get to the kitchen. The final two men, Jin and Yoongi, trail behind Taehyung with their own bags. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin give Jungkook a pointed look when Taehyung uses the term of endearment. 

“What are you guys making?” Jungkook is curled up against the arm of the couch with his phone in hand. He’s holding it sideways which makes you think he’s probably playing In The Seom. The app is old news by this point, yet Jungkook’s attention is still consumed by it. It’s hilarious. 

You wish you could meet the game developers. Whoever made Taehyung’s character look so fucking feral deserves a raise. 

“You’re gonna cook?” You don’t hide your shock at the idea that Taehyung would be cooking anything, and that makes everyone laugh.

“I’m making dinner,” Yoongi clarifies. “And it’s a surprise, so stop paying attention to me.” He shoos Jin and Taehyung out of the kitchen. 

Jin sits on the couch with Jimin and Jungkook, while Taehyung sits with you. The armchair really only seats one person comfortably, but you wiggle so Taehyung can sit half next to you and half under you. He arranges your legs to drape over his lap. It’s nice, being this close. You can snuggle into his side and let him wrap his arms around you without worrying about who can see or what people think. All the boys are supportive of your relationship with Taehyung. It’s a bit frustrating that there’s no way for you to fully express how appreciative you are. 

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” From the couch in the living room, Jungkook shoots Yoongi a glare as if Yoongi’s request for some alone time while he cooks is a personal attack. 

Yoongi snorts and turns his back on Jungkook to begin unloading the groceries. “I don’t know, talk to each other.” 

“You guys are boring. I only want to talk to Y/N.” You’re not sure how you’ve become Jungkook’s favorite, but it’s exceptionally endearing. 

“You’re not even going to pay attention,” Namjoon points out. “Always on that damn phone.” 

He’s still got his hood up, and he looks like he was half-asleep. No one but you gets the joke, so Namjoon nods his head in your direction before returning to his slumped position. 

“I like watching Jimin-ssi’s character spin around in little circles.” 

“It’s cute, isn’t it?” Jin chimes in. “He looks so small.” 

The glares Jimin shoots everyone in the room are terrifying. You think about something you’d heard someone say: the shorter the person, the closer to hell they are. Something dramatic that only a tall person would say. 

“All the characters are the same size,” he exclaims. “And I don’t do that!” 

“Yes, you do. There are fanmade compilation videos of you spinning around, Jimin-ssi! I’ve watched them,” Jungkook confesses with full confidence. 

A small squeal sounds from the opposite side of the room. You turn to see Hobi practically bouncing on the couch. 

“Please, can we watch some? I want to hear the cute sound effects.” 

A pillow flies across the room, and Hobi just barely dodges it. Jimin crosses his arms firmly against his chest and scowls as Jin and Jungkook enthusiastically agree and Hobi snatches the TV remote before anyone else can. 

“At least watch a video that isn’t about me doing something embarrassing,” Jimin breaks down enough to plead (not beg!) with Hobi. He eyes the room and his gaze falls on Taehyung. A small smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth and you feel Taehyung slowly exhale. “We should watch one about TaeTae.” 

You try to cover your laughter with a cough, but Taehyung applies a light slap to your thigh in retaliation. 

“Why me?” he pouts. 

“Yes! Let me pick!”

“Jungkookie, no. It was my idea.” Hobi scrolls through his phone until his face lights up with glee. “I’ve watched this one before and it’s so cute, Y/N, you’re going to love it.” 

“The suspense is killing me.” You wiggle your eyebrows at Taehyung. The rolled eyes you’re met with feel like a victory. 

“Okay, it’s called, BTS struggling to understand ‘Tae-tae language’,” Hobi prefaces while the video loads on the TV. 

Jin laughs at the loud snort you let out. “TaeTae language is hard to understand.” 

“Maybe you guys aren’t creative enough to understand me,” Taehyung scoffs. 

“Hey! I understand you!” Yoongi protests from the kitchen. 

Taehyung looks like he might say more, but the video interrupts him. It starts with highlights from the comments section of previous videos. One comment mentions Namjoon being their bias. 

“Is that weird? Like, to watch this kind of stuff and hear people talk about their biases?” If you were famous, you were absolutely positive that you’d never Google yourself. You would not want to know what kind of weird shit was out there about you, even something as seemingly innocent as silly compilation videos. 

“I think it’s funny,” Jimin says with a smirk and half-moon eyes. “I’m everyone’s bias, anyway.” 

“That’s not what TikTok says.” Jungkook turns his nose upward at Jimin, though his eyes never leave his phone. It’s a shame In The Seom didn’t allow him to drown Jimin in the ocean, or he totally would have done it by now. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just check how many videos there are under my hashtag.” 

Jimin snorts with a roll of his eyes, seemingly dismissing Jungkook’s claims. But you see him twist on the couch so the younger man can’t see that Jimin pulls up TikTok on his phone. As if TikTok was the end all, be all. You want to tell them it’s impossible to know who’s the most “popular” or whatever, but you know that conversation is futile. 

“Y/N, you were Army before you started dating Tae!” You can practically see the light bulb going off in Hobi’s brain. Or, rather, the Army bomb. “Who was your bias?” 

Hobi’s question barely leaves his lips when the room grows quiet. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you expectantly, including your boyfriend’s. You keep your eyes on the TV, though you aren’t seeing the compilation video playing anymore. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a bias. Y’know, OT7 and all that shit.” 

Suddenly, the room erupts. Screeches of protests and arguments are shouted across the living room, the boys yelling on top of one another and slewing insults at each other. 

“Oh come on, Y/N, tell us!” Hobi whines.

“Yeah, we wanna know! We won’t judge you.” Pulling this precious information out of you is so vital that Jungkook looks away from his phone long enough to give you a pouty face. 

“It’s obviously me. I’m Worldwide Handsome.” 

“Leave her alone, guys.” Taehyung shifts in his seat and adjusts how your legs drape over his lap. His large hands massage soft circles into your calf muscles. “This is so childish.” 

“Right. A bias is just whoever a fan is partial to,” Namjoon says with a shrug. “What matters is that fans support us as seven.” 

“No, a bias is the one the fan wants to fuck the most.” This time Jungkook doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks. 

Jin hums in agreement, winking in your direction and making Taehyung scowl. 

“You’re just scared it’s not you, Tae.” For someone Taehyung calls his soulmate, Jimin seems to jump at every opportunity to fuck with his friend. He turns to you with those haunting siren eyes that lure in even God’s strongest soldiers. “Is he, Y/N? Is your bias Taehyung or someone else?” 

“I thought Hobi’s question was, who was my bias? Not is.” 

His siren eyes narrow at you. “Stop arguing semantics and answer the question.” 

You can’t hold a staring contest with the now-paused Youtube video, and Jimin’s sudden snappiness makes you feel the need to look away. Right into the eyes of your answer, the only person who hasn’t spoken during the entire bias conversation. 

Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch yours when you look away from the TV. Never one to miss a beat, he raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at you, the ghost of his classic Yoongi smirk barely lifting the corner of his mouth before the entire room erupts into shouting again. 

“YOONGI?! REALLY?! OUT OF ALL OF US, YOU PICKED HIM?” Jimin jumps up from the couch, knocking pillows all over the floor. 

“Watch it, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi scolds the younger man for his informal language. Jimin only rolls his eyes. 

“Damn, Jimin was right. You aren’t her bias, TaeTae.” Jin shakes his head with a solemn look. He gets up to leave the room, giving your boyfriend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he walks past. “I’m going to my room to play Mario Kart. This is too depressing for me.” 

At the mention of video games, Jungkook perks up. “Wait Jin hyungie, I wanna play, too!” He tosses the last couch pillow in Jimin’s lap and scrambles to catch up with Jin halfway down the hall. 

Yoongi wears a full-blown smirk now. You watch with wide eyes as his tongue slips out to drag across his bottom lip before he’s drawing his lip between his teeth. “Cute.” 

“Fuck off,” Taehyung hisses at the older man, lifting your legs off his lap. 

“Tae…” You reach out to grab his arm to stop him, but he’s already heading to his bedroom. The door slams shut so hard that the photos on the walls shudder. 

You turn back around to glare at the remaining men. “Did you have your fun, hmm? Was it worth it?” 

“I really… I didn’t think…” Hobi fumbles his words, clearly uncomfortable with the outbursts he’d unwittingly caused. 

“If it doesn’t work out with Taehyung, call me, yeah?” Yoongi sends you a wink, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. 

You feel your face heat up and you refuse to look at him. You wait until he goes back to preparing the food before you stand up. Without another word, you follow in Taehyung’s footsteps until you reach his door. It’s locked, but you expected as much. 

“TaeTae,” you call softly. “Please let me in.” 

You wait in silence long enough that you consider going home. If Taehyung doesn’t want to talk to you, you aren’t going to push him. Even if you think the reason for his outburst is stupid and that he’s acting like a child. 

Eventually, the door is opened wide enough for you to slip inside. Taehyung doesn’t look at you when he shuts the door. Instead, he sits on his bed and leans his back against the wall. He keeps his eyes on his hands delicately folded together in his lap. His eyes are already red and slightly puffy. The sight is glass in your veins. 

“Tae, please don’t be upset,” you start slowly. Climbing into his bed, you scoot until you’re lounging next to him. He doesn’t pull away when you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

You let out a small sigh, not because you’re frustrated with him but because you’d known watching fanmade videos would turn out to be a bad idea. 

“If it makes you feel better, you were still in my bias line.” It’s probably not the best way to reassure your boyfriend, but it at least makes him look at you. 

“Who else?” His eyes are narrowed.

“I don’t think I should answer that.” 

Taehyung’s bottom lip droops and you feel your heart seize. 

“Okay, okay!” Maybe holding his hand will make it better. “Jimin, but, no don’t give me that look! Just listen.” 

Taehyung’s pout deepens, but he doesn’t interrupt you. 

“It’s not like when I hang out with Jimin or Yoongi I’m thinking about those things, okay? It’s just a natural thing that happens. Anyone can be drawn to specific people in a group; the same thing happens with friendships. Like you and Jimin. It’s normal.” 

Taehyung doesn’t seem convinced, but he laces his fingers through yours. You interpret the light squeeze he gives you as permission to continue talking. 

“Yoongi is cool because I always saw him as this, like, mental health icon for me. He talks so much about mental health and fans see how he has grown and gotten healthier over the years. It’s inspiring, right? You’ve seen it firsthand.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung sniffles. 

You nod your head. “Exactly, I respect him as a person and an artist. And with Jimin, I’ve always been almost jealous? of him. Because he can so beautifully balance both masculine and feminine qualities and aesthetics. He looks good no matter what and has learned to accept himself instead of forcing whatever weird masculinity shit y’all had when you debuted. That’s inspiring, too.” 

Taehyung is silent for a while. You give him the space to process what you’ve said, and you hope that it’s enough to make him understand that a bias is not just about who you want to fuck. Jungkook is such a flirt; of course, that’s how he would interpret things. 

“Why did you like me?” He finally looks at you. His eyes are a little pink from his tears, but his cheeks appear dry. The innocent curiosity in his expression tugs at your heart. 

You reach up to run your fingers through his fluffy hair, combing out any tangles and gently massaging his scalp. This is probably how Taehyung feels when you worry about fans, paparazzi, and sasaengs. 

“Well, you’re hot,” you say with a grin. You feel a bit lighter when Taehyung’s mouth curves slightly, too. 

“Is that it?” 

“Of course not.” You stick your tongue out. “You were my favorite in the vocal line. I loved how smooth your singing voice is, and how thoughtful you sound when you talk about how important the members and Army are to you. How could someone not love the inventor of I purple you?” 

It feels weird to talk about how you liked Taehyung before you knew who he was. You never made your status as a fan obvious in the beginning. Professionalism is more important than fangirling. Even now, you only casually discuss your interest in the group before meeting them.

“Your sense of fashion made me laugh. You always seemed so happy, even though people like to focus a lot on how mean you can look. And I thought your relationships with Yoongi and Jimin were cute. You’re a great example of how men can and should be soft and loving.” 

They’re all highly-simplified explanations for why Taehyung caught your eye in a group of seven, but they seem to put him at ease. He slides into the bed so he’s lying on his back under the covers. With his eyes locked on yours, he pats his chest. 

“C’mere.” 

You lie down under the covers next to him. It feels nice to rest your head on his chest and throw your leg over his waist. Ever since Taehyung came back from the tour, you’ve wanted to be attached at the hip. It’s not that you can’t handle being alone, but you don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to be with the people who bring you joy— especially when you live in a new country. 

“You know I’m in love with you, not Yoongi or Jimin.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you actually?” You shift your head so you can look up at him. 

Taehyung meets you halfway. You let your eyes close as he slots his lips with yours, allowing your body to melt into his. The desperation the two of you had for each other when Taehyung first returned to Seoul eventually died out. Now, you’re okay with taking things slow. You can savor the feeling of his body on yours, firm and warm beneath you. You can savor the smell of his cologne and his taste as you breathe him in and slip your tongue inside his mouth. 

“I do,” he responds with a heavy exhale once you pull away. “I’m sorry I got upset. I just got so angry when hyung…” Taehyung scrunches his eyebrows and his nose scrunches along with them. 

You massage his forehead and try to forcefully smooth the wrinkles there. “Yoongi is just being an ass. He loves you, too,” you point out. 

Taehyung can’t argue that, so he leans down to kiss you again. You know how important physical contact is to him, especially when he’s upset. With that in mind, you slip your hands beneath his t-shirt. Splaying your hands flat against his chest feels nice. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and he’s here. He’s safe and healthy and yours. 

“We both get pretty jealous, huh?” 

Taehyung gives you a sheepish smile, all cheeks and pretty lips. You love his little lip freckle, but your favorite will always be the one under his eye. 

“Not as bad as Jungkook, though.” 

“Mhm, please don’t break up with me over a perilla leaf or anything.” 

Taehyung giggles and you feel like you’ve got helium inside you. If you don’t hold onto him tightly enough, you might float away with how light and carefree being with him makes you. 

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says as he nibbles your earlobe. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

His hands find the hem of your t-shirt, and you sit up to allow him to undress you. It’s a delicate process because Taehyung wants to take his time, too. It might seem like the two of you use sex to solve your problems, but you never see it like that. For you, letting Taehyung take his time breaking you down, just to build you back up again, is an act of emotional intimacy, just as it is physical. When Taehyung gets comfortable between your thighs, dark eyes locked with yours as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the hold he has on your wrists grounds you. And when he hovers over you with your legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusts into you, you whisper gentle praises against his throat to remind him that you are his and he is yours.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in Taehyung’s bed. It feels good to snuggle with him while he talks to you about all the jazz clubs he forced Jimin to go to during the little free time they had on tour. It seems the tension in the house fades because the rest of the boys are loud and energetic; it’s impossible to tune them out when their laughter bleeds into the room despite the door being closed. 

“Do you think Taehyung and Y/N are done having make-up sex?” 

“It’s pretty quiet in there. Maybe they fell asleep.” 

You groan and bury your face in Taehyung’s side. It’s almost as if Jungkook and Jin are purposefully talking outside of his bedroom to make sure you can hear them. Knowing them, it’s not a far-fetched idea. 

“Probably tired themselves out. The screaming was really—” 

“JUNGKOOK!” Taehyung sits up so abruptly that you fall back onto the bed. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” 

Jin and Jungkook’s laughter eventually fades down the hallway, but Taehyung gets out of bed anyway. 

“Yoongi is probably almost done with dinner,” he grumbles. You watch him zip up his jeans and admire how tall and lanky he is. Sorry to Yoongi and Jimin. 

He manages to get his arms caught in his t-shirt somehow, so you begrudgingly get out of bed to help. You tease him endlessly because obviously fucking you is so good that he doesn’t know how to use his limbs anymore. 

Your teasing is nothing compared to the way the other boys drag you the moment you step out of Taehyung’s bedroom. 

“You okay, Y/N? Sounded like you might be dying,” Jimin grins as he prepares the kitchen table for dinner. 

Jin snickers, throwing out his own commentary. “Taehyung, you got it pretty good even though you aren’t her bias, huh.” 

Before Taehyung has a chance to bite anyone’s head off, you chime in. 

“Yeah, yeah, Yoongi was my bias when I was a fan,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You can practically see Jungkook registering that you said “was a fan”, and that makes him pout. As if you aren’t still a fan. What a baby, just like Taehyung. 

Yoongi snorts as he retrieves a dish from the oven. “I cannot fathom why.” 

“Me either,” Jimin agrees with a giggle. He’s completely unfazed by the dark look Yoongi shoots him. 

You join in on Jimin’s laughter, and you’re pleased to see that Taehyung is smiling too. The whole thing is so ridiculous. Maybe you’re feeling a bit too comfortable because you start oversharing. 

“And I was a Yoonmin shipper, I’m not gonna lie.” You’re laughing so hard that you don’t realize neither Jimin nor Taehyung are laughing anymore. After a few seconds pass, though, your smile slowly falls. Jimin’s face has turned bright pink and Yoongi has his back to the table. 

“It was one time, okay?” Jimin’s eyes burn holes into Yoongi’s shoulder blades from across the room. “Okay, two times.” 

The older man doesn’t comment. 

You nudge Taehyung’s leg with your foot under the kitchen table. He presses his lips together as hard as he can, but the smile just gets pushed into his cheeks. A rush of air explodes from his lips in a loud raspberry, and that’s what triggers your laughter again. 

“Oh my god, I really wish I was surprised but I’m not,” you confess with a wheeze. 

You’ve clearly touched on a sensitive topic. Jimin blabbers away about how it’s not that big of a deal, all while Yoongi silently finishes arranging the dishes on the table. It would feel uncomfortable, but Jimin’s flushed face and the tiniest of smiles curving Yoongi’s lips make you think it meant a lot more than what Jimin wishes to admit. 

And that’s really fucking cute. 

As the rest of the boys come piling into the kitchen, Taehyung scoots his chair until yours are touching. You bump shoulders and tilt your face up so he can press a kiss against your jaw. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “With all my heart.“ 

“I love you, too.” You lace your fingers with his and let your hands rest against his thigh. “You dork.” 

The kitchen is chaos, but all you can focus on is the boxy smile Taehyung gifts you.

Yoongi has always been sure of two things. Well—always is a strong word. Maybe lately is more honest. Certainty doesn’t come easy to him; it’s something he’s had to fight for, inch by inch, thought by thought. But here, in this quiet moment—his fingers idle on the keys, a half-finished verse echoing in his mind—he knows these things like he knows his own name.

One: he loves music. Not in the cliché way people throw around the word love, but in the way it threads through the cracks in his chest and holds the broken parts together. It’s been his anchor, his escape, his language when he couldn’t find the right words. Music has never asked him to be more than what he is. It just lets him be.

Two: he really, truly, fucking loves you. It’s terrifying, how real that is. How permanent it feels. Like it’s carved into him somewhere deep. You came into his life without warning, without fanfare—and now you’re in the pauses between his breaths, in the silence between his notes. He doesn’t know when it happened, but loving you feels inevitable now. Like it always would’ve come to this, no matter the path.

Three—was there a three? Yeah because now, standing here at the airport, watching you walk toward him, duffel slung over your shoulder, smile cracking through the jetlag—he knows something else, too.

He’s really fucking glad you’re home.

You nudge him gently, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his hoodie sleeve as he sits hunched over his laptop, headphones around his neck, the room bathed in dim yellow light and the faint scent of coffee and something else uniquely him.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice soft with that teasing affection only he ever gets to hear.

He glances over, the corner of his lips twitching into a tired smile—one of those barely-there ones that still makes your chest warm. His eyes, though, tell a different story: they flicker with something like relief. Like seeing you in front of him makes the past two weeks fall away.

“I wanna hear the full song?” you ask, and then you hesitate just a beat, voice quieter, more vulnerable: “Missed you.”

That’s when he turns fully, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and it’s not just words—he means it. His voice carries that low, slow sincerity you know he only lets out when he’s too tired to hide anything. “House felt empty. Bed felt colder.”

You laugh softly, settling down beside him on the couch, your thigh pressing lightly against his. “You could’ve texted more, you know.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Didn’t want to bother you. You were having fun.”

“I was,” you admit, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But it didn’t feel right without you. Kept looking over like I was gonna see you sitting next to me.”

He lets out a breath, quiet and shaky. “I kept hearing your voice in my head when I was working. Thought I was losing it.”

You grin. “Maybe you are.”

He finally laughs—low and real. Then he squeezes your hand and says, “Let me play you the song. I finished it... the night before you came back. It’s about you.”

Your heart skips, just a little. “Of course it is.”

And in the soft silence that follows, he slips the headphones over your ears and presses play, watching your face as if every beat and lyric matters more now, because you’re home. And so is he.

The music washes over you like a wave—warm, layered, intentional. It’s him in every note: the way he composes with feeling first and logic second, the subtle textures, the pause right before the chorus that somehow says more than words.

And the lyrics? God. They’re not even overly romantic, but they are him—honest and understated and impossibly vulnerable. There’s a line in the second verse that pulls something tight in your chest. Something about “empty spaces filled by the weight of a laugh I forgot I needed.” And another one, quiet, tucked into the bridge, that just says: “You made room where I didn’t know I had any left.”

When it ends, you don’t say anything for a moment. You just breathe. His hands are resting on his thighs now, and you can tell from the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek that he’s nervous.

You blink a few times, then take off the headphones slowly, setting them aside. “Yoongi,” you say, voice soft, caught somewhere between awe and teasing, “are you trying to kill me? Be honest.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Emotionally or musically?”

You snort, nudging him with your shoulder. “Both, obviously. That was… wow. I don’t even have the words.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who works with words all day,” he says, smirking just slightly, but his eyes are searching—worried.

You look at him. “I’m serious. That was beautiful. It felt like…” You pause, pressing your lips together before letting the truth out: “Like you cracked open your chest and just—let me see everything.”

Yoongi shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug he does when he’s trying to be chill and failing. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to say all that. Figured I’d just put it in a track before I chickened out.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. “You’re still such a coward sometimes,” you whisper, smiling against his skin.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you waited for me anyway.”

You both go quiet for a second. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind you only get with someone who knows you inside out.

“I was gonna say,” you continue, pulling back just enough to look at him, “funny how this all started with you awkwardly avoiding eye contact that night we met at Hobi’s thing.”

Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me. I was not avoiding eye contact.”

“You literally stared at the floor the whole time.”

“I was tired.”

“You were shy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “And you were so annoyingly composed. Sitting there with your editor brain probably judging my entire existence.”

“I was not judging,” you say, laughing now. “I was intrigued. You were the only one in the room who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else.”

He smiles again—smaller this time, realer. “Yeah. Then you sat next to me and started talking about existentialism and short stories and somehow I didn’t want to leave.”

You grin. “And then we spent the next year pretending we weren’t falling in love during every 3 a.m. conversation.”

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again, and this time he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t pretend very well, by the way.”

“Oh?” you tease.

He nods. “You kept looking at me like you were already writing a story about us.”

You shrug. “Maybe I was.”

Then, quieter, you add: “But I like your version better.”

You and Yoongi have been together for over two years now. That’s not even counting the year before—when you both clung to the idea of just friends like it was some kind of lifeline, even as everything between you said otherwise. Late-night calls, shared silences, too-long stares, the kind of conversations that felt like peeling each other open, layer by layer.

Everyone saw it. Except, apparently, you and him.

Or maybe you did see it. Maybe you were just scared to name it.

Either way, it all came to a head one night—tangled sheets, hearts racing, a confession slipping out in the dark like it had been waiting all that time just to be said out loud. And after that, well… the rest unraveled beautifully.

“It was bound to happen,” Hoseok had said with a grin so wide it felt smug. “Honestly, I was just waiting for one of you to crack. You were already acting like a married couple and you hadn’t even kissed yet.”

Seokjin, ever the dramatist, had clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and told you both, “You don’t understand. This guy? He doesn’t react to people. He nods at introductions and moves on. But you? You walked into the room at that party and he looked up. That’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Namjoon had agreed, of course—more calm, more analytical, but just as insistent. “We’ve seen him hear a song he loves and still just blink. But when you spoke for the first time, he tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a melody he didn’t want to forget.”

It sounds dramatic. Overblown. But you’ve lived with Yoongi long enough to know that his reactions aren’t always loud—but they’re deep. And real.

And now, two years in, you still catch him looking at you the same way he did back then—like he’s studying you, memorizing you, writing lyrics in his head that only you’ll ever get to hear.

You joke that he’s soft for you. He just shrugs and says, “Yeah. And?”

But there’s this quiet steadiness to it, too. Like after all the slow burn, the long talks, the almosts and maybes, you both found something solid. Something that doesn’t need to burn wildly all the time because it stays.

So yeah—Hoseok was right. It was bound to happen.

And now you both took a break.

Well—technically, you didn’t take a break. Let’s rewind. That makes it sound way more dramatic than it was.

You just went on a trip.

A girls’ trip. Bali. Sun-soaked beaches, endless laughter, fruity drinks with names you couldn't pronounce, and the kind of easy joy that only comes when you’re surrounded by women who love you like sisters. It was good. No—wonderful, even. It was the kind of trip you talk about for years after, the kind that feels like a pause from real life in the best possible way.

But still… you missed him.

You didn’t say it at first. You told yourself it was healthy—good, even—to have space. That it was nice not to be The Couple for once. You didn’t need to be that clingy type, right?

Right?

Except… it hit faster than you expected. Maybe on the second morning, when your coffee didn’t taste quite the same without his weirdly specific milk-to-coffee ratio. Maybe when someone cracked a joke and your instinct was to turn, to catch his eye across the table and share that look you always did when something was exactly your brand of funny. Maybe when you fell asleep without the weight of his arm slung around your waist and woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It was the first time you’d spent more than 48 hours apart since becoming officially, capital-B Boyfriend and capital-G Girlfriend—a title that felt funny on your tongue at first, but quickly became second nature. You weren’t all over each other all the time.

(Okay, you were. But like, in a wholesome, “I’d follow you into the kitchen just to steal a grape from your hand” kind of way.)

But it wasn’t just physical. That wasn’t it. You liked him. Genuinely. You liked being with him—liked how he made space for your chaos, how he listened like every word mattered, how he challenged you without ever making you feel small. You liked the quiet hours and the loud laughter and the strange little routines that made your life feel stitched together in all the right ways.

So yeah, Bali was gorgeous. Your girls were radiant. The food was incredible. But there was this quiet, persistent pull in your chest the whole time—a whisper that said, I wish he was seeing this too.

And now you’re back. Sitting beside him, knees brushing, headphones still warm from when he played you that song. And it hits you all over again:

You missed him. Not in a dramatic, world-ending way.

Just in the way you always miss home when you’ve been gone too long.

You’re still barefoot, half sunk into the old couch in the corner of the studio, hair a little messy from the flight, face flushed with excitement instead of exhaustion. You just listened to the song—his song—and you swear your ribcage is still vibrating from the last chord. But your mind’s already off, burning through memory, hands moving animatedly as you talk.

“Oh, babe,” you say, practically bouncing in your seat, “Bali was insane. I mean, the kind of beauty that doesn’t even feel real half the time. You’re walking down a street and suddenly there’s a temple just... there. No gates. No warning. Just stone and incense and a woman with silver hair weaving flower offerings like it’s the most normal Tuesday in the world.”

Yoongi hums from the swivel chair, eyes on you, chin in hand. You’re not even looking at him—you’re too wrapped up in everything you're trying to say at once. And god, you’re glowing.

“And the air?” you go on, laughing breathlessly, “Yoongi—it’s like the whole island is perfumed. Salt, frangipani, smoke, clove cigarettes—it gets in your clothes, in your hair. You become part of it. I haven’t felt that light in years. Like my whole body was being wrung out and re-threaded.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Quiet. Intense.

“And there was this one night,” you continue, tucking your feet under you. “We went to this hidden beach—like, you have to go down a billion steps that look like they’ve been carved by actual ghosts—and when we got there? Bonfire. Music. Locals playing guitar on these beat-up amps powered by a generator that sounded like it was dying.”

You grin, eyes flicking up to him for the first time. He’s still. Too still.

You push on, because you’re on fire now. “They handed us drinks—stuff made with arak and fruit juice, totally unregulated, I’m probably lucky I didn’t go blind—and they were just... flirting. Shamelessly. With everyone. Dami got asked to teach this guy how to salsa. Chaeyoung got proposed to with a mango. And I—” you pause, tilting your head, eyes dancing, “—I got called a goddess like, three times. Four, if you count the guy who kept asking if I wanted a moonlit shoulder massage.”

Yoongi's eyebrow twitches.

You notice. You smirk.

“Relax,” you tease. “I told him I was taken. Very taken. Like, off-the-market, emotionally-devoted, boyfriend-writes-me-songs kind of taken.”

His lips twitch, but the line of his jaw stays tight.

You lean forward a little. “Yoongi.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

“Yoongi,” you sing again, dragging out the vowels.

Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours, deadpan. “I’m just wondering why you remember how many times someone called you a goddess, but you can’t remember the name of the ramen place we went to three times in one week.”

You blink. Then you laugh. “Are you—oh my God, are you jealous?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m just saying, you were gone for two weeks and apparently became the main character in a beach romance novel.”

“Well,” you hum, shifting closer, “I am a woman of many genres.”

He gives you a look. “Including ‘hot girl summer in Bali with mysterious shoulder-massaging men.’ Got it.”

You bite back another laugh, slide closer until your legs touch. “Would it make you feel better if I told you none of them had your voice? Or your hands? Or your devastating ability to turn missing someone into actual music?”

He doesn’t reply—but he’s listening.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “I loved every minute of it. But I thought about you the whole time.”

His voice is lower now. “Even when someone was calling you a goddess?”

You grin. “Especially then.”

He exhales, finally, leaning back into you.

“You’re still annoyed,” you murmur, smiling.

“I wrote you a love song and you got proposed to with fruit,” he mutters.

You laugh against his neck. “Okay, that’s fair. But at least your song didn’t give me food poisoning.”

He finally cracks a smile.

And in the soft silence that follows, you slide your hand into his.

Back. Safe. Still burning—with the sun, with the music, with him.

The day after the studio session—after Yoongi had pulled you into his world and played you that new song with the kind of pride he rarely let show—you were finally home, finally grounded enough to unpack.

You’d brought back a mountain of things, mostly souvenirs for your friends. It wasn’t even guilt-buying; you just missed them. A lot.

You started sorting everything out on your floor, each item sparking a memory of someone’s laugh, someone’s oddly specific obsession.

For Namjoon, you had a set of handcrafted ceramics—delicate bowls and one oddly shaped mug you knew he’d appreciate in an “object with character” kind of way. He was into stuff like that: things with weight, texture, stories.

Seokjin’s little bundle was easier. He had this current fixation with coffee, and not just any coffee—he’d sent you the exact brand he wanted, grown somewhere at a particular altitude, roasted a certain way. You weren’t even sure how he found it, but you made the detour just for him. Worth it, you figured, for the chaos he’d unleash in the group chat once he got his hands on it.

Hoseok was getting the batik fabric you found in a tiny shop tucked away near the market. It had deep blues and burnt oranges—bold and beautiful, just like him. You already pictured him turning it into a jacket or draping it over something dramatically at a dance studio. And for his girlfriend, a delicate piece of handmade jewelry—silver with tiny amber stones, shaped like falling leaves. She was going to lose her mind over it.

Your own stuff? That took less time. You hadn’t packed much to begin with—mostly bikinis and breezy tops. The heat had practically demanded it. But you’d also picked up a bunch of new shorts, the kind that showed off your legs just enough. The thought made you grin.

You were definitely planning to wear them around Seoul soon. Yoongi was definitely going to like them.

You were halfway through organizing your pile of clothes when your hand hit something solid near the bottom of your suitcase.

“Oh... right.” Tequila.

Chaeyoung.

The memory hit you like the smell of lime and salt.

She’d shown up in Bali like a whirlwind—barely touched down in Seoul for the past eight months. She’d bounced from London to Chile, Argentina, and then Mexico, and somehow skipped straight to Bali to meet you all, suitcase in tow and stories practically spilling out of her mouth.

“I brought the best tequila for you girls,” she’d announced like it was gold. She held it up like a trophy, her sunglasses still on even though the sun had already dipped behind the trees.

“You’re gonna love it. I swear,” she added, unscrewing the cap to let you smell it right then and there.

Dami squinted at her, skeptical. “What do you mean best? Like—good flavor or good time?”

Chaeyoung had smirked. “Oh, babe, if I told you half the things I did after a couple of shots of this…”

“You’re crazy,” Taeha called out from the back patio.

“No, babe,” Chaeyoung said, eyes wild and glass already half-empty, “you’re gonna want to be crazy after I teach you this little trick. Trust me—this stuff? It’ll get your man on fire.”

The room paused, like it collectively sensed incoming chaos.

Jieun blinked. “Why does that sound illegal?”

“Because it probably is,” Dami whispered, crossing her arms like she was preparing for war.

Chaeyoung ignored both of them, too far gone. She slammed her glass down like she was about to present a scientific discovery. “Okay, LISTEN. I’m about to change all your lives.”

“Oh no,” Taeha muttered. “Not another ‘I saw a TikTok and now I’m a sex guru’ monologue—”

“SHUT UP and listen”, Chaeyoung snapped, already standing like a drunk prophet. “So I was in Mexico, okay? Had just eaten like...six tacos and a churro. I’m tipsy. This guy is rambling about the flavor notes in mezcal like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Alcoholic Edition, and I’m scrolling TikTok minding my business—and BAM.”

She clapped loudly. Everyone jumped.

“This woman—an actress, like straight up goddess energy—comes up on my For You Page. And she’s like, ‘This is how you seduce a man in ten seconds or less.’ I didn’t even blink. I learned.”

“Stop,” Jieun begged, already wheezing. “I can’t breathe when you talk like this.”

“I’m serious!” Chaeyoung shouted. “You don’t need lingerie. You don’t need a playlist. You just need THIS.”

She grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed it onto the floor like it owed her money. “Dami, you’re the man. Get over here.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“DAMI. Get. Over. Here.”

By the time Dami crawled over, purely out of morbid curiosity, Chaeyoung was already miming the scene. She picked up her shot glass like it was sacred, locked fake-eyes with Dami, and whispered:

“You take the tequila. You hold it. You stare. Not blink. Not smile. Just stare like you’re about to commit emotional crimes.”

She mimed holding the shot in her mouth, then leaned toward Dami with cartoonishly intense eye contact.

“And THEN,” she continued, dramatically slow, “you pass it. Mouth. To. Mouth.”

The room exploded.

Jieun SCREAMED. “WHAT THE FUCK!!!”

“I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GONNA DIE,” Taeha said, curled into a ball.

Dami fell backward, shrieking. “Get off me, you demon woman!”

“I WAS DOING RESEARCH!” Chaeyoung yelled back, offended.

“YOU DID THIS TO SOMEONE?” you gasped.

“In the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Oaxaca!” she declared like she was announcing a Grammy win. 

“WHAT.”

“WHATTTTTTTTT?!”

Jieun was hiding behind the couch now. “I cannot believe I have to know you.”

Chaeyoung, now fully unhinged, launched into a dramatic reenactment—flipping her hair, straddling the pillow like a man was beneath it. “Then we made out so hard I almost knocked a soap dispenser off the wall. I think there was applause outside. I don’t know. I blacked out from the POWER.”

“You need help,” Dami groaned, fanning herself.

“No, YOU need tequila and a man with low expectations,” Chaeyoung snapped, already pouring more shots. “Now, who’s next? Let’s practice. I’ll be the guy. Come on. Seduce me, cowards!”

You were crying from laughter. Your stomach hurt. Your soul hurt. Jieun looked like she was about to call a priest.

“Do we need to tell Yoongi about this?” Taeha asked you with an evil grin.

“No one tells Yoongi anything,” you said quickly, gripping your drink like it was your only protection.

Chaeyoung just smirked at you, devilish. “You’re gonna try it. I know you are.”

You just laughed—and avoided her gaze.

But she already knew.

Yeah, that bottle of tequila was now staring at you.

Oh, you were gonna have fun.

By the time Yoongi woke up—hair messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at you like you were a dream—it was nearly noon.

“You unpacked already?” he asked, voice raspy, warm with sleep.

“Trying to pretend I’m not still on Bali time,” you mumbled, smiling into your mug.

He padded over, kissed your temple, and muttered something about making tteokbokki.

And god, he really could cook.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while he moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, slicing green onions, adding just the right amount of gochugaru like it was instinct. The rich, spicy scent filled the apartment, and when you finally sat down to eat, you could have cried from the comfort of it. After two weeks of fresh seafood and tropical fruits, having something that tasted like home—like Seoul, like him—felt grounding.

“Still like mine better than any Bali food?” he asked, smug as he watched you devour the last piece.

You licked your spoon. “No offense to Bali, but your tteokbokki is emotional support food. It wins.”

He grinned, that small, rare one that made your stomach flutter.

Now, hours later, the sun was setting outside the living room window. The city buzzed softly in the distance, but here in the apartment, it was calm—dim lights, a quiet movie playing, legs tangled under a shared blanket. Yoongi leaned into the cushions, one arm draped behind you, the other lazily scrolling through his phone during the slow parts.

“Should we open some wine?” he asked, his voice low, almost a hum.

“Only if you pick it,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

He gave you a small pat on the thigh before heading over to the shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen—a narrow unit lined with a modest but respectable collection of bottles. He crouched down, humming to himself, searching for the right red.

Then he paused.

“...What the hell is this?”

You turned your head.

Yoongi straightened slowly, holding up a sleek, unfamiliar bottle. The label was bright. Bold. Very not him.

He squinted at it. “Did this multiply in my apartment without my permission? I did not buy this.”

You bit your lip, trying very hard not to smile.

He turned to face you. “This yours?”

You gave him a sheepish nod.

He examined the label again, then looked at you with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “Why... do you have a bottle of tequila hiding in my apartment?”

“Chaeyoung gave it to me,” you explained, as innocently as possible. “As a gift.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “That sounds fake. Try again.”

“Okay,” you admitted, slowly standing up, blanket falling from your lap. “It was part of a girls’ night... situation. Involving stories. And hypotheticals. And a very specific TikTok.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes at you like he was trying to read subtitles you weren’t offering.

“…What kind of TikTok?”

You gave him a totally innocent smile. “A harmless one.”

“That’s never true,” he said flatly. “Every time someone starts a sentence with ‘so I saw this TikTok’ it ends in something insane or borderline illegal.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Nobody got arrested. Nobody died. There were just... beverages. And discussions. That’s all.”

Yoongi held up the bottle like it was radioactive. “So this ended with you bringing back imported mystery tequila from girls' night? That’s the takeaway?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, walking over and plucking the bottle from his hands. “It’s artisanal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“You act like I’m hiding a crime,” you teased, setting it carefully on the table.

“You are hiding something,” he muttered, still watching you suspiciously. “You’re way too smiley for this to be a normal ‘hey let’s have tequila’ situation.”

You shrugged, doing your best to look unbothered—even as your face threatened to betray you with another grin. “Maybe I just missed you and thought it’d be fun to have a drink together.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing like he was filing that line away for later. “Totally believable. No other reason. No hidden context.”

“Exactly.”

A pause.

Yoongi finally dropped back onto the couch beside you, still eyeing the bottle like it might start talking.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered under his breath.

You nudged his knee with yours. “I am lucky.”

He glanced at you, then let out a small, exasperated laugh. “And now I’m low-key afraid to drink that.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, good thing we’re having wine right now.”

He shot you a look, but couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips.

It had been a shitty week. No poetic metaphors, no dramatic flair. Just plain, exhausting, soul-sucking shit. Going back to work was shitty. As an editor at a publishing company, you were used to juggling deadlines, writer meltdowns, and 2 a.m. “urgent” revisions — but this week? This week decided to personally test your will to live.

By Friday, you were running on caffeine, petty rage, and whatever serotonin your cat videos could offer.

Thankfully, it was over. Finally.

You were curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, staring blankly at your phone while half a bag of chips sat forgotten beside you. Yoongi had texted earlier — be home in an hour, miss u — and even just that had been enough to keep you from combusting.

With a sigh, you opened your messages app, finally catching up on the chaos you’d ignored all week.

Your friends' group chat was on fire. Everyone was still riding the Bali high, posting blurry sunset photos, thirst traps in bikinis, and messages like:

Taeha: literally thinking about the nasi goreng at 3am Jieun: my skin still glows like i bathed in tropical gods Dami: WHEN are we doing round two. i need a new passport stamp and a new man. urgently. Taeha: can we do Greece. or Spain. or literally anywhere with sun and drama.

You smiled, heart softening a little. Yeah. That trip was magic.

And then you saw it — a private message from Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung💥: [TikTok link] “this is the visual representation of what i tried to explain that night LMAO” “giving this to u cuz u r the only one with a man lol”

You tapped the link, suspicious.

The video started playing — and you immediately paused it, jaw dropping, face heating.

Oh. OH.

It was the exact tequila trick she’d so enthusiastically attempted to act out back in Bali. Except now, seeing it performed in real time — slow, hot, absolutely lethal — made something in your brain short-circuit. You blinked, stared at your phone like it betrayed you, then hit play again. For science.

The way the woman in the video straddled her man, the effortless way she passed the drink between their mouths, the almost moan he let out like it rewired his whole nervous system—

Yeah. You were watching this on a Friday night after getting metaphorically body-slammed by your job. You deserved joy. You deserved serotonin. And preferably, you deserved it in the form of your boyfriend, shirtless, on this very couch.

You: chaeyoung. what the hell. why r u sending me this 

Chaeyoung: DIDN’T I JUST SAID YOU R THE ONLY ONE WITH A MAN THAT YOU CAN CALL YOURS. SEE THE VISION

You: i see it i feel it

Chaeyoung: YESSSS get that man WEAK, babes.

You: he’s coming home in 40 how fast do u think i can shower and emotionally prepare

Chaeyoung: light the fucking torch.

You stared at the screen for a second, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth.

Well. You did just wash your hair last night. And your cute robe was clean. And that bottle Chaeyoung gave you? Still hiding behind the wine rack like a dirty little secret.

You stood up.

Time to turn this terrible week around—with tequila, TikTok tactics, and one very lucky boyfriend.

The apartment was dimly lit, cozy, and quiet—exactly the way Yoongi liked it after a long day. He kicked off his shoes by the door, ran a hand through his hair, and called out casually, “Babe? I’m home.”

No answer.

Well, no immediate answer.

Just the soft hum of music coming from the living room—something low and sultry. It wasn’t your usual playlist. This was a vibe.

He squinted. Suspicious.

“Babe?” he tried again, stepping further in. His jacket was halfway off his shoulders when he turned the corner—and stopped dead in his tracks.

You were in the living room. Waiting.

Correction: you were posed in the living room.

Wearing your favorite silk robe—one that barely grazed your thighs, tied in a loose, suspiciously flimsy knot. Candles flickered on the coffee table. Two glasses sat beside a bottle he definitely didn’t own.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as you sat perched on the edge of the couch like a perfectly wrapped sin.

Yoongi blinked. “...What the hell is going on.”

“Celebrating,” you answered, like it was obvious.

He raised a brow. “Celebrating what?”

“The end of a very horrible week,” you said, then added with a grin, “And also… you.”

Yoongi was now actively side-eyeing the bottle. “Is that—”

“The tequila,” you confirmed. “Yes.”

“I thought we said we were saving that for—”

“Plans change,” you cut in, voice light. “Besides, I have a new method. A fun one.”

He blinked at you again, slower this time. “Why does that sound threatening.”

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s sexy.”

You laughed, a little wild in your eyes, and patted the spot in front of you. “Sit. Trust me.”

Yoongi hesitated, that familiar wariness flickering behind his dark eyes like a warning siren—this was definitely going to be one of those moments. But as always, he couldn’t resist you. With a sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and dropped onto the couch, still shooting you a suspicious look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being generous,” you teased, voice low and mischievous.

You slid closer, your hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. “This is something I learned.” You practically straddled him, settling down on his lap with a confident smile.

Yoongi’s brows knit together, confused but intrigued. “What—”

“They said this is how tequila tastes the best,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. “And since I know you really like your alcohol…”

You slowly hooked your finger into the top button of his shirt, eyes not leaving his face. “Can I unbutton this?”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, lips curling in amusement. “Yes,” he replied, raising a brow as if to say whatever you're up to... I’m watching you.

With a sly little grin, you unfastened one button. Then the next. Then another. You were deliberate with it—fingers brushing his skin each time, exposing just enough of his chest to leave your mouth watering. His skin was warm, soft, and smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore. That scent you liked to steal from the collar of his sweaters.

You leaned in, holding the tequila shot glass loosely in your hand, and whispered—half to him, half to yourself, “And then I have to... huh... lick.”

You dipped your head and—without hesitation—flattened your tongue against the base of his neck. You dragged it slowly up, tracing a path over his collarbone and along the curve of his shoulder, right where the salt would go in the classic version. Except you weren’t following any rules.

Yoongi’s breath caught sharply. His hands, resting on your hips, twitched.

You leaned back, just enough to lock eyes with him. He looked stunned. Flushed. Slightly speechless.

Then, as if to really commit to the bit, you took the shot. Head tilted back, throat bobbing as the tequila slid down.

And finally—eyes on his—your hand reached out for the lime. But instead of putting it in your mouth, you brought it up to his lips.

“Bite,” you said softly.

He obeyed.

You leaned in one last time, stealing the lime back with a kiss that lingered longer than necessary, your lips brushing his in a mix of citrus and heat.

“Okay—where the hell?” Yoongi sputtered, blinking like he just came out of a trance. “What? Why? What the hell?”

He was flustered—genuinely flustered—and that was rare for him. A soft pink crept up the sides of his neck, and his chest was still rising and falling just a little faster than usual. You stayed exactly where you were, still straddling his lap, hands resting lightly on his now half-unbuttoned shirt like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You tilted your head innocently, though your smirk betrayed you. “This is why I wanted to save that bottle.”

Yoongi stared at you, eyes narrowing. “This is what that TikTok discussion was about?”

You leaned forward just enough so that your chest brushed his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “I told you it was educational content.”

He huffed a dry laugh, but his hands were already on your hips again, holding you tighter now. “Educational? Babe, you just licked me like a human salt rim and then kissed tequila into my mouth. That wasn’t education. That was witchcraft.”

You bit your lip, eyes gleaming. “Witchcraft that works, clearly.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to your lips, his breath catching slightly. You could feel him shifting beneath you, his composure unraveling by the second.

“You’re literally still on top of me,” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.

“Mhm.” You rolled your hips just a tiny bit, enough to make his hands dig into your waist in warning. “On purpose.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something darker flickering there now. “You planned this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.”

He surged up just enough to kiss you fully, mouth warm and tasting faintly of lime and tequila, his hands sliding under your shirt like he was reclaiming control. But you broke the kiss with a breathless laugh, leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You said you liked tequila.”

“I like peace and quiet too, but I guess I’m not getting that either,” he muttered, though the way he looked at you said something very different.

“Not when I’m around,” you teased, pulling his shirt fully open now and tossing the shot glass aside like the game was only beginning. 

He chuckled, low and wicked. “And here I was, just trying to have a normal Friday night.”

“But did you like it though?” you asked, breathless now, lips still tingling from the kiss. You dragged your hands slowly up his chest, over the exposed skin you’d just unbuttoned, nails light enough to make him twitch. “You haven’t said anything about it, babe.”

Yoongi looked at you—really looked at you. His pupils were blown wide now, jaw tight, lips slightly parted as he processed the question, like you had just asked him something offensive.

“You’re seriously asking me that,” he said, voice low, hoarse with restraint, “while you’re literally sitting on me like this?”

You rolled your hips ever so slightly, the friction cruel in how light it was. “Just want feedback.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half groan—and grabbed you by the hips, steadying you, containing you, but barely. His fingers dug in, possessive.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, eyes dragging down from your lips to your neck, to the swell of your chest beneath your shirt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You smiled slowly. “Just making sure.”

“You licked my neck, downed a shot like it was foreplay, and then had the audacity to grind on me like it was a goddamn game.”

You tilted your head. “It was a game.”

He pulled you flush against him, his mouth brushing the corner of yours with maddening softness, the kind that made your whole body tense in anticipation. “Oh, it’s a fucking war now.”

You gasped, but before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again—hotter this time, needier, tongue sweeping past your lips like he needed more of you now. His hands slid up your back, under your shirt, dragging it higher with every desperate kiss.

He was already hard beneath you, and the way his hips bucked up, just once, slow and deliberate, told you exactly how much control he was pretending to have.

“You wanna know if I liked it?” he growled against your mouth, lips brushing yours with each word. “I’m gonna show you how much.”

And he kissed you again—messy, rough, like the question had flipped a switch in him. One hand tugged at the waistband of your shorts while the other held you firmly in place, his thigh pressing between yours now. Heat pooled low in your belly.

“Tequila,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. “What kind of spell did you girls cook up in Bali?”

You laughed, breath shaky as your hands tangled in his hair. “The kind that ends with you begging.”

He was gone the second you straddled him.

Yoongi tried—really tried—to keep his cool. But the minute you whispered “lick” and dragged your tongue along his neck, something short-circuited. His brain, his restraint, his sense of time. All of it.

And now, here you were—sitting on him like sin in human form, asking if he liked it.

Liked it?

He wanted to laugh. Scream. Flip the couch. Instead, he grabbed your hips because he had to. Not to stop you—hell no—but because if he didn’t hold on, he might do something entirely unhinged. Like flip you over and lose his mind.

“Of course I fucking liked it,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded wrecked. He could feel the way your weight settled into his lap, how warm you were, how smug. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was driving him insane.

He couldn’t look away from your mouth. The way you were breathing a little faster. The faint shimmer of tequila still lingering on your lips.

When you rolled your hips again—again—he swore under his breath.

His body reacted instantly, hips lifting into yours with an involuntary jerk that made him clench his jaw. Your breath caught. Good. You felt it too.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered, dragging his hands under your shirt, mapping every inch of skin like he had to memorize it. “This—whatever this is—you’re not walking away from it, you know that?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Wasn’t planning to. I told you I had a shitty week.”

Yoongi chuckled, the sound deep in his throat as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So this was your plan, huh?”

You felt the slow drag of his hands down your sides—warm, steady, maddening.

“Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement. “You just wanted to have a little fun. That it?”

His nose nudged against your cheek before he whispered, “You missed me, babe. Don’t play like you didn’t.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but the way he spoke—so casual, so sure of you—made your breath hitch.

“Two weeks without me…” His teeth grazed your jaw. “Two weeks without sex.”

Your thighs instinctively tightened around his hips, and he noticed—of course he did.

“Ohhh, I knew it,” he grinned, cocky now. “I wonder what you got up to while I was around. Hm? What kind of desperate little thoughts did that pretty head of yours have?”

He ran his hands up under your shirt again, slow, appreciating every curve like he’d been starving for it. “You did something to this body, didn’t you?” he drawled, voice dark velvet now. “You’ve been walking around all tan and glowy and smug like that trip fixed your soul—but I know what you really needed.”

His fingers curled around your hips, rocking you down against him, just enough to remind you exactly how ready he was.

“You’re a whole different person when you’re horny, baby. So needy. So fucking honest.”

You squirmed, and his laugh was smug, satisfied.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, dragging his mouth down to your neck, lips soft but teasing. “So naturally, you thought—‘Hey, I know what’ll help. Let me climb on top of my boyfriend and ride the stress away.’”

“Is it working?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes burning like they could eat you alive.

“I made you a song while we were apart,” he said with mock offense. “You? You learned a seduction trick off TikTok.”

You grinned. “Productive two weeks.”

Yoongi’s hands were still on your waist, warm and possessive, when he leaned back just slightly, eyes hooded and gleaming with something dangerous. You knew that look. That smirk. Your stomach flipped.

“So…” he began, brushing his thumbs in slow circles over your bare skin, “you pulled that little tequila stunt…”

You grinned. “Guilty.”

“…and thought I wouldn’t retaliate?”

Your smile faltered. “What?”

He leaned in again, lips barely ghosting over yours as he whispered, “You really think I don’t have a few tricks of my own, baby?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, dragging his fingers slowly—infuriatingly slowly—down your spine. “You had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Before you could respond, he was lifting you effortlessly, standing with you wrapped around him like it was second nature—because, at this point, it was. You barely had time to gasp before he was carrying you down the hallway toward the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him like he meant it.

He laid you on the bed with a reverence that made your heart race and your thighs press together, and then he disappeared for a second—just long enough to make you whine in protest.

“Relax,” came his voice from somewhere near the kitchen, casual and dangerous. “I’m just grabbing the bottle. If you’re gonna start something, babe, you better be ready to finish it.”

Your mouth went dry.

When he returned, the bottle of tequila was in one hand, and that same dark smirk was back on his face. He set it gently on the nightstand, then climbed onto the bed with the kind of grace that made your breath catch.

“You remember how it goes, right?” he murmured, kneeling between your legs. “Salt… lick… shot.”

You nodded, suddenly the one speechless.

He dragged a finger across the curve of your collarbone, then leaned in to kiss the spot—slow, open-mouthed, lingering. You felt your heartbeat stutter.

“Lift your arms,” he whispered.

You obeyed. He licked a line just below your clavicle, then sprinkled the salt there with deliberate precision. His lips brushed your ear again.

“Keep still.”

You couldn’t breathe.

He brought the shot glass up, holding it steady in one hand as he dipped his head.

The lick came first—wet, slow, decadent. His tongue traced the salt from your chest with a kind of reverence that made your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then the shot—head tilted back, clean and quick.

And then?

Then came the lime.

Instead of handing it to you, Yoongi brought it to your mouth himself, holding the wedge with his fingers just so. “Bite,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your lips.

You did—and his eyes darkened.

He watched the way your mouth moved, watched the little shiver run through you from the sour tang and the heat still lingering on your skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the lime to the side and pushing you gently back onto the pillows. “You're never allowed to do that trick again unless I get to do it right back.”

Your laugh was breathless. “Deal.”

But before you could say anything else, his mouth was back on you—hot, insistent, everywhere at once. He kissed a path down your stomach, murmuring praise between every inch of skin.

And just before he disappeared between your thighs, he looked up at you with that same boyish smirk that always got you in trouble.

“You had a shitty week,” he said, voice low “Guess I’m gonna have to fuck it out of you.”

You barely had time to react before Yoongi’s mouth was on you again—slow. He kissed down your stomach like he was mapping it, like he was reclaiming it. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts, tugging just enough to make you whimper.

“You wore these to tease me, huh?” he murmured, hot breath fanning over your skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” you said, breathless, hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckled, dark and low. “You walk in here, tequila bottle like some kind of sex witch… straddle me like it’s nothing, lick salt off my chest like that’s a normal Friday night—what the fuck do you expect me to do?”

You were about to answer—something witty, something bratty—but then he had your shorts off and his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing the skin there like it was sacred.

“You smell like heaven,” he muttered. “And you’re shaking. You’ve been thinking about this all week, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He hummed. “Then stop pretending like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

And he did. Tongue pressed flat, slow and firm—one long lick that had your hips bucking off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you down with practiced ease.

“Fuck, baby,” you breathed, already seeing stars.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was focused, utterly and deliciously focused, like he was composing a melody with your body as the instrument. He switched between long, slow strokes and quick flicks that had you sobbing his name.

Every time you got close, he’d pull back—kiss your thighs, suck a little mark into the skin just to watch you squirm.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice rough now. “Not until I say.”

You whimpered, a full-body shiver running through you.

He slid two fingers into you—slow, curling just right—and your back arched. Your hands gripped the sheets, clawed at them. He pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth still devastating between your legs.

“You taste like you missed me,” he said, voice hoarse, fingers never slowing. “Is that what this is? Two weeks of missing me? Of needing this cock and not getting it?”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I missed you—”

“Yeah, you did.” His teeth grazed your skin, his fingers moving faster now. “Missed being filled. Missed being fucked like you deserved.”

You were a trembling mess, every nerve ending lit up, every muscle tense and begging for release.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, he moved up your body, hovered over you, kissed your lips deep and dirty with your taste still on his tongue.

“Wanna come?” he whispered, grinding against you, already rock hard through his boxers.

“Yes, please—”

“Good,” he smirked. “Because I’m not stopping until you do. And then again. And again. You're not sleeping tonight, babe.”

Yoongi didn’t stop—not when your legs started to tremble, not when your breath hitched in that high, helpless way that drove him insane. He was relentless, completely immersed, tongue gliding in slow, torturous circles before switching to sharp, precise flicks that had you arching off the bed.

“God, fuck. Please,” you almost choked, voice wrecked, coming out in desperate, broken pieces. “Fuck, fuck—”

Your hand flew to his hair, threading through the dark strands with shaking fingers. You weren’t just touching him—you were clinging, grounding yourself against the overwhelming wave crashing through your body. Then your other hand joined, not stroking, not pulling—just holding on as he pulled deeper sounds from you than you'd ever made before.

“I—fuck,” you gasped again, voice hoarse and breathless, hips rising against his mouth. “Yoongi—please—I can't—”

He growled low, the sound vibrating against you in a way that made you cry out. And still, he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

You were falling apart under him, trembling and moaning and begging, and he was drinking it in like your body was his favorite kind of worship. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you down—as if to say You’re not going anywhere. I’m not done yet.

Because he wasn’t.

He was building you like a beat, layering sensation on sensation until it all collapsed—until the dam broke and you screamed his name, clenching around nothing, your body shaking as pleasure tore through you.

And even then, he still didn’t let go.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your thigh, breath hot, voice rough with pride and lust. “Now let’s see how you take cock”

He didn’t give you much time to recover—just enough for your breathing to even out, for your lashes to flutter open, dazed and ruined, still trembling from the aftermath.

Yoongi leaned over you, chest brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you. His lips ghosted across your jawline, featherlight, and then lower, over your neck, where he bit down gently—claiming.

"You always taste like this?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Or is this just what happens when you miss me?"

You whimpered, already breathless again.

He sat back on his knees, undoing his belt in one smooth pull that made your mouth go dry. His eyes never left yours—dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with hunger. His shirt hung open, still a little damp where you’d licked the salt off his skin, and he looked completely, devastatingly fucked out, even though he hadn’t gotten anything yet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes raking down your body. “You’re shaking. You really had a week, huh?”

You nodded. Barely. And he smiled, slow and sinful.

“Well, baby,” he said, positioning himself between your thighs, stroking himself once, twice—thick, flushed, already dripping—“let me make it better.”

And then he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, eyes fluttering shut—your body still too sensitive, too desperate—and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Always so good for me. Goddamn.”

He rolled his hips, slow and deep, and it was like the air was punched out of your lungs. He filled you completely, every inch deliberate, every movement dragging against all the places you needed him.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in for purchase.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

He caught your mouth in a kiss, messy and hot, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your sounds like he wanted to own them. His thrusts got harder, deeper, finding that rhythm that had your entire body arching, your legs locking around his waist like he was the only thing anchoring you.

"You think you can come in here, ride me with tequila tricks, and not get absolutely wrecked?" he growled into your neck.

You moaned—helpless—and he smirked.

"Not after that little show, baby. No way."