Haylee

When your eyes blink open, it takes a few moments for you to register where you are. Well, shit. You groan and roll on to your side, staring at the potted plant on the window sill. At least you did fall asleep after all. You can't have been asleep for long though, feeling like a truck has rolled over you, reversed, and did it again. Who can fault you for tossing and turning, after all that happened? 

Yoongi sent you away to your room like a disobedient child last night, and you curled up in bed with Lucy. Didn't even take off your clothes. It's not like you brought pajamas anyway. Feeling somewhat gross now, sweaty from the restless sleep, you trudge over to the bathroom. When you take a look at yourself in the mirror, you cringe. You look horrible, dark circles around your eyes and your hair sticking up in all kinds of directions, as if you've been pulling on it all night. Which, you probably did. You open the mirrored cabinet and luckily, you find a hairbrush nestled between the other stuff. 

You should probably take a shower. Sighing, you strip out of your clothing. When you step into the spray of water, your shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like forever. You take your time, washing up and just thinking about everything that happened yesterday while the water runs over your face. Between all the scary shit, somehow the most disturbing part is the horn from hell, as Taeyhung called it. What kind of perverted endlevel devil decided to place that curse?! 

No wonder you couldn’t get enough sleep when you had your hand in your pants for hours, you recall, embarrassed, hoping the others couldn’t sense your depravity through the walls via some of their demon traits. Who knows what kind of weird powers they have. And the worst part of it all? You are still horny.

When you exit the shower again, you try to make yourself look somewhat presentable. Not that you care what they think about you, not at all, obviously. Just to make yourself feel better. 

So you tame your hair to your best ability, just to realise that you have to put on the dirty clothes from yesterday. You look at the pile of fabric on the floor, shuddering. No way you can put those panties back on. So you kick them to the side, deciding to go commando under your jeans. 

You feel a new level of humiliation as you zip them up, the seam in the crotch rubbing against you uncomfortably. Maybe someone is nice enough to bring you fresh clothes from your apartment later. They probably don't want you stinking up their place either, wearing the same things for days on end. It'll have to do for today though.

For the first time you register that you don't even have shoes. You didn't have any on when you spawned into the hell mansion. Well, it's pretty hot down here anyway, so you just stay barefoot.

Hoseok was welcoming and nice, so you should probably ask him to get you some of your clothes and toiletries when he has time, you think to yourself as you make your way towards the door to the hallway.

You almost stumble over a big garbage bag when you try to step outside. What the hell? Did Jeongguk put his trash in front of your room? Payback for you thinking about sending him to the dumps maybe?

You hesitantly peek into the bag, expecting nothing less than dog shit and used diapers. Your eyes widen in delight at what you find instead. It's a bunch of your clothes! You immediately pull the bin bag inside and rummage through the contents. 

The first thing you're looking for is underwear. Which you do find. But. Oh. It's all thongs. The thongs that you kept at the bottom of your underwear drawer. The only time you pull those out is when you've been too lazy to do your laundry. Well, it's better than having your jeans rub you raw.

You empty the rest of the contents on your bed, to find a whole bunch of mismatched shirts, pants and even some dresses. Whoever grabbed those must be either blind or have the worst taste ever. You dig through the pile for a bra, unsuccessfully. There's none.

You're still thankful to have fresh stuff to wear so you quickly change. Doesn't matter that it looks horrendous, you're not trying to impress anyone, you think as you put on a shirt that's bordering on crop top. It shrank in the wash, like, a few years back. Whoever went through your wardrobe must've gone to the dusty back corner to find it.

Feeling a whole lot better, you finally exit the room. A few doors down, Namjoon is coming out from one of the other rooms along the hallway. You are about to greet him, when you see Taehyung following close behind, looking sleepy and tousled. It wasn't a lie when he said he doesn’t like sleeping alone, huh. He smiles at you when he spots you.

“Come on, we'll have breakfast in a little,” Namjoon motions for you to join them. 

When the three of you enter the dining room, Hoseok is already sitting down at the table and you can hear Jimin and Jeongguk bicker in the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” Hoseok beams at you. Seems like he's forgiven you for bringing up the mysterious Jin.

“So, Jeongguk is the designated cook?” you ask while plopping down into your chair. 

“Mostly. I mean, we can technically all whip up something,” Namjoon explains. “But we try not to if we can avoid it.”

“Oh my god, yeah, you remember when you tried to fry eggs and they somehow exploded?” Taehyung chuckles.

“Jin was a great cook,” Hoseok adds in a somber tone. “Unlike most of us. Yoongi and Jeongguk are solid though.”

Where is Yoongi actually, you wonder, looking around the room. Your eyes fall to Taehyung, who's still standing next to Namjoon in what appears to be his pajamas. He yawns and stretches, which makes not only his shirt ride up but also his striped cotton shorts, and oh lord. Your mouth almost falls open when your gaze lands on his half-hard dick, close to popping out of the leg hole. 

“Jesus, Tae,” Namjoon scolds him, also catching an eyeful of his morning wood. “There’s a lady here now, you can’t keep whipping your schlong around like you used to.”

“My bad,” Taehyung shrugs before he relaxes his shoulders and smirks at you. “She didn’t complain though.”

“Do you need a permit to carry that thing?!” It just slips out before you can stop yourself. You and your fucking big mouth. You immediately avert your eyes, only to have them land on a suspicious bruise peeking out from the neckline of Namjoon’s shirt. You are pretty sure it wasn't there yesterday.

“Don’t worry,” Taehyung interrupts your thoughts. “It's Yoongi-approved.”

“Tried and tested,” Hoseok adds, matter-of-factly.

“What is?” Yoongi's sleepy voice chimes up from behind you. He shuffles up to his spot when no one answers. “Ah, your giant dick. Can we for once not discuss it at the table?” Yoongi sighs but you can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Taehyung readjusts his shorts before sitting down.

“We can talk about mine,” Jeongguk says as he walks into the room with all sorts of food in his hands.

“Can we maybe all put our dicks away for now?” Namjoon pleads.

“Any suggestions where to?” Jimin asks while handing out plates to everyone, visibly enjoying Namjoon’s torment.

“I’m open for ideas,” Taehyung adds.

“I’m so sorry,” Namjoon directs at you. “Just tell us when they make you uncomfortable with their foul mouths.”

“Huh, you usually don't complain about our mouths,” Jeongguk wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Maybe she'd enjoy them too,” Taehyung winks at you.

“Enough,” Yoongi ends the banter while everyone else, even you, quietly giggles to themselves.

Jimin pokes at the hickey on Namjoon's neck when he passes him. “Pretty,” he muses. Namjoon covers it with his hand immediately and groans, glaring at Taehyung.

“Is that the usual amount of chaos I can expect at breakfast?” you ask, dumbfounded by the whole conversation.

“Absolutely,” Yoongi confirms.

It finally quiets down around the table when various dishes are being passed around and everyone is filling their plates. As much as Jeongguk is getting on your nerves, he really has his cooking skill down. 

You drop a piece of food in your lap, making you remember the garbage bag of clothing you found earlier. 

“So, who picked up the clothes from my apartment?” you ask into the room. Everyone is just looking between each other, shrugging. It's only when Namjoon nudges Yoongi's side that he finally speaks up.

“Figured you needed something to wear, so I went and got it last night,” he says, not even looking up from his plate and immediately shoving another bite into his mouth.

Ah. He’s into thongs then. You quietly chuckle before composing yourself.

“Thank you, really,” you nod in his direction while pulling down the hem of the too-small t-shirt. 

Just like at dinner last night, Jimin is only poking his chopsticks around the food in front of him. You have yet to see him actually pick anything up.

“Not hungry?” you ask him, not expecting the hell that's about to break loose at your question.

When Jimin just shrugs, Jeongguk slams his own chopsticks down on the table. “Oh, he is,” he snarls and you are immediately taken aback by his anger. “He’s just being stupid.”

He turns towards Jimin now. “When was the last time you fucking ate anything?”

Jimin has gone still now, head lowered. “Like three days ago or something,” he mutters. “Don’t make a big deal out of it again, I just woke up.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Jeongguk snaps and jumps up from his chair. All you can do is watch with wide eyes as he storms out of the dining room. 

“Sorry ’bout that,” Jimin mumbles.

Fuck. All you've been doing since your arrival is stir shit up with your dumb questions. You’re the one who should be sorry. But, wait. What did Jimin say?

“You didn't eat anything for three days?! How are you even conscious?”

Hoseok reaches out and touches your arm. “Don’t worry too much. We can't like, starve.”

“Perks of being a demon,” Jimin adds with a grin. “We’re pretty much immortal, so food is not essential.”

“Yeah, but you still feel like shit if you don't eat,” Yoongi sternly addresses him. “And you’ll lose weight. Don’t make me tell you again that you need your strength.”

You look at Jimin. He's already really slender and definitely not in any place to diet, still poking at his eggs before he pushes the plate away from him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jimin sighs and rolls his eyes like a teenager. “I’ll eat. Promise. Later.”

You decide to stay quiet, not trying to pry, since you've already ruined the mood and with it, your own appetite. So you excuse yourself and bring your plate to the kitchen where you quickly rinse it and place it into the dish washer. They are really well-equipped down here in many ways it seems. 

You pass the living room on your way back to your room and catch Jeongguk on the couch out of the corner of your eye. It makes you halt and you peek through the archway.

When you look closer, Lucy is actually cuddled up in his lap, purring to him softly while he sulks. 

You clear your throat to make yourself known and he turns his head in your direction. His brow shoots up like he’s about to ask you what the hell you want from him, but he seems to stop himself, sighing. He looks really defeated, slumped into the cushions.

“I’m sorry for causing the situation in there,” you tell him while approaching. He just scoffs. After a moment of contemplating if you should actually bring yourself within an arms reach to him, you sit down next to Jeongguk and pet Lucy’s little head. “If I had known it’s such a sensitive topic I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Not your fault he’s refusing to eat,” he grumbles. “It's pissing me off, he's just wasting away.”

You almost can't believe how honestly Jeongguk is talking to you right now, without any of his usual brattiness. It's somehow worrying.

He's looking at you now, up close for the first time today. “You look like shit.” 

Ah, there it is. 

“Rough first night, huh?” he asks you with a mean grin.

You don't even know how to respond. Also it seems like being an ass to you is lifting his spirits, so you let him off easy for once and just shrug your shoulders. 

“Don’t try to deny it,” he goes on. “We’ve all been there.”

You pull your hand off Lucy and consequently out of Jeongguk’s lap, shaking your head. “I’m not sure what you’re implying honestly.”

“Honestly,” he mimics you with a mocking tone. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing all night.”

“Um.” You are at a loss for words, ears going hot. 

“I can smell it on you too,” he adds before catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “And it pisses me the fuck off because your stench is riling me up.” 

He then gets up suddenly, making Lucy jump off his legs with a surprised meow. 

“See you around I guess”, he dismisses you while walking away, adjusting his pants.  

You slump back into the couch, Lucy now cuddling up against your thigh. “What a shit show,” you mumble while scratching under his chin. 

Not really in the mood to socialise with the rest of your new roommates, you decide to retreat to your bedroom. Maybe you actually should just watch some Netflix. 

There's a knock on your door, just as the credits of 13 going on 30 roll.

Hoseok's head pops in, finding you sprawled out on the bed, yawning. You have spent the better part of the day watching movies you've seen a million times.

You wave him in and he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. 

“I brought you some snacks,” he says and hands you a pack of crisps and some chocolate. “Thought you'd need it, being holed up in here and all.”

You sit up and cross your legs, smiling at him. “You’re the sweetheart of the group, aren’t you?”

“I just know it's hard to be ripped out of your life without warning,” he tells you while breaking off some pieces of chocolate and handing one to you. “If you need anything, let me know.”

You shift back on the bed to lean against the headboard and Hoseok follows you, swinging his legs up on the duvet. 

“What are we watching?” he asks as his shoulder leans against yours. 

“We?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I'm bored too.”

You browse through the library of movies, trying to find anything worth your time, but you are honestly quite distracted by Hoseok's thigh pressing against yours. He doesn't even seem to realise and then he suddenly perks up.

“Ah, this one!” he exclaims just as you landed on Mamma Mia.

You cock your eyebrow at him and he shrugs. “I love musicals.”

Hoseok spends the rest of the afternoon in bed with you, singing along as quietly as possible, which ends up not being quiet at all.

Mamma Mia 2 just concludes when you hear Namjoon outside your room. “Dinner,” his voice sounds through the door.

You turn off the TV and suddenly remember. “Oh,” you turn to Hoseok. “Could you maybe fetch my make-up when you find the time?” 

“Sure,” he nods. “Anything else I can bring back?”

You look down at your shirt. “Well, maybe if you could find some of my clothes that are not buried in the far back of my closet?” 

Hoseok eyes the pile of clothing Yoongi brought from your apartment and laughs.

“And maybe something that doesn't look like you've owned it since 2012?”

“Please,” you say.

Hoseok picks up one of the thongs with his index finger and looks at you questioningly. “Yoongi really is just a man after all, huh?”

“So,” he begins to list. “Actual good-looking clothes, normal underwear, make up. Anything else?”

“A bra would be nice. Oh, and tampons from my bathroom please. In case I don't get back before I get my period.” 

Hoseok nods, making a mental note. He's probably the only one of the bunch you feel comfortable enough to have him go through your stuff.

Dinner passes by without any incidents, luckily. Even Jimin seems to keep his promise from earlier, as he reluctantly takes a few bites of the meal you learn Yoongi has prepared. 

You just try to keep your mouth shut so as to not cause more drama than you already did. 

“Almost as good as Jeongguk's,” Yoongi smirks at you when you reach over to get yourself a second helping.

“Even better I’d say,” you joke, catching the eyeroll Jeongguk sends your way at your remark.

“Already sucking up to the boss I see,” he taunts.

“We'll see who's doing the sucking later,” Taehyung teases him. “I'm ready for a shower, anyway.” He turns to you now. “You're still welcome to join, by the way.”

Your brain is still stuck on the sucking part, already conjuring up pictures it really shouldn't, so you just stare at him dumbly.

“If we weren’t in hell you would have earned yourself at least five sexual harassment cases since yesterday, man,” Namjoon sighs.

“Doesn't seem like she feels harassed, do you?” Taehyung asks.

“No,” you stutter out but before you can say anything stupid, Yoongi interrupts.

“She's going to her room.” He looks around the others. “And you will all stay far away from it.”

“Okay, boss daddy, we got it,” Taehyung playfully rolls his eyes at Yoongi. “Wouldn’t want you to punish us, would we?”

“Oh my god,” Namjoon groans as Jimin makes a spanking motion with his hand. 

The illustrious dinner party dissolves and you make your way back to your bedroom. What other choice do you have when big, bad boss Yoongi ordered it? You'll probably spend the next hours with your hand shoved down your pants again, the way those bastards keep riling you up. 

Maybe you'll find some porn to watch. Should have asked Hoseok to bring your vibrator too, your hand really started cramping up at some point last night and it's not like they have any shame. Except for Namjoon, maybe. Even though the hickey he sported tells you he's probably partaking in their shenanigans. 

You throw yourself on the bed again, it’s not like you've been away for long, mind already clouded by disastrous levels of horniness, making you groan. Maybe this time it’ll go away… 

Maybe not. After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, then subsequently giving in to your needs, hand inside your pants, the other on your phone on some questionable website, you're lying there soaked in sweat and other liquids, your head still reeling with sexual thoughts. This is going to drive you nuts! How did the others deal with it when they were dumped here? No wonder the first months were insane for them, this is straight up torture. No self inflicted orgasm felt like it was nearly enough to quench your thirst even for a bit, you could actually still run up the walls. Or punch a hole in one. Maybe that's why Jeongguk is the way he is…

Okay, you need to get your mind off sex. Right now. God, but the only other things you can think of are your job and what's going to happen when you won't show up on Monday and your friends and family when you tell them you've left the country.

What is everyone going to think? 

Probably that you lost your mind, which is not an incorrect assumption at all. Gosh, they'd probably put you into a straight-jacket if they knew what you're currently up to. And rightfully so. How are you going to tell your boss that you want to spontaneously take all the PTO you have? They’re going to fire you… 

And your parents? They’ll be so fucking worried. Maybe you should tell Nicole the truth. But would she believe you? Or just act like she does because she’s a good friend and call emergency services behind your back? And who knows, maybe she fucking should!

Great, now you’ve managed to think yourself onto the verge of a panic attack. Again. Fuck, calm down! Looking out the window out of habit, all you see is darkness and the faint flickering of flames. This view is not helping at all. You need to get out of this room, you need air and to move and you just need to get out of this fucking place in general. 

Namjoon said that he has to work through literature to figure out a solution, right? Maybe you can do your own research to speed up the process and take your mind off things. It’s not like you have anything else to do besides worrying and masturbating. Looking at your phone to check the time, it’s past 2 am, so the others are probably asleep at this point. Time to look for the library. 

It feels like back when you used to sneak out of your window when you were a teenager. Once you step out into the dimly lit hallway, bare feet lightly tapping over the floor boards, making sure you’re quiet, your nervous thoughts are interrupted by music. Is that Justin Bieber sounding out of one of the rooms?

You only know that Yoongi resides in the bedroom adjacent to yours and it's not coming from there. So who’s blasting Justin Bieber at this time of night? There’s one door that’s slightly ajar - that’s where the noise is coming from. You are too nosy to ignore it, maybe it’s Hoseok having a dance party in his room? You need to know, so you move towards it, peeking inside. And what you find there when you push open the door a bit further, is nothing short of incredible and outrageous at the same time.

Jeongguk is sitting up on the mattress naked, legs outstretched and spread. Jimin is on his stomach between them, face down and squished into a pillow. His ass is lifted up towards Jeongguk. Jimin's knees are propped up around the other's thighs and Jeongguk is pulling him closer by his hips, making his back arch. 

Like a weird version of a downward dog, you think. As if they were engaged in reverse riding and Jimin fell forwards onto the bed. He has different phases of the moon cycle tattooed down his spine and it looks like they sparkle in the lamp light from the sheen of sweat that’s spread over his skin. There's another tattoo across his ribs, but you can't make out what it says. 

Oh, and he's moaning loudly, a delicious sound, with his eyes squeezed shut. All you can see of Jeongguk is his forehead, damp strands of hair stuck to it, as his face is currently buried between Jimin's cheeks.

Jimin's high-pitched sounds are mixing with Justin Bieber's Never say never and the situation is so absurd and hot at the same time that your head starts spinning. As if it couldn't get any worse, Jeongguk's eyes suddenly open and immediately look at you standing there in the doorway, caught staring at them like a pervert. You can't will your body to move though.

He detaches himself from Jimin's ass and raises his eyebrows.

“Enjoying the show?” 

At his words, Jimin's eyes also open and he lazily smiles at you, eyelids droopy, looking all blissed out.

“I’d ask you to join,” Jimin sighs when Jeongguk latches onto him again, breath hitching at a particular motion of his tongue. “Hnnngh… but Yoongi said No, so…”

You have to force your legs to move from where they are cemented to the floor. You mumble something resembling an apology as you back out through the door, pulling it close behind you. Why didn't they close it?! Or better yet - lock it!

You definitely won't risk opening up any other bedroom doors, so you pass them all, walking down the staircase, further into the depths of the mansion.

You know your way around the ground floor by now, except for the western wing of the building. You figure the library might be hidden back there, since the basement would be too moist to keep books in it.

The first room you carefully peek into is nothing but a broom closet. The next one’s an office, but with only a few stray books here and there stacked on the shelves. 

There's only one big wooden double door left at the end of the hallway. This has to be it. 

The creaking of the hinges betrays your efforts to be quiet and you quickly scan around you to see if anyone might have heard. But who would? It's the middle of the night. You slip into the room and let your eyes adjust to the darkness. It is indeed the library, you can make out the full bookcases up to the high ceiling. It's impressive, even if you can't see too well.

You walk around one of the shelves that's placed in the middle when you suddenly hear suspicious sounds coming from deeper inside. This… can't be. You quietly step around the bookcase and find a spot illuminated by a single candle. It's just enough to make out the silhouettes of two people in a big armchair. You squint your eyes and realise it's Namjoon and Hoseok you're looking at. Hoseok, who's currently bouncing on Namjoon's lap, naked. They are both panting, Namjoon's head resting on the back of the chair with his mouth agape. So is yours, as you take in the dimly lit sight. When Hoseok exhales a low moan, it startles you out of your trance and you accidentally knock your elbow into the furniture behind you. Shit.

Namjoon's eyes snap open at the sound and immediately spot you. This time, you're not waiting around for this to get any worse and you hurry out of the library. 

Why is everybody here getting some except you, when you’re the one who needs it most?! Fuck Yoongi. Maybe even in the literal sense, for making you suffer like this. Your mind is racing as you return to your bedroom. You feel like a fucking cuck, one that doesn't enjoy it, being caught peeping on two couples in the matter of a few minutes. 

You let yourself fall into bed face first. 

Can’t they just put you into a coma until they figure something out? This is unbearable. You need to be sedated, feeling like an animal in heat. 

After another agonizing hour with your hand between your legs, you manage to finally fall asleep. 

When you wake up in the morning, you feel nothing short of mortified. How are you supposed to face any of them?! The post-multiple-nut clarity is hitting you hard. 

Your growling stomach doesn't leave you any choice though and a glance at your phone tells you the others are probably already gathering in the dining room. You hop into the shower to wash the gross feeling off yourself before getting dressed. 

You sheepishly shuffle into the room, Namjoon and Hoseok already sitting at the table. You can hear noise from the kitchen and assume it must be Jeongguk preparing breakfast.

When you stop in front of your chair, you scratch your neck, trying to figure out what to say. 

“Morning,” you mumble, wishing you could hide away for the rest of time.

Namjoon is the first to speak up. 

“Look, I'm really sorry you had to see that last night. But that's exactly why we told you to stay in your room.”

“See what?” Taehyung asks with a piece of croissant in his mouth, emerging from the kitchen with Jeongguk in tow.

Jeongguk chortles. “Let me guess. Walked in on you too, huh?” He nonchalantly sits down in his chair, leaning back. “Don’t worry, I'm sure she enjoyed it. I think we've got a little voyeur on our hands here.”

“Oh, shut up!” you interrupt his teasing. “Why did you leave your door open anyway? It’s like you wanted to be seen. And Justin Bieber? Really?”

“I don't know what you mean. I just had a random playlist on,” he scoffs. “Anyway, how's your hand? Must have been in heavy use last night.”

Yoongi and Jimin enter the room, both looking between Jeongguk and you, watching yet another heated exchange with wide eyes. Jimin merely shrugs his shoulders with a grin, while Yoongi already looks totally exhausted by your shenanigans, making you feel bad immediately.

Meanwhile, Hoseok is trying to calm Namjoon's nerves by rubbing his back. Namjoon has given up trying to intervene and has his face buried in his hands. 

Yoongi's entrance stops the fight from escalating and you all calm down while eating breakfast. This time it's Yoongi digging mindlessly through his food. 

Never one to ever shut up apparently, you can't help but ask.

“So, enlighten me please. What exactly is this… group? Are there like, couples? Or are you all in a polycule or something?”

“I don’t even know what that word means,” Yoongi mutters while pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“We're just family,” Hoseok smiles softly. 

“Um, okay,” you try to wrap your mind around what he just said. “What kind of weird family constellation is this? Are you like the Cullens, or what?”

“The who?” Yoongi asks, brows raised.

“No, that’s a band, boss,” Hoseok tells him to which Yoongi just shakes his head.

“The Cullens from Twilight,” you begin to explain. “They’re all adopted siblings and bang each other… Nevermind, I guess it’s none of my business after all.”

“Correct,” Jeongguk agrees with you for the first time ever.

“Unless you want it to be?” Taehyung chimes in, ever the pervert.

“Can we have a quiet breakfast for once? Glad you all had fun last night but you're giving me a headache,” Yoongi sighs. 

Now what’s gotten his panties in a twist? For all you know you were the one suffering alone last night. You’re about to ask, but how the others are looking at him right now makes worry creep up your neck. Even Jeongguk is finally shutting up and frowning.

“Wanna lie down, boss?” Jimin asks him carefully. “We’ll bring you your breakfast to your room if you want.”

“I'm not hungry anyway. But yeah, I'll leave you to it,” Yoongi mutters as he gets up and trudges away from the table with slumped shoulders, leaving his food behind untouched. 

No one talks for the remainder of breakfast until Jeongguk, Jimin and Taehyung tell the group that they’re going on a mission to earth in a bit. They should be back by dinner time.

“You better head back to your room, too,” Namjoon tells you. You nod without complaint, sensing the serious tension in the others. 

“Do yourself a favor and behave for once, huh?” Jeongguk says when they get ready to leave. “You being here already triggered Yoongi into an episode.”

An episode? What, is he sick? Did you make him sick? Jeongguk looks at you with so much scorn in his eyes, you don't dare to ask. 

Jimin, Jeongguk and Taehyung return dressed in layers of leather, decked out in chains. Their uniform, you figure. Which would also be fitting for a BDSM party. So that explains Taehyung's look when you first arrived. What kind of missions are they going on, needing to look like bikers in one of those cheesy, sexy calendars? 

You are just walking off towards your room when you hear muffled words. 

“He was fine when I got into his bed last night. Didn’t wake him today, ‘cause I know the boss values his sleep,” you hear what must be Taehyung speak. 

“Make sure you check in on him.” 

“You know I always do,” you think you can make out Namjoon's voice as you close the door to your room.

You spend the day stewing in the dreadful feeling that you somehow really fucked up and made Yoongi seriously unwell. How would you have even done that? Is your presence enough to fuck him up that badly? What’s wrong with you being here? It's not like you wanted to come or even less, stay. 

The sound of a door close by being shut rips you from your spiraling a few hours later. Was that Yoongi's door? Maybe he's feeling better. 

You walk out of your room, determined and ready to apologize for whatever you might have done, but are stopped in your tracks when you find Namjoon sitting on the floor, slumped against Yoongi's closed door, head thrown back. 

You are about to turn around and retreat to your room when Namjoon quietly speaks up. “Come sit with me,” he invites you and pats the floor next to him without opening his eyes. 

You cautiously slide down Yoongi’s door until you're on the ground, leaning against it and just look at Namjoon sitting beside you. He finally turns to you, looking distressed and tired. 

“I probably shouldn’t tell you but it feels wrong to just leave you in the dark,” he mutters. 

“Is Yoongi sick?” you want to know. 

Namjoon stretches out his legs in front of him and stays silent for a few seconds. 

“You know, we really can’t catch any physical diseases,” he says as he pulls on a loose thread from the rip on his jeans. “We’re not immune to mental illness though.”

Oh. “So the devil’s like ‘Cool how you can’t catch a cold, huh? But here’s some crippling PTSD?‘”

“Basically,” Namjoon sighs deeply. 

“Depression?” you ask. “That’s what it is?”

“Persistent and recurring.”

Jeongguk’s words still gnaw at your conscience. “Is it my fault it's happening now?”

“Nah,” Namjoon shakes his head with a reassuring smile. “Would have happened anyway. Gguk’s just a dickhead for saying that it has something to do with you.”

“So what's going to happen now? Can you help him? Does he take medication?”

“I wish. We just have to wait it out and be there for him. Antidepressants don't work on us unfortunately. We tried.”

Well fuck. This truly is hell, huh.

“He’s probably gonna be out for a couple days,” Namjoon adds. “Even if you have nothing to do with it, I doubt he would want you to see him like this. We will deal with it, don't worry.”

“Okay, sure,” you nod. “If I can help in any way, just let me know, alright? I can cook up a pretty good lasagna, if any of you crave it.”

“Sounds good,” Namjoon replies, his eyes closed again with his head against the door. “Yoongi might even eat a few bites.”

You go through the ingredients you need in your head and make a mental note to ask Hoseok if he can get them for you, maybe they have some kind of hell convenience store nearby. Asking Jeongguk for help is not really something you're willing to do.

You just sit next to Namjoon for a while, his presence is comforting, grounding in all this confusing mess. Thinking about what he told you, a question rises up. 

“So, do drugs in general do nothing to you? Can you like, get high or drunk?”

Namjoon huffs out a quiet laugh. 

“The others can if they want to. Only works on recreational drugs to decide if they affect us for some reason though. Guess even the devil has his vices.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I’m an addict.”

“Ah.” Why you're unable to stop putting your foot in your mouth for once is a mystery that the secret service should take a closer look at. “I should probably stop talking altogether. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles dryly. “You just don’t know us. It’s bound to happen. I don’t mind.”

You still cringe at your ability to turn every single conversation into a traumatic experience for everyone involved. That's why you just shut up and sit there in silence now.

Namjoon seems open to share more about himself though as he starts talking into the quiet of the hallway. 

“You know, when I got here, I was actually devastated thinking I couldn't get high anymore. The physical symptoms of the addiction might have been wiped away, but the mental aspect of it all?” 

He shakes his head as he continues.

“Thankfully Yoongi spawned in only a few days after me. Because by then I had figured out that I in fact could still get fucked up.”

Your descent to hell suddenly doesn't sound so bad anymore, thinking back. Sure, you came here barefoot and holding hands with a demon, but at least you weren’t dropped in here all by yourself. That must have been terrifying. 

“He forced me to get clean. Took over everything while I recovered. At least I didn't have any physical withdrawals, so it was easier than it would have probably been back up on earth. I'm eternally thankful that he got here when he did. I know he seems crass at times, but he's a really good person. He's just trying to hold everything together for the rest of us.”

“I’m sure you help with that a great deal, Namjoon.” 

“I’m trying to. Told him he doesn't have to shoulder it all by himself, but you think that stubborn donkey listens to me?”

“Can’t imagine he would,” you smile to yourself. 

It also feels like some of Namjoon’s tension is dissolving. How did he even get himself into this mess? He said they all got caught in a contract they can’t get out of. Did he sign his for more drugs then? One thing’s for sure - you will not ask him about it. You’ve caused enough drama in two days and he seems nice enough to let you in on more details of his story when he feels like the time is right.

“Thank you, Namjoon,” you say. “For being so open about it all. And for trying to make me feel better even though I’m making everyone’s life harder by being here.”

“Hey, it’s all good. Not your fault. And please, call me Joon, okay?”

“Alright, Joon,” you try out the nickname. “I’ll get back to my room.”

“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

In the evening, you can hear clamor outside and guess it's the three leathered up musketeers returning from wherever they went, as you can hear chains clanking.  

A while later, Joon collects you from your room to join them. 

Yoongi's spot at the table is empty. You had the tiniest bit of hope that he might have recovered by dinner time. Guess not. You feel a tinge of sorrow in your stomach at the sight of the unoccupied chair. The mood in the room is somber and you actually start to miss the crazy comments that are usually being dropped. You could deal with a dose of perversion to lift the spirits. 

In an effort to break up the strained air around you, you start talking. Probably going to regret this again, but you can't stand the bleak silence. “So what’s with the leather gear? Are you part of a Hell's Angels fan club?”

Taehyung snorts. “You noticed. It's kinda sexy, right?”

“Actually,” Hoseok interrupts Taehyung. “Bang PD assigned us those… uniforms some time back. Probably to try and mess with us but honestly, we look pretty good in the outfits. Don't you agree? We have to show you the rest of them.”

“I guess? But it does give the impression you are going on some weird sex missions, not going to lie,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, Jeongguk and Taehyung definitely are,” Jimin lets you know. “Not on the official agenda, obviously.”

It wasn’t that obvious to you to be honest. This information came unexpected but at the same time not at all. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” you say nonetheless, making Jeongguk and Taehyung laugh.

“You two really make use of the invulnerability,” Joon says while loading his plate with a second helping. “Otherwise, you would have brought home all sorts of STDs and who knows what else.”

“Five kids each too, probably,” Hoseok jokes. 

“Thank the devil we’re sterile,” Taehyung holds up his glass while fondly looking into the distance. “I always hated fussing with condoms.”

“Thank you Bang PD,” Jeongguk clinks his glass to Taehyung’s in some demonic fuckboy toast.

“Where the hell would you even pick up people in your leather garb?” you seriously wonder.

“Ever been to Hongdae?” Namjoon sighs. 

“No, where’s that?”

“We’re gonna show you once you’re able to leave,” Taehyung tells you. “Gotta be open minded though.”

“They’ll eat you up. They love pretty foreigners on that strip,” Jimin blows you a kiss at the end of his sentence, making you blush as you suddenly recall what you walked in on last night.

“So you guys are really invincible then? Immortal?” you ask to change the subject.

“Almost,” Hoseok nods. “There’s limits. We don’t age and technically can’t get sick or starve.”

That’s a wild bunch of new info yet again, it feels like you should be taking notes at this point. “How old are you all then? Like five hundred years?”

“We’ve not been here that long,” Jimin states, checking his face in the reflection of his locked phone before he looks at you. “How long has it been? Like 14 years?”

“16 for me,” Joon tells him.

“Stopped aging then,” Jeongguk says before eyeing you up and down. “Pretty sure you’re actually a noona to me.”

“You did always like them older though, did you not?” Taehyung recalls between bites and Jeongguk elbows him in the side in response. 

What does noona even mean? Probably like wrinkly grandma or cryptkeeper or something, if Jeongguk is using it to address you. 

You wonder how old they think you are. They all look like they might be around 30 years old, so that must have been when they got snatched down to the pits.

Wait. Did you stop aging as well the second you were brought here? Or is a contract required for that perk? Hopefully you won’t have to find out the hard way.

“I’ll bring Yoongi some food,” Joon says as he’s finished his plate. 

When Hoseok starts to collect the dirty dishes, you stop him.

“Let me do it,” you offer. It's the least you can do after they've been feeding you so many times now.

They all file out of the dining room and you start loading up the dishwasher after rinsing the pots and plates. You even wipe the table, actually enjoying doing something useful after just sitting around in your room for so long. It gives you a sense of normalcy instead of feeling like a freeloading intruder. With everything cleaned up, you dry your hands on a dish towel. Guess it's time to Netflix & Masturbate. No Chill in sight. 

Maybe you should try to sleep early tonight. You are already yawning when you walk through the hallway to your bedroom, only to stop in front of Yoongi's room when you hear faint voices talking through the slightly cracked door. Surely no one will be fucking in there right now, so you risk a peek inside. Your heart drops to your feet. Yoongi is lying in his bed, totally motionless. He's just staring at the ceiling, dead-eyed and even paler than usual, while Joon is crouching next to him, talking in a gentle voice. Judging by the bowl of food and the spoon in his hands, he's trying to get Yoongi to eat. 

When you silently push open the door a bit further, you see that Taehyung is in bed with Yoongi, cuddled to his side and stroking his arm. He is looking really sad too. Joon was right, Yoongi probably wouldn't want you to see him like that. You're just a stranger after all. The whole scene is so vulnerable and heartbreaking, it makes you gulp down a lump of worry in your throat as you retreat from the room. Reconsidering, you would have preferred someone fucking instead. 

That image keeps you up for a while, not in any mood to sort out your horniness, so you just brood in it until you finally drift off to another restless slumber. Neither Chill nor Masturbate. Or even Netflix. 

The next morning starts out pent up and unsatisfied, like the ones before. Yoongi’s still in his room while the others take care of him and most of the stuff around the house. Taehyung has barely left Yoongi's side, clinging on to him like a koala. Jimin, Joon and Jeongguk went to earth after breakfast, for another ominous "job" they wouldn't explain further and you are waiting for Hoseok to return from his trip to the grocery store and your apartment. You can't wait to finally wash your face using your own stuff again, even though the few products they provided are surprisingly good. Despite all the shit going on, your skin is glowing more than it ever has. 

Hoseok materialises in the living room with a pop, beaming as always, even though he struggles with the grocery bag in one hand and the big backpack full of your things slung around his shoulder. “Hey, Ari,” he smiles at you with a strained huff. “I think I’ve got everything.”

You jump up from the couch, Lucy bouncing his way as well, probably hoping he brought some treats for him. “Thank you so much!”

“You got some nice stuff,” he tells you. “Let me bring the food to the kitchen.”

You quickly rummage through the rucksack, relieved again because, bless Hoseok and his considerate nature - you finally got shoes and your cotton undies back and can stop picking uncomfortable strings from between your ass cheeks. 

After stowing everything away in your room, you return to the kitchen where Hoseok currently sits at a bar stool by the counter, typing on his phone. “Need any help?” he asks. “What are we making?”

“Lasagna and sure,” you tell him while lining up the ingredients he bought. “You could start by cutting some onions.”

After watching him quite chaotically chop, you start the bechamel on the stove and heat up a second pan for the ground meat. “So, do you guys get paid for your demonic missions?”

“I wish. Our payments are our powers and being allowed to stay alive, I guess.”

They did get a mansion out of it after all, at least.

“Oh. So how do you buy stuff on earth? Or is there a grocery store in hell where everything is free for the staff?”

“We got our hands on some money. Figured we’d need it here and there,” Hoseok tells you as he’s butchering another onion. “So Ggukie and Tae robbed a bank once or twice before.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs. “Well, you do what you gotta do to survive. And, admittedly, I do like to splurge on some designer clothes every once in a while.” Turning his front towards you, he flashes you his Louis Vuitton belt. 

You don't feel like laughing. A bank robbery? That's some serious shit. You stare at the meat sizzling in the hot pan. Are they more violent than you gave them credit for? Like, for fun? 

“Relax, no one got hurt. And they made them all forget afterwards.”

“‘That another power of yours?”

“Yup. See? They’re considerate bank robbers. Didn’t even leave anyone traumatised.”

Hard to believe when Jeongguk is involved, but okay.

“I think they broke into some billionaires’ vaults,” he goes on. “Probably didn’t even notice the notch in their accounts.”

“So thoughtful.”

Hoseok shrugs, “Well, if they refuse to pay taxes, we gotta make ‘em pay another way.”

Well, he's got a point. Still, you shake your head. “Aren’t you a bunch of modern Robin Hoods...”

“Taking from the rich and giving it away to the poor - and who’s more in need than us, in hell, exploited by the devil?”

He moves the unevenly chopped onions on the cutting board towards you.

“Don’t look at me like that, we also made some donations. Yoongi made us give some of it away.”

“To Gucci and Prada?”

“Among other causes. You think a bunch of goodie two shoes would end up down here?”

“You know what, I kind of get it. I don’t blame you.”

They don't seem like bad people to you. Pervy, yeah, but not really dangerous, not even Jeongguk. All bark no bite, or however the saying goes. But how well do you really know them? You give your bechamel one last stir after adding a pinch of nutmeg and take it off the heat. 

“Jin always loved Italian take out when we went up to earth together,” Hoseok says fondly. “Hated cooking it himself though.”

“Sounds like you two were really close.”

“Guess you could say that but, yeah… it's whatever.” His voice goes a bit wobbly at the end, but he composes himself really quickly. “Let's stack this lasagna, huh?”

The big smile he puts on doesn't quite reach his eyes, but you don't pry.

When Hoseok breaks apart the second pasta sheet wrong, you shoo him out of the kitchen and finish assembling the lasagna by yourself. 

While it's baking in the oven, the others return from their earth excursion.

When you're all gathered around the table, you are glad that you decided to double the ingredients, because they all gobble it down as if they haven't been fed in days.

Even Jimin eats an actual adult-sized portion for once. 

“Wait, we have to save some for Yoongi,” Namjoon stops Taehyung from getting a second serving. 

“No, don't worry, I already put some away for him,” you let him know and motion for Taehyung to go and take the rest out of the baking dish. 

Namjoon mouths a Thank you your way with a little smile. He seems exhausted. 

The rest of the day passes by uneventfully. But you did finally organize the clothing Hoseok brought you back. You didn't even want to put stuff away at first, just grabbing whatever from the pile, hoping the involuntary stay at the hell hotel would be over soon. But since Namjoon doesn't seem to have made any progress on figuring out how to bring you home, you fear your little warm holiday in the nether regions might last longer than anticipated. 

After finally getting to do your usual skincare routine and taking a cold shower, because god knows you need it, you sprawl out on the bed with Lucy curled up beside you. 

It's making you feel shitty that even with all that drama, the most prominent emotion brewing in you is unrelenting arousal. 

That and the quick message you sent your boss, telling her that you won’t be coming to work today. She bombarded you with calls and messages, asking how and why, so you lied about needing to sort out some family emergency. She bought it, if only barely and authorised a week’s vacation. Additionally, you decided to wait until any of your friends and family would reach out, asking for a meet-up to reveal your absence. This is going to be a nightmare.

Just like the one between your legs currently. How is the human body even capable of handling that much arousal? If you were a guy even a gust of wind would get you hard. You have to change your underwear like three times a day. It’s embarrassing and annoying as fuck, everything is starting to seriously piss you off. Even this room you’re in feels like it’s mocking you. Staring at the dumb potted plant on the windowsill, you wonder if smashing it against the wall would make you feel any better. 

You huff and puff and roll your eyes at yourself as you snake your hand into your pants again, silently praying for the tiniest bit of relief.

Of course, you once again didn't manage to quench your horniness by yourself, so when you woke up this morning, your mood was already down in the dumps. Ready to strangle the next person who dares to get on your nerves - and let’s be real, it’s going to be Jeongguk - you marched out of your room to begrudgingly face another day in hell. 

You managed to get a bit of a grip on your foul mood by lunch time, mostly due to the fact that Yoongi was already sitting at his spot on the table when you arrived for breakfast, acting like nothing was ever wrong. The relief was palpable in the room, everyone acting as if it was just another day and their boss hadn't been rotting away in his bed for two days straight. Since you've proven to be very proficient at making things awkward by talking, you just decided to follow their lead and not address it either. 

It's around noon by now and you're loitering around the kitchen, looking through cabinets and drawers just to pass the time. It was getting unbearably boring in your room, so you decided to come out, hoping to maybe run into Hoseok or Namjoon for a chat. 

“Don't fuck up my system,” Jeongguk’s voice startles you as you are absentmindedly rummaging through some utensils.

“I couldn't even tell there was a system,” you snarl, already feeling the anger rise up again as you push the drawer shut a bit harder than necessary.

Jeongguk and you are just glaring at each other when Jimin walks in. 

“Ooh, are you two cooking together today?” he muses as he prances over, looking like a fairy prince. Maybe you could braid his hair some day.

“I'd rather starve and die before I share my kitchen with the boss's stray,” Jeongguk snorts at the idea. 

Okay then, next time he won't get to even have a bite of what you cook, you decide. 

Jimin puts his arm around Jeongguk, seemingly in an attempt to calm him down. Which somewhat works, judging by the way he uncrosses his arms and drops them to his side. 

“Ari, your lasagna was so good,” Jimin tells you. “Yoongi even cracked a little smile when we told him you made it.”

Jeongguk just huffs, unwilling to offer even the tiniest bit of praise apparently. You've seen how he scoffed down the lasagna - he liked it too.

Neither of you realize that Yoongi is leaning in the doorframe to the kitchen when Jimin continues, nudging Jeongguk in the side.

“Come on Ggukie, you even got him to eat a few bites. Gotta give it to her, her cooking might have even healed him! He's rarely back up so fast!”

Jimin is probably overestimating the magical healing properties of your lasagna, but you are glad to hear that even Yoongi enjoyed it. 

Jeongguk now frees himself from Jimin's embrace, face scrunched into a bitter expression. 

“He wouldn't have been sick in the first place if that pest wasn't here! She can shove her fucking pasta up her ass for all I care!”

He's closing in on you, hands balled into fists. For the first time, you might even feel a bit intimidated when his muscular frame towers over you. You wouldn't be surprised if he spat on you, his eyes full of contempt as he stares you down. 

“Can't believe we let you stay, just for you to fucking mess up Yoongi,” he hisses close to your face, his breath fanning over you.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, his arm is twisted backwards and he whimpers in pain. His knees are buckling as he's struggling, his arm contorted behind his back. Your eyes shoot towards Yoongi, who's walked up to the fridge and currently browses through its contents like he doesn't have a care in the world.

“Shut your mouth Gguk,” Yoongi flatly says as he's finally turning towards him. “You don’t speak for me. And stop spewing that shit to her.”

You just stand there with an open mouth, as you watch Jeongguk writhe in pain until Yoongi finally lets up whatever he's been doing to him. Jeongguk crumbles to the floor, cradling his arm. Jimin looks about as dumbfounded as you feel, standing there with his back pressed into the kitchen counter. It takes him a second to recover before he crouches down to check on Jeongguk. He helps him up and with one last glare in your direction, Jeongguk lets himself be walked out of the room. 

“You don't have to rush in to save me, you know,” you address Yoongi. “I'm not some damsel in distress.”

He eyes you up and down and laughs as he opens up the soda can he got for himself. “You don’t seem to understand how fragile you are compared to us. And how bad Jeongguk’s temper can get.”

“Why does he even hate me so much? What did I do to him?!”

“Nothing,” Yoongi shrugs his shoulders and takes a sip. “He just doesn't trust you.”

As if you're the one wiping people's minds blank of memories and robbing banks. Nevermind the killing people and collecting souls part of their job.

You don't even respond, just stomping out of the kitchen. Your mood is right back down to below zero, you can feel the anger in every cell of your body, making you tense up from your shoulders down to your toes as you throw the door to your room shut. 

When Namjoon comes to get you for lunch, you decline and stay buried under the blanket, stewing and wallowing in all the shitty emotions that are thundering through your brain.

Your stomach betrays you though when it starts growling a while later. Thankfully, you still have some snacks left that Hoseok brought you. With the wrappers strewn around the bed and your hunger sated, you stare at the ceiling. 

The hours go by agonizingly slow, your brain is just unwilling to focus on anything but the fact that you are stuck in this hell hole without a way to escape. You're fully spiraling, switching between panic and rage. And the fucking horniness that just refuses to go away, no matter how furiously you masturbate. At some point, you're just lying there with tears soundlessly rolling down your cheeks, wetting the hair behind your ears. 

Your crisis is interrupted when there's a knock on your door. You groan. What now? Who's trying to annoy you this time? You reluctantly swing your legs off the bed and stand up, your joints creaking after not moving for so long.

You rip open the door and all you see is Jeongguk's backside, hurrying away from your room. What the hell? Is this some fucking ring and run prank? You are about to slam the door shut again when you see the bowl of fried rice on the floor. 

You consider the possibility that he's poisoned it when you pick it up to carry it inside, sniffing it suspiciously. All you smell is his annoyingly delicious cooking.

Well, maybe it would end your suffering if he did put some rat poison in there. But Yoongi said he wouldn’t dare, during your first dinner here, didn’t he?

You shove a spoonful of rice in your mouth with a frown as you're sitting back down on the edge of your bed. Maybe some real food will make you feel better actually. 

Apparently that's a lost cause though, as 10 minutes later with a full stomach and an empty bowl in your hand, you are just as tormented as before. Shoving the dish onto the nightstand you make your way into the bathroom, in hopes that a cool shower and an early night will bring you peace. 

The shower didn’t do anything at all and you scoff while pulling an oversized black shirt, in lieu of pajamas, on. An hour and two episodes of some dumb Netflix show later, your mind starts spiraling again. What if they never find a way to bring you back? What if they get tired of you and kick you out? What if they find a way eventually but it will be so far from now that you’ll be out of a job, homeless and all your loved ones have died? 

What if no one’s going to fuck you ever again and you're just going to wither away from all the unsolved arousal, drying up to a pruney spinster? You're immediately pissed that this is even on your list of priorities at all, but your pussy just. won't. stop. throbbing.

How is it fair that the demons get to just willy-nilly move between earth and hell while you're cursed to be stuck down here where you don't belong? What if they're actually lying and they just keep you here for your soul or to feed you to the boss devil?!

This room is too small, the dark from outside the window seems to seep in and take over and you feel like the walls are closing in. Sometimes it helps to move around when you’re in this state - though you’re not sure you’ve ever felt this bad before.

You step outside your room and decide to just walk up and down the hallway for a bit, just to walk off the impending panic attack.

The non-relaxing stroll doesn't last long - when you reach the last of the doors, you can hear moaning and grunting, very clearly two people engaged in what you've never in your life craved more than you are currently. You immediately see red. It's like a switch in your brain goes off and you press out a frustrated yell as you storm back to your bedroom. They are surely trying to drive you insane. This has to be on purpose. It's like they're waving food in front of a starving child in a cage. 

You fly into what can only be described as a blind rage, which you at first try to control by stifling your screaming with a pillow pressed to your mouth. It's no use, you fling the pillow through the room, which ends up pushing over the stuff on your dresser. Your stuff rolling around on the floor now just makes you even madder and you kick the deodorant at your feet away. Lucy has fled the chaos once the pillow hit the dresser and is hiding away under the bed.

That’s when you spot the fucking bowl Jeongguk left at your door and your brain just blanks. Snatching it off the bedside table, you smash it into the wall with gritted teeth. Shards of porcelain are scattered on a pile of dirty laundry, one even hits your shin, leaving a small cut behind. Blood is dribbling down your leg as you crouch down, yelling while folding in on yourself, cradling your head between your arms. 

You rock yourself back and forth, to no avail as you are still reeling. When you feel the cut on your leg sting you get up and the first thing you see is the plant in front of your window. It's like it's mocking you, thriving and green without any sunlight while you are withering away in the dark void.  

With an agonized scream you yank it off the windowsill and throw it straight into the mirror that's against the wall, making it explode in shatters all over the floor. 

Before you can cause more mayhem the door to your room is ripped open. It’s Yoongi, standing there in boxers and a soft t-shirt, observing the scene with a heaving chest and his eyes in slits.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouts as he steps into the room. Lucy takes the opportunity and rushes out through the open door before he abruptly closes it behind himself. “You’re even scaring your cat! Stop throwing our shit around!”

You feel bad, you really do, especially because it’s only since this morning that Yoongi’s back on his feet, but there’s so much anger inside you now, so much frustration that never seems to simmer down, surely fueled further by whatever makes emotions go all wild down here in this hell den. Usually you’d be considerate of other people's feelings, but you simply can’t find the strength to calm down. You’re too weak, too sad, spread too thin, too anxious and worst of all, too fucking angry to care. You could rip apart the pillows with your bare hands and dust the room in feathers right now actually. Or you could try to choke him with them first. Maybe that’d make you feel better.

“Leave me alone!” you yell at Yoongi. Strictly speaking, it is his fault that you’re stuck here. He’s the ritual expert, not you. He should have fucking known to check if the damn salt pentagram was smudged. “What do you want?!”

“What do I-” he repeats your words to himself with an exasperated glare. “I want it to be quiet when I lay down to sleep. But guess what? You’re fucking loud over here and destroying all our stuff! What I want is you to stop trashing my room.”

“This isn’t your room,” is the only childish thing you’re able to reply. 

“And it’s not yours either. You know whose room it is? Jin’s!” he spits as he looks at the plant you’d thrown to the ground, its vase now broken and the soil strewn around the sharp pieces of the mirror. “So fucking stop breaking his stuff, or I’ll make you!”

His words make you pause. Sucking in a breath, you look around. Jin, the mysterious Jin that Hoseok misses so much, used to live here. That’s all his. His damned potted plant, his fucking wardrobe, his mirror that you broke.

“God fucking damn it,” you sob out, voice breaking in the most embarrassing of ways as you do. “I’m sorry, okay?!”

Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears, you want to rip your hair out just to make it stop. Debating if you should just sock yourself in the head, so maybe you’d feel anything but this rage that washes over you in tsunami-like waves, you close your hands into fists.

“Don't even think about it.” You hear him mutter and before you know it, Yoongi is standing in front of you, grabbing you by the wrists. He pulls both your arms upwards and pins them against the wall above your head, his frame dangerously close, now pressed against yours. You gasp and writhe in his hold, but it’s no use, he’s so much stronger than you, your efforts don’t even seem to phase him. 

“Stop,” he hisses while taking both of your wrists into one hand, still holding them up over your head, his other palm now flat against the wall next to your face. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Like you give a fuck,” you spit back, hot tears brimming on the edges of your eyes.

He chuckles, a dejected sound and his lips curl into a filthy half-smile before he answers, “I do not but I’m going to have to use my powers to either restrain you or heal you when you’ve managed to crack your fucking head open, so stop.”

The tears spill over. Pathetic and unable to stop them, you let out a whimper before taking a deep breath. He’s so close that you can smell him. Clean, fresh and all encompassing. The warmth of his chest bleeds into your shirt from how tightly he’s squished against you and you can’t help yourself from staring at his lips.

“You’re pissing me off so bad,” he says and pulls you out of the moment while looking at your tear-streaked cheeks. He brings his hand to your face and wipes one away with his thumb. The touch of his finger brushing against your face is soft, unlike the sharp edge to his voice when he hisses, “Stop fucking crying.”

How are you supposed to control anything your body does in this state? It’s like your basic instincts have taken over. Another tear rolls down, meeting the tip of his thumb on the apple of your cheek and you’re afraid he’s going to think you did it on purpose.

“I’m sorry,” you huff out. “I’m sorry, okay, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not usually like this. It’s this fucking place that’s driving me insane because all I see when I look outside is darkness and flames, constantly reminding me that I am, in fact, in hell.”

“Is that all?” he asks like you bore him with your explanation, only noticing it when you roll your eyes at him. “No, I mean it. Is that all that’s tormenting you?”

You know exactly what he’s getting at, averting your eyes until he squeezes his hand on your wrists once. “Of course that’s not all, Yoongi,” you admit, feeling your cheeks grow warm. “You know damn well that I’m so fucking horny every night and nothing I do is helping.”

“So?” he asks as he removes his hand from your face and leans in even closer, not considering for a second to look away. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Your cheeks burn, breaths go short and now that he’s asking you about the one thing you’ve been thinking about for days, you’re too embarrassed to answer him honestly. 

“You want to get fucked?” The question is simple and he purrs it into your ear like there’s no need to care if it’s lewd.

Still lost for words, you nod once, but only with a tiny movement of your head, indignantly admitting to your desperation.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Say it.”

God, he’s not going to make this easy. 

“Yeah,” you repeat quietly.

“By whom?”

Your mouth falls open at the question. He’s not serious, is he?

“Jeongguk? Tae?” he begins. “If I’d asked them they’d be here in a minute. Even Jimin would come running, I guess.”

A slight shake of your head makes him smirk. 

“No? Who else then?” he wonders out loud, playing dumb to spite you. “Me? You want me to fuck you?”

Another nod, this time even fainter than before and you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Say it then,” he demands. “Out loud.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter as you press your thighs together and feel how ridiculously damp your panties are, unable to believe he’s asking you to speak it into existence.

“God’s not here,” he chuckles with his voice low. “Only me.”

Still trapped in his clutches, your hands begin to ache while your heart is racing even faster than before. His eyes stare into yours, brows quirked in expectation and you finally give in. “I want… I need you to fuck me, Yoongi.”

“Good,” he nods once, releasing your wrists to grab you by the waist. His other hand comes up to your face again, thumb wiping away another tear and he closes in further, lips brushing over your other cheek. He kisses the tearstreaked spot gently and pulls back, catlike eyes tinged with something soft and much harder to grasp than his previous expression, while his mouth glistens from a salty drop. He snaps out of it quickly, shakes off whatever thought he might have had and replaces it with a sneer.

The grip on your waist tightens as he presses against you fully now, and you can hardly believe it’s finally happening. His lips land on yours with certainty, slotting between yours in a way you’ve never felt during a first kiss. He’s not exactly rough, but decisive. He controls the pace and the moment his tongue slides in, your eyes roll back on their own, body tingling all over. 

His breaths quicken when you dare to put your hand to the back of his head, to hold him close, scared he might change his mind and leave you high and dry. Fingers digging through the long dark strands, you feel him lean into you, already hard beneath his boxers.

His hands wander south as he pulls you against him, grabbing your ass tightly and making you yelp into his mouth. The touch is firm and it takes a second for your brain to fully grasp his warmth and the way he holds you against him. Not like he’s doing it out of pity, no, like he wants you just as much.

Yoongi turns around and brings you with him, leading you to walk backwards until the edge of the bedframe digs into your calves. Your legs are already wobbly in anticipation and he keeps you from sitting down with an arm around your middle. Reaching for the hem of your shirt, he pulls it off over your head, leaving you only in your panties and he takes a second to look at you, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. When his eyes scan your underwear he breathes out a quiet huff and you decide not to mention why you’re wearing more fabric than he obviously anticipated. Perv.

You start pulling at his shirt as well and he complies, taking it off and letting it fall to the ground beside him. He has broad shoulders that usually stay hidden beneath his clothes, a scattered scar bulging around the right one, reaching almost to his collarbone. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, not overly chiseled but still with a noticeable substance to it. You reach out for him subconsciously as your eyes trail further down, across his taut stomach, which has the tiniest layer of fat just below the navel. He looks solid and soft at the same time, just the right amount of toned and perfect for a cuddle afterwards, weren't he a literal demon from hell.

He steps closer and puts his knee on the mattress before you can observe him further, causing you to let yourself fall back onto the bed where you shift to the center. He’s following close behind, hands around your waist again and lips on yours while he spreads your legs with his thigh and his chest is pressed against your tits. 

Yoongi kisses down your neck, although it feels more like he’s biting you as he moves, teeth scraping while his lips suck on your skin, leaving marks without a doubt. His fingers are long and less calloused than you would have guessed, you notice as his hands glide up to your tits, squeezing them roughly before his mouth closes around your nipple, making you yelp when he nips it, a satisfied grin on his face before he repeats the action on the other one.

“Fuck,” you gasp as you helplessly clutch his shoulder. “Please.”

“Please what?” he asks once he detaches from your chest.

“Please touch me.” 

You’re still afraid he’s only playing with you, that he’s just here to break you and make you go fully insane by riling you up until you can’t take it anymore. He’s in no mood to tease though, obviously aware of how much you need it right now, so he must have decided to be a saint instead of a sinner for once. His hand wanders down between your legs, like you asked him, and he puts his palm flat against your core, cupping you and pressing the wet fabric against your skin in the process.

“You like it when I’m mean, huh?” he groans while feeling you out. “You’re fucking soaked for me.”

It’s not like you weren’t soaked for the past three nights too, but you let him have it. You open your mouth to respond but he decides to move his hand at the same time, pressing the heel of his palm harder against your clothed clit in circular motions, eliciting a moan from you instead. 

“I didn’t think you’d had it in you to be nice anyway,” you pant back. There’s just something about being bratty with him that makes this situation even more intense. 

“Oh, I can be so nice,” he says while demonstrating the complete opposite by yanking your panties off you like a barbarian, throwing them away somewhere over his shoulder, as if the piece of fabric had personally slighted him. He’s not meeting your eyes, apparently only able to stare at your spread legs beneath him and leans in to lick and suck his way down your stomach, squeezing your tit once more while he mumbles to himself, “If you knew how nice I could be, you would’ve come crawling to me sooner.”

He settles with his head between your legs, still not over his soliloquy. “This is how nice I could be,” Yoongi whispers as he leans down and places a single, soft kiss on your clit that makes you shudder and gasp. His eyes snap up to yours, brows suddenly furrowed when he goes on, “But you don't want nice.” 

With that said, he spits on your cunt with a sharp snap of his chin, entirely obscene compared to his words from a few seconds ago. 

“Isn't that right?” he rasps, waiting for you to confirm. 

“Yeah, I don't want nice right now,” you tell him as you grab him by the hair and push his head down.

He chuckles against your core but still obeys, his tongue twirling across your clit in rough circles. Fucking finally, this already feels so much better than your own hand, making you sigh from relief with your head thrown back and your toes curled. 

Yoongi groans against your skin when he tastes you, pressing his face harder into you as his lips trail down, his nose teasing across your sensitive spot with the movement. He licks at your entrance and pushes your legs further apart as his hands glide up the backsides of your thighs. A moan escapes you when his tongue pushes inside and he shakes his head slightly, rubbing his nose all over you. 

Shit, even this small bit of foreplay is making your head spin. It feels like you haven't been touched in a decade, parched and dying of thirst. And now, after an eternity of longing, someone reaches out their hand to aid you. Well, to be fair, it’s not his hand that’s aiding you, it’s still his tongue. His glorious tongue that jabs and thrusts and rolls across you, now back at your clit, circling it once before he closes his lips around it. He looks up at you and you can tell he’d be grinning if he weren’t otherwise occupied, sucking lightly while his tongue passes over you in harsher licks.

“God, fuck,” you breathe out, voice strained while pulling him even closer by the hair, making him groan again. “Just like that, please don’t stop.”

Never have you been so close this quickly. It's never taken this little before, but the outright desire that this place has cursed upon you makes your belly tighten already. Yoongi does what you asked him to and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change the pressure or speed but keeps on working you to the finish line with a slight wiggle of his head that’s only increasing the feeling. And just like that, you’re tipping over. Your fingers tighten in his hair, hips stuttering and legs clutching his head between them while you breathe out a moan of so much relief, it almost sounds like a sob. Your lungs burn as you gasp for air over and over, torso convulsing while Yoongi keeps eating you out until you have to push him away. 

You fall back with your chest heaving, blinking dumbly like you were hit over the head with a frying pan and just stare up at the ceiling until Yoongi’s face appears above you with a shit-eating grin plastered across it. Ugh, he knows exactly how good he is, doesn't he? You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so awestruck. 

“Better, huh?” he asks, that fucking smug demon.

You nod while still catching your breath and almost reach out to touch his cheek. Remembering where you are and who you’re with though, you opt to lay your hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. That was-”

“Good, I know,” he finishes the sentence for you. “Incredible even, I’d say. But not enough, right?”

As always, unfortunately, he’s right. The orgasm really took the edge off and potentially saved yourself from going mad but there’s more arousal building inside of you already. It’s like he stirred and woke up a monster that’s even hungrier than before, yanking on its chains within you. 

“Right,” you agree with an effort not to grit your teeth at him. 

“I know, I know.” Yoongi slips between your legs, then moves your hand off his shoulder and guides it to his crotch. He’s still in his boxers when he presses your palm against his erection and the contact makes your breath hitch. He’s thick and so, so hard and oh.

“You asked me to fuck you,” he tells you with a groan when you tighten your grip. “Begged me, if I remember correctly.”

“Don't push it,” you say against your better judgment. His balls are way too close in reach for him to act so high and mighty. 

He chuckles and shakes his head but immediately tenses up when you begin to palm him over his trunks. “You still want it then?” he asks as he leans in to kiss down your neck. “Still need me to fuck you?”

“You’re never going to let this go now, huh?” you ask while he’s practically rutting against your palm, the fingers of your other hand tangled in his hair again. 

“Nope,” he answers with an audible grin before he sucks another bruise into your skin. 

“Well, do it then,” you tell him while pulling his head up, fingers woven into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

His lips curl into a smirk and he cocks his head to the side as he presses his groin against you. “I will if you ask for it nicely. Like you did before.”

You shut your eyes, ashamed again, and squeeze your lids together while trying to come up with the least humiliating way to beg for it. Not for long, as Yoongi brings your hand up to his face, putting it there so you cup his cheek. 

“Hey,” he whispers, softer now, before grinding his hips against yours and making you sigh. “You want it?”

“Yeah,” you nod, now looking back at him. 

He leans in for a kiss, plump lips brushing over yours and his tongue sweeps into your mouth while he continues to rock against you. He still tastes like you and spreads your arousal across your palate until you feel like you might combust from pure greed, fingertips digging into the skin below his ear. 

“Please,” you gasp against his lips. “Please fuck me.”

He smiles, content with your plea. “Okay.”

Leaning back, he slips out of his boxers and you can’t help but stare at his cock that's leaking a bead of precum at the tip. You’ve felt that he’s thick but seeing him with your own eyes, painfully hard for you with a patch of nicely trimmed, dark hair above, makes your mouth water. 

“I don’t have any condoms,” he says while lazily stroking himself. “But I-”

“I know,” you interrupt him, impatient as you are. “The others told me. You’re all immune and can’t… reproduce, I guess?”

He nods, slightly confused. “What the hell have you been talking about while I was out?”

“The usual,” you shrug and he quietly laughs before he leans back down. 

Oh, he’s back on business now, kissing you harshly, all teeth and tongue, while he pushes his hips forward and rubs his tip up and down your dripping core. 

With one hand planted on the mattress next to your face and the other one still on his dick, he lines himself up and pushes inside in one deep thrust that forces all the air out of your lungs. The sudden stretch makes your walls contract around him, squeezing him tightly and he throws his head back with his eyes closed, exhaling a grunt through gritted teeth.

“Fuck,” he mutters while pulling his hips back, just to drive them forward with force again. “I guess that was for messing up the room.”

“You guess?” you ask, half laughing, half moaning from how he keeps thrusting into you.

“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore,” he pants while leaning back. He’s upright on his knees now and grabs your calves, pushing them up so your thighs are pressed against your stomach. “You’re too tight for me to remember what I should punish you for.”

Punish? Nevermind, any possible answer gets wiped from your brain as his dick drags back and forth inside of you, making you unable to form anything resembling a coherent thought. His hands are still at the fronts of your calves, grabbing them tightly while finding a rhythm that threatens to make you come again, embarrassingly, at the speed of light.

You hiss when his thumb presses against the cut on your shin, from where the shard nicked you earlier. Yoongi slows to a stop at the sound and looks down at your leg, his finger having reopened the dried up crust and he frowns at the sight as a fresh drop of blood coats the tip of his thumb. “You hurt yourself?”

“Just a little,” you tell him. “Accidentally. It’s nothing, really.”

He hums, an unappreciative sound, as he lays his palm flat over the area. Your skin tingles, the spot gets warm for a moment and if your eyes don’t betray you, you see a flicker of light spark up right where you’re injured. When he lifts his hand the cut is gone. Sealed completely without a trace, like it was never there. Even the bit of blood is gone. 

With wide eyes, you stare up at him as he pulls out of you, whimpering at the loss. “How did you-”

“Magic fingers,” he mumbles, wiggling the digits for emphasis. He’s moving up the mattress, towards your face, until he settles to kneel beside your head. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, still looking up at him, making sure to look him in the eyes and not to stare at his big cock like a dumb bitch, even though it's close enough to tempt you to reach for it. 

“Don't thank me yet,” he sneers while he brings those magic fingers to your lips. “Open.”

You do, feeling saliva pool below your tongue at the mere thought. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, coating them with your spit and you wrap your lips around them and roll your tongue across the pads, making him sigh before he pulls them back out.

He moves closer to your face then, his erection right in front of your eyes while he reaches out his slicked up hand to play with your pussy. Pushing his cock down at the base at the same time as he parts your folds, he looks down at you. “Now lick it clean.” 

Your eyes fall shut the second he pushes two fingers into you but you quickly pry them open so he won’t stop moving. With one arm on the mattress, leaning halfway up on your elbow, you reach out your other hand to grab and angle Yoongi’s length and do what you were told, licking a thick stripe from base to tip while looking up at him through your lashes. His lips are pulled into half a smirk, slightly agape as he watches you, his right hand working slowly in and out of you with two outstretched fingers while his other one finds its way to the back of your head, gripping your hair. 

You keep going, licking your arousal off of him, letting out a moan with every other breath, anytime he hits a particularly good spot. He seems to like what you’re doing, judging by the way his chest rises faster and his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he curls it between his teeth. You poke your tongue out and let it brush against the underside of his tip, opening your mouth to invite him in.

“Shit,” Yoongi curses under his breath at the sight, then says, “So you decided you’re gonna be good now that I’m giving you what you wanted?”

You nod while running your tongue over his frenulum again, making him hiss and he pushes your head forward. “Then keep being good and I’ll take you to heaven.”

Your lips stretch around him as he enters your mouth and you do your best to keep up and hollow your cheeks when he suddenly curls his fingers inside of you at the same time as he hits the back of your throat. With your eyes rolling back, you suppress a gag. Instead another moan sounds from your lungs when he pulls his hips back slightly, giving you access to swirl your tongue around his tip. 

“Fuck yes,” he breathes out. “Look at me.”

You have to be good like he said, he promised you heaven after all. So you do, locking your gaze with his as your legs begin to shake when he keeps curling his fingers while he thrusts in. He’s going slow and doesn't push back as far as he did at first, giving you time to get used to the feeling and relax your throat while his fingers on the back of your head tighten around your hair. 

“Just like that.” The praise goes straight to your pussy while his thumb brushes over your clit. “You can take more, right? Tap my thigh if you need me to stop.”

You hum around him in agreement, bobbing your head up and down his length while looking at him. He grins while pushing his hips forward, hitting the back of your throat again and your body tenses at the feeling. The coil in your belly tightens from how he fingers you so diligently, having found a spot that makes you twitch each time he reaches for it. There’s pressure building down there, an unfamiliar feeling, like something you need to hold back and you feel your muscles locking up. 

“Shh,” he coos. “Relax.”

You pull off him, gasping for breath and shaking your head while he keeps thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “I can't, I… I think I have to-”

“It's fine,” he reassures you, running his thumb over your lower lip before guiding his tip back into your mouth, still working you up with his other hand, fingers curling, thumb circling you in feather light strokes. “Just let go.”

The pressure keeps building while he pulls your head further towards his groin, your nose almost touching his pubic hair and you whimper around him, not knowing how to deal with the feeling between your legs. You try to hold it back, you really do - this is going to be a mess if you won't. Your hip stutters when the pad of his thumb presses down on your bud harder and you almost cry out. 

“Let go, come on,” he insists. “Give it to me.” 

There’s no use in holding it back now anyway, not when he plows in and out of you at the rate that he does, pulling your head down his cock one more time, so deep you almost choke, before he pulls out entirely and you only suck in a breath of surprise. 

His eyes are fixed on the spot between your shaking thighs where his hand is working with an unrelenting effort, building this tension that threatens to make you explode. 

Fuck, it's too much, you can't keep it in if he keeps going. A low whine soars from your lips as you clench your lids together and the wave of pleasure erupts from somewhere deep inside. Too late now, your upper body curls, toppling over and there's no holding back now that the dam breaks. Liquid squirts out from between your legs while you come on his digits and you release a moan so broken and loud, you're sure it can be heard even up on earth. 

“There you go,” he tells you with a wicked sense of pride while you splash around his fingers, stroking his own ego as well as your sopping pussy. “That's what I thought.” 

He gives you one last pump before retracting and lays his hand flat against your core, leaning over you while feeling you throb against his palm. “First time?”

You blink at him with drops of whatever just fountained out of you sticking to the inside of your thighs and possibly everywhere else in this room. The mattress and sheets are definitely soaked. Slowly coming back to your senses and still breathing heavily, you nod while propping yourself up on your elbows. “What the hell, I didn't even know I could do that.”

He chuckles and brings his soiled hand up to his face, waving it for emphasis. “Told you they're magic,” he says before licking off your remnants from the tips of his pointer and middle finger. 

You shake your head but before you can even think of what to respond he grabs your ankles and pulls you down the bed, right across the wet spot that you left there. He flips you over so you're on your stomach, legs half dangling over the edge. 

“One more,” he mutters, kneading the flesh of your ass cheeks while planting his feet on the ground behind you. 

You feel spent, the surprise squirt having thrown your body and soul for a loop. “I don't think I have another one in me,” you say more to yourself than anything because in contrast to your words, you're already pushing your traitorous butt up towards him. 

“Yes you do,” he answers with a sharp slap to your cheek while lining himself up. He pushes in, your aching walls clenching around him, already puffy and a bit sore from how hard he made you come and you let out a sigh when he puts one hand on your lower back to hold you in place. 

He moves slow but rough, letting you feel every inch of him dragging in and out and you grip the linen next to your face to have something to ground yourself with. He’s pushing air out your lungs with each thrust, mewl after desperate mewl sounds out your mouth and off the walls as he’s picking up the pace. 

He feels so good, how the fuck does he still feel so good? He promised you heaven and you begin to fear he’ll really go through with it because your mind can already hear the faint ringing of the bells and you might be seeing the pearly gates sooner than later if he keeps this up. 

His hand is placed in your hair, fingers grabbing you by the roots and pulling your head up closer to him. He leans in and sternly whispers into your ear, “I said one more.”

Ah, he’s changing the angle now, plowing into you and reaching a spot that's even deeper than before, making your legs quiver. 

His other hand reaches for yours and guides it between your legs with his fingers pressed above your own, leading your movements across your clit. 

“Come on my cock,” he orders, then groans so deeply you can feel the vibrations in your stomach. 

His hips snap hard against your ass, fingers still guiding yours in quick circles while his other hand tightens on your roots, pulling your face right next to his. You're a goner when he bites into the curve of your neck and you can't believe he was right - another orgasm crashes through your veins like lightning, making you gasp and your legs give out. He’s holding you up, having replaced his grip on your hair to now holding you by the waist, pressing your back against his sweaty chest while you milk him, pussy throbbing around his length in erratic pulses. A tear runs down your cheek at the same time as another wave of unstoppable cum squirts out between your legs. He pulls out with a moan and you fall forward but roll onto your back with what seems to be the your last bit of energy. 

“Gonna come.” Yoongi looks down at you, jerking himself off with his mouth hanging open. “Where?” he asks urgently, looking across your body. 

“My tits,” you tell him, straightening up a bit and he steps closer without missing a beat. 

The sound he makes as he throws his head back is so guttural and wrecked, you know it’ll be cemented in your memory forever. He’s squeezing himself, moving his hand quickly and seconds after, hot spurts of cum land right on your chest. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, still working himself through it, releasing rope after rope of his load upon your skin, now looking at where it lands and reaches out his other hand to trace your nipple. “Shit, shit, shit, your fucking tits.”

With one last groan he turns and slumps down on the bed next to you, warm skin pressed to your side. Your eyes are heavy but there's a thick smile on your face that makes him chuckle when he notices. 

“You feel better?” he asks as he traces a finger across your chest and through his cum, then brings it to your lips. 

You hum in agreement as you lick it off, tasting him all salty and sweet before your head hits the mattress again. “Thank you Yoongi,” you breathe out with your eyes already closed. 

You hear him exhale a laugh and the mattress dips as he gets up and walks to the bathroom.

Almost asleep, your lids flutter open when something warm touches your chest. He’s cleaning you with a towel, wiping your upper body down carefully, then gently between your legs as well. 

He moves your limp body on the mattress, so that you lie down properly, with your head on a pillow and not on any wet spot, then covers you with a blanket. You reach out for him and pull him close, so his head rests on your shoulder and the last thing you feel before you fall asleep is his hand stroking your back. 

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A/n: z z z dont wake me up.. Thank you for reading :) How'd you like hell? Interaction in any form is highly appreciated, we'd be so happy to receive your feedback and if you're shy, feel free to send us an anonymous ask.

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

—

—

It’s morning when Jimin gets a call. 

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

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

Because waking him up is one thing. 

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

Min Yoongi: Incoming Call

Shit.

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

Thank the fucking stars. 

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

And it’s enough, enough, enough.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

“No need.”

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

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

“She’s still sleeping.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

“Mm.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You guys should get some sleep.”

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

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

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Got some things to do at the studio—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You serious?”

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

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

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

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

“Said I would.”

“I know.” 

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

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

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

Bits of sunlight dance right out of your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.” 

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

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

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

“You gonna get it checked?”

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

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

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

Oh. “You’re working today?”

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

Does his craft truly mean that much? 

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

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

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

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re stopped before your heart skips. 

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I take it back then.” 

“Damn!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, I wish.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t wanna leave his side. 

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

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

Why was that guitar smashed to pieces? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t.”

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

You might just cry where you stand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

Fuck, is he really gonna travel looking like that? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup, yup, uhh.. Yup.” 

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

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

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

“Yeah.. I know.”

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

“You mean Yoongi?”

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

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

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

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

“Why are you fighting so hard?”

“Why aren’t you fighting harder!”

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

“You think I’m not fighting for it?”

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

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

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

“Or do you.”

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

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

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

Oh. Fuck that. 

Doing to you? 

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

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

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

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

No no no, not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brother is valid in thinking that. 

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

Fuck, think. Just think before someone gets hurt. 

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

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

So chill the fuck out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn it. 

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

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

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

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

“No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pure. Utter. Relief.

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

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

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

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

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

This feeling is so fucking miserable, though. 

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

“Well, yeah.”

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

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

“Because of what happened, dude.”

You blink. “What… What happened?”

Your brother looks at you—really looks at you. 

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

“That bitch pulled something on us.”

Your heart. 

It’s in freefall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before Yoongi what? 

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

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

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

You can’t even breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No—”

“You almost—”

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

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

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

You feel so many conflicting things in your soul. 

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

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

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

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

“Okay.” 

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

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

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

Ah. 

The irony is not lost on you. 

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

God. You feel numb. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have to go?”

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no response to your sniffle. 

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

For a lot more reasons than one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chest caving as you collapse to the ground in tears. 

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

And again. 

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

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

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

And back again. 

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi [12:34pm]: 1 Attachment 

You close your door with brows furrowed. 

Yoongi’s at the hospital? 

That’s not what you expected at all. 

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

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

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

Fuck. 

You [12:34pm]: Loved an Attachment

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

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

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

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

“Hey.”

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

“Course. You going to Tae’s?”

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

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

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

“Everyone’s gonna know eventually.” 

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

“Like you’re hiding something.”

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

“Same.”

Wings beat around your heart again. 

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

“Thank you for going, baby.”

“The guys made me.”

You hum. “Which ones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, babe.”

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

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

“Did you convince him?”

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

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

“K. Bye, doll.”

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

“Talk soon.” 

—

—

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

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

Did Yuri tell her? Did Yuri tell anyone else? 

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

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

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

“What happened?” 

“Scared us half to death.”

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

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

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

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

Well. Almost everything. 

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

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

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

“Yup. He’s gonna murder him.”

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

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

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

Dom turns your way. “Official how?”

Well. Here goes everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi was the first to ever say them so sincerely. 

And that fact makes your ducts burn and burn. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell him what?” 

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

Fuck! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m gonna kill them myself!” 

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

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

Maybe both older siblings really are similar. 

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

“You’re coming over later, right?”

Oh, shit. Is he okay?

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

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

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

“…Can it be now?”

Shit. 

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

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

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

“Okay. See you there.” 

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind whirls. 

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

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

Now you really have to see him. Immediately. 

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

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

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

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

Both of your lungs clamp shut. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, he’s so handsome. 

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

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

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

“Baby, what’s—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. That’s… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. 

You need to get to the bottom of this now. 

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

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

Laughs? 

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

Your heart beats extra loud. 

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

Oh.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

“Fuck, ouch.”

“Shit, you okay?”

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

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

“Says who?”

“Babe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh? We’re not done yet.”

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

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

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

“Are you staying there to watch my ass.”

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

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

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

“Just like being where you are.” 

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

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

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

“I’m down.”

“K.”

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“Huh?”

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

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

Both of you sit in silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s got a point. “Guess not.” 

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

“Fuck, really?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you talk about a much better subject, 

“We should feed my cat now.”

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

—

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umm. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh? Sugar? 

Who else knows the cat’s name already?

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

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

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

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know!”

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

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

Wait. 

Is Yoongi Sugar? 

That is so fucking cute you could cry. 

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

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

“Nothing to worry about.” 

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

“It’s all good—”

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

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

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

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

“Papa Sugar? Really?”

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

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

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

Patience, patience, patience. 

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

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

—

—

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

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

“Where’s your keys.” 

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

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

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

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

That’s not another key for you to borrow.

Because that key is yours.

—

—

continued in angel, pt. 2

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

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

A fun, dirty way of paying tuition and helping your boyfriend with bills, but you make sure no one at school or in your group of friends knows you're doing it. What started out as you fucking around with your best friend selling feet pics when you were high and bored, you quickly became sucked in by the lure of attention and monetary rewards for showing your naked, anonymous body to paying strangers online. You've been building a subscriber list for a couple years now, promoting yourself on Instagram with raunchy, teasing selfies and videos, under the pseudonym ‘Misty.' Usually, a blunt would be sitting between two fingers to help you get through the tediousness of blurring your faces and photoshopping out your tattoos, but it's been a while since your boyfriend has paid a visit to his dealer.

You met your boyfriend during the final half of your senior year of undergrad, in an elective for web design. He was sweet, always showing up to meet up right before class, hanging around after to walk you back to your dorm. You studied together, pulled all nighters in the library, and after a party celebrating the end of midterms, you went back to his dorm and he fucked you to sleep. Maybe you didn’t have too much in common, maybe he could be a little inattentive at times, forgot to call you when he said he would, relied on you to plan out dates, but he showered you with flowers and small gifts, paid every time you went out, drove you around whenever you needed a ride. If you argued, he was quick to cave and apologize or compromise. He filled in the lonely gaps in your life. And the sex was nice. Okay, maybe he rarely went down on you and you’ve given yourself harder and faster orgasms than he managed to pull out of you, but he usually made you come at least once, which was more than you got from previous partners. And he was good at aftercare and always ended up spooning you in his sleep. Things were good.

You always felt a little bad for not telling him about your Only Fans account, only because you worried that he, like any other guy, would get upset and end up spilling your secret to his friends, destroying your reputation. You thought about giving it up, but the little odd jobs you found around campus were not enough to support you, so you kept doing it.

Close to your six month anniversary, your shitty apartment flooded and destroyed a ton of your valuables, and he let you crash for a while. After finding out that your apartment was moldy and uninhabitable, he offered for you to just move in with him. A little soon in the relationship to be taking this step? Yeah, but you had nowhere else to go. Your best friend, Ana, just moved in with her beefcake boyfriend, and you didn't want to impose. And your boyfriend said that you didn't have to pay rent while you got back on your feet. 

It was then that you decided to come clean.

At first, a little light in his eyes died, and he seemed to be very uncomfortable, which you understood. But after assuring him that you obscured your identity and sharing how much you made, he became more open to the fact. 

The first time you let him watch you set up your phone on the tripod and record content, he sat in his gaming chair as you knelt on the bed, and slowly peeled off your skimpy robe. You felt a little nervous under his scrutinizing gaze, so you left your lingerie on and kept things rated R instead of your usual rated X. You willed yourself not to look past the camera at him as you teasingly rolled your hips and massaged your breasts, murmuring “You like that?” and other dirty talk to the screen.

“How far do you go?” he asked, clearing his throat when you turned around to wiggle your ass, showing off your brand new thong.

“I take off everything and play with myself a little.”

“Do you come?”

“Sometimes.”  You often made so much content that it became harder to get yourself in the mood, but you always played it up for the camera. He’d never know that you occasionally use those tactics with him. He got up, erection straining in his sweats, and met you by the edge of the bed, looking down at you with lust in his eyes you’d never seen before. 

“Do you think you’d make more money if you had someone to fuck you?”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

He smirked, grabbed your face, kissed you, and fucked you as if the camera wasn’t there. When you watched the video again, he seemed to be so turned on by it that he gave you another couple rounds. And from it, you received a stream of new subscribers, even more on Instagram when you posed together for faceless pictures - you sitting or kneeling on the bed, him standing dominatingly beside you, holding your cheek, your throat, like he wanted the whole internet to know you were his. Your subscribers ate it up.

And then it became a routine. You worked your part time shifts at the off-campus cafe, he at his office job, went to your classes, and then on the weekends tumbled around in the sheets with the camera rolling. Money steadily increased in your shared savings account and you became more comfortable working less hours so you could focus on your studies, however unenthused you might be about your degree. 

As the weeks went by, he started taking you out less on dates. Maybe because he took on more hours at work, and since you lived together, he saw you all the time, so he’d rather hang out with his boys on his days off. (Friends that he never brought over, and a part of you wondered if it had something to do with you.) He still made time to record content, but only after he finished streaming his game on Twitch. Although you’d never bring it up to him, worried you might disturb this groove you’ve become accustomed to, the spark you once had fizzled a little. Sex started to feel less about intimacy, and more about a couple trying to make a couple bucks. But you’d be dumb trying to fix something that’s not completely broken. So you make yourself enjoy the moments he’s affectionate with you when the camera isn’t on. Even if you’re the one seeking him out.

You know he had a rough time at work last week, which is why you didn’t make a fuss about why he didn't invite you to his basketball tournament out of town. It is nice to have time alone, but without someone to talk to, you feel yourself becoming lonely. You owe it to yourself to have a self-care night, so as soon as you finish editing, you’ll hop in a warm, bubbly bath.

After making the final edits and watching it through on mute a couple times to make sure you didn't miss blurring anything, you upload it to your account. You think this one will roll in quite a bit of cash, as you recorded multiple angles of your boyfriend fucking you from behind fast and rough and lewd, expelling loud moans and borderline cries from you. Some of your sounds are exaggerated and porn star-y, but it seems to appeal to your viewers, as you received tons of extra tips in addition to comments and DMs on your Instagram.

You spend a long time in the bath and once you're done, you order takeout, put on a soothing face mask, and settle in on the couch again to watch a movie. While you wait for your food to cool, already bored, you log back into Insta to check for feedback and requests for a subscription or access to a more exclusive level of content. A string of message threads has flooded your DMs, and you’re about to shut off your phone and deal with them later when a new message pops in. Your eyebrow raises. This one has an actual picture in the icon. And a real username - dj gloss.

Who the fuck is this guy??? You click onto his profile, and you’re taken to an unprivated page flooded with photo sets and reels featuring him. He's messaging you, an Only Fans creator, from his personal account? No one has ever DMed you like this, without hiding their identity behind a blank profile. “Tokyo” by Brockhampton plays on his most recent video of a POV shot as he glides around on a skateboard, wearing black vans and loose, ripped jeans, wires of earbuds hitting his chest as he makes sharp turns and casual flips of the board. All the while he lifts a joint in and out of the frame, smoke billowing around before being carried off by the wind.

Why do you find that so cool? Ugh! You should abandon this conversation now, but one, okay, two things has you curious and needing answers.

It should end there. But you've never had your attention snagged like this. You've never had a conversation with a stranger who pulled you in, made it easy to talk to. Maybe because the last time you spoke to your boyfriend was a couple days ago and your best friend has been too busy renovating her apartment to have time to hang out or chat on the phone, maybe because you’re bored and maybe because you’re tired, these are the excuses you go with to justify your continued scrolling through his profile. And seeing what this man is up to in his life, you can’t help but be intrigued. More videos and pictures of him skating, looking cool as hell, you zoom in one that more clearly shows his fake. He is not unfortunate looking. And he has a fucking piercing on his left eyebrow. You scroll on before your mind can wander to other places he might have piercings. He has pictures surrounded by groups of friends, of an adorable black cat (that's wearing a ruffled bowtie this guy can't be fucking real), and you get stuck on a thread of photos of him standing in front of a turntable, headphones on, facing an enthusiastic, jumping crowd. He's a DJ, too? How many side quests is this guy on?

It really should've ended there. But it doesn’t.

.

.

.

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In high school, there was this girl you knew who seemed to have unlimited amounts of it. She got straight A’s without even trying. When teachers pulled names for classroom chores, she always got the easy ones like sweeping or dusting, while you were, more often than not, stuck cleaning toilets. She didn’t even seem capable of having a bad hair day—her luck was that good.

You’ve always wondered what it would be like to live like that. Luck has never been on your side.

You’re no stranger to the humiliation of a humongous zit erupting on your forehead the day before yearbook photos, or your car breaking down the morning of an important job interview. Not to mention the countless instances of locking yourself out of the apartment, or spilling coffee all over yourself five minutes before work, or stepping directly into a puddle in shoes you just bought.

It certainly explains your dating life. Unlucky in love, much like everything else. 

And yet, you keep trying.

Your mom has always told you it’s one of your best qualities. Despite the way the universe insists on knocking you down, you never fail to pick yourself back up and keep going. 

Even when it hurts. Even when it feels pointless.

Still, these past few weeks have given you a new perspective. You wouldn’t say your luck is turning around, not quite, but you’re starting to feel stupid, dangerous things like hope—at least where your bedroom-related woes are concerned.

Yoongi told you he’d be there for you, that all you needed to do was ask and he’d come running, and you’ve been taking him up on the offer. Often. 

Which is to say, you’ve been having many, many, many orgasms. Ridiculous amounts, considering you were batting zero just a month ago.

It’s honestly surreal. You’ve spent so long convinced your body was fundamentally broken that every time Yoongi gets you off still feels nothing short of miraculous. It’s as if whatever weird cosmic curse has haunted your sex life since your late teens disappears entirely.

Which is why getting a text from your ex while you’re still sweaty and out of breath from three consecutive orgasms feels a little laughable. Not necessarily unlucky, but definitely ironic.

hey. found some of your stuff while cleaning. when do you wanna come grab it?

So, Sunday morning, you find yourself in the car, on your way to what’s-his-face’s place.

You honestly wish he would’ve just offered to drop your stuff off while you were at work. It would’ve been the kinder thing to do.

Because now that you’re actually in Yoongi’s passenger seat and your ex’s street is getting closer and closer, your stomach feels like it’s full of wet cement. 

“You can still back out,” Yoongi reminds you as he pulls up to a red light.

“No, I can’t.”

“You literally can. Watch.” He breaks his 10-and-2 to gesture at the road ahead of him. “I’ll just keep driving.”

Your hands twist nervously in your lap. You recognize what he’s trying to do, and normally, it’d work. At the very least, it would get a laugh out of you. You’re just not feeling it.

“No, I want my stuff back,” you say quietly. “It’s okay.”

Yoongi glances at you from the corner of his eye. You can practically see him weighing whether to keep pushing or leave it alone.

Thankfully, he chooses the second option.

“Okay,” he says simply. The light turns green, and the car rolls forward.

When he finally parks on the street outside the building, you don’t make any immediate move to get out of the car. You just stare out the window with dread usually reserved for dentist appointments and funerals of distant relatives. 

A few months ago, you came here excited. Nervous in a good way. Hopeful. Now the building just looks cold.

You can see the window of his apartment from here, curtains half drawn. A succulent you bought together used to sit on the sill, but it isn’t there anymore. Which means you can probably expect to have it in your hands in a few minutes.

“You want me to come up?” Yoongi asks softly, breaking you out of your thoughts. 

Ha. Again, you appreciate the thought, but that would probably only make things worse. 

You shake your head, reaching to open the passenger door. “No. I’ll be quick, okay?”

“I’ll be here,” he says. 

You step out onto the sidewalk before you can change your mind, the car door closing behind you with a muted thump.

You walk inside, past the mailboxes, up the familiar flight of stairs because waiting for the elevator feels unbearable. Each step gives your brain another opportunity to reconsider, but you don't take it.

By the time you reach his floor, your palms are damp.

You stop outside his door and stare at it for a moment. Breathe once. Twice. Then you lift your hand and knock.

You’re greeted with your ex’s face less than a minute later.

For one awful second, your body reacts on instinct. A familiar face, familiar apartment smell drifting through the crack in the doorway, familiar posture leaning against the frame. Muscle memory tries to kick in before your brain catches up, and suddenly you’re vividly aware of how many evenings you spent standing exactly here kissing him hello.

The feeling dies almost immediately, because he looks as uncomfortable as you feel.

At least the suffering is mutual.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly.

“Hey.”

The interaction itself is painfully polite. Almost sterile.

He already packed everything into a cardboard box for you. A couple t-shirts. Your toothbrush from his bathroom. Some skincare products you forgot about. Movie tickets. Tiny remnants of a relationship reduced to clutter.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, once the hand-off is complete.

Ugh. You hate this. 

“Fine,” you say, adjusting your grip on the box. “You?”

“Good,” he says.

You nod. He nods. Nobody says anything. 

It's almost impressive.

This is someone you once spent entire weekends with. Someone you told stupid stories to at two in the morning. Someone who knew how you took your coffee and which side of the bed you preferred.

Now neither of you can sustain a conversation for more than thirty seconds. Funny how that works.

Your ex shifts awkwardly. "So..."

"So."

“I guess that's everything.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry it took so long to get it together.”

“It's fine.”

More silence. Then he rubs the back of his neck.

“Well,” he says. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” you say softly. Then you turn around and leave.

When you make it back to the car, you don’t say anything. You just buckle your seatbelt, cardboard box balanced on your knees.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks as he pulls back onto the road.

Good question.

You haven’t thought about your ex much since he dumped you. You weren’t with him for long, sure, but historically, you love to dwell. To pick apart every event that led up to the end, to catalogue all of your missteps so you don’t make them again. 

You haven’t had much time for any of that, with how quickly you fell into bed with your best friend.

Should you feel guilty for that? Maybe so. You don’t, not really, but you’re definitely feeling something. It’s weird, staring down at a neatly packed box of all of your memories with someone, no matter how long the relationship lasted, and knowing you’re the reason it ended. That it’s your fault you’re in this position. 

What’s-his-face is a nice guy. He liked you. He tried with you. 

And you failed, again. You couldn’t be what he wanted.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “That sucked.”

Yoongi hums sympathetically. “Screw that guy,” he says. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

You huff. It’s a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t really work in this case. You couldn’t screw that guy, and that was exactly the issue. He knows what he's missing and he’s perfectly fine not having it.

“He’s a nice guy, Yoongi,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over the box in your lap. “I was the problem. I always am.”

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly. “You’ve gotta stop talking about yourself like that.”

You turn your head towards him. “It’s true, though.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yoongi,” you say tiredly. “Come on. Think of all of the partners of mine you’ve met. You know I’ve never broken up with any of them? I’m always the one who gets broken up with. You seriously think that’s just a coincidence? Because I don’t.”

“I seriously think you just haven’t dated the right person.”

“How many more people do I have to date?” you snap. “It feels like I’ve been dumped by the entire population of Seoul! And I don’t blame any of them, Yoongi! Would you want to date someone who can’t fucking cum? I don’t blame them, because it’s probably insulting.”

Ugly as they may be, the words rush out of you with no hope of stopping them. A dam finally broken by years of erosion. Of heartbreak and frustration and too much time spent feeling horribly, disgustingly inadequate. Defective, like you told Yoongi before. Broken from the start.

Yoongi goes quiet. You suck in a shaky breath and, head in your hands, try to pull yourself together.

You didn’t mean to snap at him, but you’re just so tired of it all. You can only take so much of the whole ‘there are plenty of other fish in the sea’ thing. You get enough of it from your mom, from Jimin and Taehyung and Hoseok, from your fucking exes themselves sometimes. You don’t want Yoongi to bullshit you, too. Not when, for your entire life, he’s been the one person you can trust to be honest with you, no matter what.

“But you can,” he mumbles.

You lift your head. “What?”

“You can cum.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to respond to that. There’s no nice way to say ‘yeah, but practicing with you is different from the real thing’ without sounding like an asshole—not that you think Yoongi would care. 

“Look, can we just go home?” you ask instead. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Yoongi glances at you out of the corner of his eye for a moment, then sighs and redirects his attention to the road. “Okay.”

୨ৎ

When you get back to the apartment, you can tell the conversation isn’t actually over.

You both slip off your shoes in silence. Silence that continues as Yoongi sheds his jacket and hangs up his keys and you find somewhere to stow the box you came home with. But he’s being twitchy, and you can tell he wants to say something more.

It’s driving you crazy.

You shove the box in the corner of the living room to deal with later and whirl around to face him, annoyed.

“Whatever you’re thinking, just say it.”

Yoongi, who’s in the middle of adjusting the Dodgers cap on his head, freezes at the threshold of the living room, caught.

“Who said I was thinking anything?”

“We’ve known each other for how long?”

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he hesitates, which just annoys you even more.

“And now I’m saying spit it the fuck out,” you snap.

Yoongi’s been on the receiving end of your stubborn streak more times than he can count, so you know he knows better than to fight you on this. 

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face as his feet guide him a little further into the room. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he gathers his thoughts, clearly trying to choose his words carefully before they come out of his mouth.

Normally, you’d appreciate it, but right now it sets your teeth on edge.

“Look,” he starts after a moment, “it just pisses me off that you keep talking like there’s something, like, fundamentally wrong with you.”

You cross your arms defensively. “Well, up until about a month ago, I thought there was.”

“But there isn’t!” he says, gesturing wildly. “There’s nothing wrong with you! I mean, fuck, how many times do I need to make you cum before I finally get through to you?”

Oh, this really does piss him off.

You scoff. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“You want me to?” 

“Yes!”

“Fine. Your ex was a fucking loser.”

Wow.

You’re so stunned that you visibly back down, arms dropping limply at your sides. You didn’t exactly have a quippy response locked and loaded for that one.

Yoongi keeps going.

“You keep saying he was a nice guy,” he continues, “but nice guys don’t break up with their girlfriends over shit like that. Did he even try to talk to you about it before he decided making you cum wasn’t worth his effort? Did any of them?” 

The bluntness of his words hit like a slap, forcing your eyes down to the floor where you’re suddenly very interested in your sock choice of the day. 

Turquoise with yellow stars, and there’s a tear you didn’t notice in the heel of the left one. You can try to mend it, you think, but it would be so much easier to retire them entirely.

Hm.

“I hate the way you talk about your exes. Like they’re fucking saints for deigning to touch you or something. Because you’re so hard to figure out, right? You’re not.”

You look up from studying the hole in your sock. 

“You’re not hard to figure out,” he reiterates, stepping closer. “It only took me a few minutes, didn’t it?”

Something about the way he says that makes your face instantly hot. How, how, how does he sound so sure of himself? Of you? 

It’s baffling, maddening, completely unbelievable that he can think of this as anything other than a fluke. A product of sheer luck (his, not yours), or experience (again, his).

“Because I told you what I was into,” you try to reason.

“You really think I wouldn’t have figured it out anyway?”

“You’ve known me my entire life! Don’t act like you don’t have an advantage here.”

“No, I listened to you,” he says, jabbing his index finger at his own chest, repeating, “I listened to you. I paid attention. It isn’t rocket science.”

Your brow furrows. Suddenly, it feels like you’re talking about something else entirely. 

“I’m sorry, when did this become a competition between you and my exes?”

“It didn’t! It isn’t!” he insists. He’s pacing now, feet mapping the same semi-circle over and over. “I’m just sick of you talking about your past relationships like you were somehow the only one at fault for the way they ended. I don’t like seeing you punishing yourself for other people’s shitty behavior.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Because you’re the only one who’s supposed to be punishing me, right?”

At that, Yoongi stills. Looks you dead in the eye. 

“You know,” he says, his voice suddenly dangerously low, “maybe I should.”

You blink, eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights. Or maybe, more accurately, caught in the crosshairs. 

Oh.

“You aren’t serious,” you say weakly, because you were fucking joking. Or, at least, you think you were joking. 

But the look on his face tells you he doesn’t think shit is funny.

“I could be,” he says. “Maybe you fucking need it.”

Oh.

“What are you gonna do?” you weakly taunt. “Make me cum until I stop talking badly about myself?”

Yoongi tilts his head in consideration. 

“That’s an idea,” he admits. “But not quite what I have in mind.”

“No? Then what? You gonna spank me?”

Amusement flashes over his features, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek to poorly mask a smirk.

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “You’d like that too much, I think. Defeats the purpose.”

That just pisses you off even more.

“Well, are you planning on telling me anytime soon? Or are you just gonna keep me in suspense?”

“I’m kind of enjoying letting you run your mouth.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“See?”

You glare at him and he just stares back, so maddeningly calm that you’re the first to break, looking back down at your stupid socks.

You don’t know how he can even be so calm, how his head isn’t spinning like yours is. Only seconds ago, you were arguing. Something you and Yoongi don’t do that often to begin with. And then you opened a door, a door you didn’t even intend to open, a door that leads to… fuck.

Sexy landmines everywhere.

You’re not super upset about it, not really, but it’s a little pathetic, isn’t it? You shouldn’t fold this easily. You should have some dignity. 

“Who says I even want to do anything?” you mutter after a moment, because it’s the last line of defense you have. 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything for so long that you honestly think he’s going to back off. 

It would make sense. He’s a boundaries guy, he’s made that clear. And this is unfamiliar territory for you. Light reprimand for talking back or teasing during a scene is one thing, but what he’s suggesting? Full-scale punishment? 

Maybe he’s decided you’re out of your depth.

“Say it, then.”

At the sound of his voice, you lift your head, brows drawn together.

“What?” 

Yoongi shrugs. “Tell me you don’t want it. This all happens on your terms, remember? I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to.”

His gaze drags over your face for a moment, studying you. You’re sure there are a million tells in your expression, clear as day for him to catalogue, but you have no idea what they are. You wish you knew. You wish it were easier for you to hide how much you want him.

“But I think you do,” he adds.

You lick your lips. “What makes you think that?”

He closes the distance between you, and you barely fight off your urge to back yourself against the wall. 

On a normal day, Yoongi is about as threatening as a newborn kitten, poor eyesight and all. But whenever he gets like this, you feel your heartbeat in your throat. You feel like the defenseless animal.

You don’t know what it says about you, that you like it so much.

“You mean other than you giving me suggestions on how I should punish you?” 

He cups your jaw, littlest finger pressed firm against your carotid. You wonder if he can feel your blood rushing. 

“Very cute, by the way,” he murmurs, voice so low it practically vibrates through you. “You think I need suggestions?”

Fuck.

Your eyelids flutter. You can feel yourself slipping, your body swaying into his. Whatever magnetic pull exists between you in this moment is so much stronger than the weak dregs of defiance you pathetically try to scrape together.

“Shut up,” you breathe.

“Nuh-uh.” A light squeeze to your jaw draws your eyes to his again. “Do you want it or not?”

Your throat feels so dry. “I…” you start, but nothing else comes out.

“That’s funny,” he teases. “You seemed perfectly capable of using your words a minute ago.”

Your lips flatten into a line at his condescending tone, but you’re getting wet. You can feel it, and you like it, because you’re a sicko.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes. “Yes or no?”

“Fine,” you grit out. “Yes.”

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “I think you can be a little nicer than that, can’t you?”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

“You want me to say please?” you ask. “Seriously? You want me to plead with you to punish me?”

“I think the practice will do you some good,” he says with an infuriating shrug.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I just have a feeling you’re going to be saying it a lot in about…” he trails off, checking his non-existent watch, “five minutes?”

Asshole.

Complete fucking asshole.

But you did, quite literally, sign up for this. You can’t deny that you’re more than a little curious about what he’s got in store for you, although the circumstances of the whole thing are a bit strange.

“Please,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Will you please punish me?”

Yoongi looks so pleased with himself.

“Of course, baby,” he replies smoothly. “If that’s what you think you need.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Is your laptop in your bedroom?”

This conversation is just throwing you for a loop at every turn. You blink hard, shaking your head in confusion when you ask, “yeah, why?”

He nods his head towards the hallway. “Let’s go.”

And then suddenly you’re faced with his broad back through the fabric of his worn Supreme tee as he retreats down the hallway, just innately expecting you to follow.

Which you do.

Once inside, you tentatively grab your laptop from your desk and set it at the foot of your bed, although you still aren’t sure why you need it in the first place. The look Yoongi gives you, eyebrows raised as if to says, ‘well?’, prompts you to bend at the waist and open it up, but when the screen wakes and prompts you to type in your password, you glance at him over your shoulder.

“Is the laptop part of the punishment?” you joke. “Are you gonna smash it or something to teach me a lesson? It was expensive, you know.”

Yoongi snorts. “Are you gonna be a brat the whole time?” he counters. “You know you’re just making things worse for yourself, right?”

“I’m just making sure,” you defend with a smirk.

“Your laptop will be fine. C’mere.”

He gently grabs your wrist and pulls you to turn around and face him. Strong hands move to your hips, thumbs rubbing little circles just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“You understand what’s about to happen?” Yoongi murmurs. 

You have the urge to continue being a brat and prolong this just to annoy him, but your curiosity wins out. You want to know what he’s planning. 

Plus, if you had to guess, this is probably the last time he’s gonna be nice for a while. So you decide to soak it in and not piss him off any more than you already have.

“You’re gonna punish me for talking badly about myself,” you say.

“Uh-huh. But I need you to know just because it’s a punishment doesn’t mean you can’t say no,” he reminds you. “You’ve still got your safewords. You can use them at any time and everything will stop. Understand?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“I understand,” you say.

“Good girl,” he says. He grips the brim of his cap and pulls it off, running his fingers through dark locks before putting it back on, backwards this time. Then, he grabs your wrist. “Come here.” 

He pulls you closer and you follow willingly until your body is flush with his. Your arms instinctively wind around his neck, and he leans down to kiss you. 

Doesn’t feel like much of a punishment, but you aren’t complaining. Yoongi is a great kisser. Maybe the best you’ve ever had. It doesn’t matter if it’s slow and lush, like this one, or if it’s heated and frantic. You feel it all the way down to your toes every single time, without fail.

By the time he pulls away, his hands spread over the small of your back, you’re already breathless. His forehead presses against yours for just a moment, and then he takes a step back.

“Remember when you told me about the research you were doing? On BDSM?” he asks suddenly.

You nod, although your brow creases in obvious confusion. 

Haven’t you already covered this? You don’t see why it would come up again. Is he planning on punishing you by making you talk shit to death again? Because honestly, that’d be pretty evil on his part.

“Why?” you ask.

“Well, you told me a little about the sites you signed up for. Articles. Shit like that.”

“Yeah…” you say, waiting for the point.

“And, okay, I guess it wouldn’t be totally out of character for a Wikipedia rabbithole to turn you on,” he jokes. “But I have a feeling you were leaving some stuff out. Call it a hunch.”

Oh no. 

Ohhhhh no, you have a feeling you know where he’s going with this.

Warily, you ask, “what… what kind of stuff?” 

Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, his shirt stretching over the lean muscle hidden beneath. You try (and fail) not to stare. 

“You tell me,” he says.

“I have no idea.” You’re a lying liar who lies. 

“No?” he asks. “So you didn’t, say… watch any videos, during your research?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, ABORT MISSION! IS THIS WHY HE ASKED ABOUT YOUR LAPTOP???

“Like… like porn?” you stutter.

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Yeah. Like porn.”

Dread. Dread is what you’re feeling. Pure, unadulterated, put-your-heart-in-your-ass dread.

“I mean… I might’ve watched one…? But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Maybe I want to see it.”

FUUUUUUUUCK!!!

You laugh nervously, heat creeping up your neck. “Yoongi, no.”

“Why not? Are you embarrassed?”

Yes. “I mean… I probably wouldn’t even be able to find it,” you lie. Again. 

You’ve watched it countless times since that first night. The title is pretty much seared into your eyelids at this point. 

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “You’re a shitty liar. If you’re embarrassed, you can just tell me.”

You groan, annoyed. “Fine! I’m embarrassed.”

“Enough to use your safeword?”

Your lips part in sheer disbelief. 

Shit, he’s really on a roll tonight, isn’t he? You have no way of predicting what’s going to come out of his mouth next.

“I… no?” you finally manage.

Yoongi nods his head towards your laptop. “Prove it, then.”

Walking back over to your bed literally feels like walking the plank. You still don’t know what he’s planning, but whatever it is, you know it hasn’t even started yet. And you already hate every second.

You’re also soaking your underwear, but whatever! Whatever.

You bend down to finally unlock the screen fiddle with the trackpad as you pull up your browser (in an incognito tab, because you aren’t an animal). Meanwhile, Yoongi cages you in from behind, one hand braced on the mattress next to yours, while the other slides under your shirt to grope at your tits.

You try to type in the URL, and you get more than halfway through with immense effort, but your breathing picks up when he starts to tweak at your nipples, rolling the buds between his fingers. He kisses the back of your neck, openmouthed, and your thighs squeeze as another gush of arousal seeps into your panties.

“Focus,” he murmurs, and oh, you hadn’t even realized your eyes had closed.

He probably thinks you’re deliberately trying to prolong things, and if you had all of your brain power right now, maybe you would be. But you’re not. 

He’s just so…

You swallow hard, staring at the cursor blinking in the search bar as you fight for some composure.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and poise your hands to type again.

After a bit more effort, the garish site fills your laptop screen. Shame swirls in your gut as you locate the video, mingling with the pleasure-pain of him playing with your tits. You feel exposed, in more ways than one.

“There.”

Yoongi doesn’t even react. He just glances over your shoulder and asks, “want me to tell you what your punishment is?” 

“Please,” you pant.

He chuckles at how easily you say it as he gives your aching nipples a break to slip a hand beneath the waistband of your sweats. 

“You and I are gonna watch this video together…” He cups your pussy with his entire palm. It’s torture forcing yourself not to immediately grind down into the heat and pressure of it. “...While I play with this sweet cunt.”

Fuuuuckfuckfuckfuckfuckpleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

Pause. 

Wait…

 “That’s it?” you ask breathlessly, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment…”

Yoongi takes advantage of the position to capture your lips in a quick kiss. “I haven’t told you the rules yet,” he murmurs.

You swallow, already dizzy. “What are they?” 

Yoongi uses his free hand to cradle your cheek, kissing you again, this time with tongue. You know it’s probably a distraction, something to disarm you, but you don’t care. It’s working. He’s touching you, he’s kissing you, and you can’t get enough.

His hand moves from under your sweatpants and you whine at the loss, but then he’s turning you in his hold and kissing you deeper.

You only break apart so he can shove your shirt up and over your head until you’re bare from the waist up. Your sweatpants go next, along with your panties, pushed roughly down your legs until they’re tangled at your feet. He’s still licking into your mouth as he helps you step out of them, until all that’s left is your star-patterned socks. You take those off yourself.

When he finally completely pulls back, you’re naked in front of him. His hand slips between your legs, fingers parting your folds and gathering wetness, sliding up to circle your clit. Your knees practically turn into jelly.

“Ah, fuck—”

“Feels good, baby?” he rasps, hooking his free arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Mhmmm…” 

“You’ve gotta tell me when you’re close, okay? That’s your first rule.”

“A-ah, yeah,” you breathe, nodding enthusiastically. If he keeps doing that, it isn’t going to take long at all. “I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah?” His motions speed up enough to make your thighs shake from the force of it. “Gonna be good for me?”

“Yes!” You moan helplessly, pressing your face into the fabric of his shirt to dampen the sound.

“Promise?”

“Yes, fuck, I promise!”

“Good. ‘Cause your second rule is that you aren’t allowed to cum. Not until I say so.”

Eyes wide, your head jerks back so fast you swear you hear your neck crack. “What?” 

Yoongi doesn’t even falter. “You heard me.”

Oh, FUCK. That’s the punishment, then? 

A month ago, it would’ve made you laugh. In your mind, reaching orgasm wasn’t even in the cards, so the idea of holding one back? Unheard of. But you had a taste of it the night of the gala—when he almost made you cum just from playing with your nipples—and the memory is more than enough to know this is going to be fucking torture.

God, he’s good.

“Clearly making you cum whenever you want isn’t getting through to you,” he explains. “So maybe if I make you work for it, you’ll understand.”

“No, no, please,” you whine immediately, because he’s still rubbing your clit with terrifying precision and you’re already getting close enough that the threat feels real.

“This is the nice version, baby,” he coos, nipping at your neck. “Trust me, if you decide to break my rules and cum anyway, you’ll be getting a lot worse than that.”

Your stomach drops at the thought. You believe him. This is evil mastermind level punishment, so you don’t even want to know what his mind deems as worse.

“Are you gonna break my rules?”

“No,” you pant quickly. “I won’t.” And because you’re trying to prove it, you will yourself to admit, “I’m close.”

“That’s my good girl.” And then he pulls his hand away completely.

You make a broken sound at the loss, while Yoongi simply climbs onto the bed, settling back against the headboard with his legs spread comfortably.

“Sit,” he says, patting the space between his thighs.

You scramble onto the mattress immediately. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you against his chest so your body rests between his spread legs, the bare skin of your back pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt. Him fully clothed where you’re completely bare. You’re figuring out he likes it like that.

He reaches around you to drag your laptop closer.

“Show me,” he says, grabbing your hand and guiding it to the trackpad. Making you press play yourself.

Your body feels rigid as the familiar frames play out in front of you, the low voice of the dom filling your ears as the camera adjusts. Yoongi watching over your shoulder like this makes you so much more aware.

Fuck, now that you’re paying attention, this guy’s timbre is kind of similar to Yoongi’s…

And then the sub appears, bound to the headboard by her wrists, thighs forcibly held open by a spreader bar. There’s a needy, dazed look in her eyes as she squirms just at the idea of being used.

It bothers you that you can’t see Yoongi’s face. That you can’t tell whether he’s judging you.

You snap out of it when Yoongi’s hands ease your thighs apart. You hadn’t even noticed you’d closed them, probably unconsciously did so out of embarrassment. 

“Shy?”

“No,” you lie.

“Good,” he says, and then repositions you so your legs are draped over his spread thighs, making it that much harder for you to close them again. He gestures towards the screen, at the spreader bar locked around the woman’s calves. “‘Cause I’ll get you one of those if I have to.”

Your pussy clenches greedily at the thought. 

“You’re telling me you don’t have one already?” you ask.

You know if you keep mouthing off you’re bound to face consequences, but you can’t help taking such an easy shot. Plus, you’re genuinely curious.

Yoongi hums. “I prefer using my hands.”

OH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

His hand dips between your thighs, fingers lightly trailing over your slit. You twitch at the contact, releasing a surprised puff of air.

“Relax,” he murmurs against the back of your neck. 

How are you supposed to be anything other than tense in this situation? Humiliated, hopelessly turned on, actively being punished—that is not a recipe for relaxation! 

Still, you don’t talk back this time. You try to do as he says, even though every inch of your skin feels as if it’s on fire.

You lean back into the cradle of his body, inhaling deeply through your nose. Exhaling slowly. Allowing yourself to finally melt just the tiniest bit when Yoongi’s fingers gently relocate your throbbing clit.

“Good girl,” he coos. “Remember your rules?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“Gonna add another one,” he tells you. The hand not currently teasing you into madness snakes up between your breasts until he’s got a firm hold on your face, squishing your cheeks. He directs your attention back to your laptop screen. “You’ve gotta actually watch.”

Shit.

Right then, the man’s hand moves from the woman’s throat, rearing back to deliver a light slap to her cheek. A shiver runs down your spine. It’s exactly what you asked—begged—Yoongi to do to you the first time you were together, and now he knows where you got it from.

As if he can read your thoughts, the hand holding your face moves to gently pat your cheek, mimicking what you just watched. You gasp.

“Like that?”

Fucking obviously, you think. He knows that. But you bite it back, giving a jerky nod instead. The woman on your screen, much more courageous than you, begs to be fucked.

In response, the man delivers another slap, this time to her pussy. Yoongi’s hand on yours stops cold, and you go rigid all over again. 

“Like that, too?” he asks.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“Color?”

“Green,” you rush out.

“Answer me, then.”

You squirm in his hold, eyes still fixed on the screen. The dom has his cock out now, one hand wrapped around the base as he teases the tip up and down his sub’s cunt, drawing pathetic whines from her throat. She’s spread open so wide you can see the way her hole clenches and unclenches in anticipation.

“I think I do,” you admit shakily. “I don’t know.”

Yoongi hums, seemingly satisfied if the way his fingers continue their gentle rubbing is anything to go by. 

“Wanna find out?” he asks breezily.

You force yourself to set your shame aside, because yes. Yes, you want to find out. That’s what all of this is for, right? So you can try these things with someone you trust? So you nod.

Yoongi taps your cheek again, harder this time. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you pant. “I want to find out.”

“Mm.” The couple on your screen is fucking now, you notice. Hard not to, with the way the woman is wailing in pleasure. In relief. “Say ‘please spank my needy cunt, Yoongi.’”

Oh holy fuck!!! 

Is he serious? He can’t be serious, right?

“Yoongi,” you whine, wiggling your hips in an attempt to increase the friction on your clit and evade his request all at once.

“No,” he reprimands, swatting your cheek a third time. This one stings enough to make you moan. “Say it, baby.”

God, he’s cruel. You can’t believe he’s really making you say this shit, and you’re just!!! You like it! You like how it’s making you feel! 

“Please…” You swallow thickly. “Please spank my needy cunt, Yoongi…”

You feel Yoongi’s amused huff against your nape. “Cute,” he mocks. “You’re trying so hard to be good, aren’t you? You must really want it.”

There are so many things you want to say, but you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, meekly, you ask, “are you gonna…?”

“Spank your needy cunt?” Yoongi finishes smugly. All you can manage is a nod in response. “I’ll think about it.”

Record scratch.

“But—”

Whatever pathetic plea was bound to come out of your mouth is cut short when Yoongi’s hand dips lower, a single finger breaching your folds.

His laugh is fuller this time, throaty. “Shit, you’re squeezing me so tight, baby,” he rasps, dragging his finger all the way out just to thrust it back in so deep your eyes roll back into your head. “Does it feel that good?”

You’re so wet you can hear it, even over the sounds emanating from your tinny laptop speakers. Skin slapping. Ragged breaths. Their sex mixing with yours, completely at odds with one another. Yoongi is moving so slowly in comparison, dragging things out just to torture you. Punish you.

“Yes,” you pant, but you can’t help but squirm. You want more.

And thank god Yoongi has apparently been gifted the ability to read your fucking mind, because before you can even ask, another finger plunges in alongside the first. 

The angle is a little weird to start, the added intrusion throwing things off. But then you adjust your thighs, spreading them even wider where they’re hooked over his, tilting your hips up just a bit, and suddenly it’s perfect. 

“Fuck,” you moan, your eyes squeezing shut. Your head falls back against Yoongi’s shoulder, and the hand holding your face adjusts to rest lightly at your throat instead. “Please don’t stop.”

You feel his hum reverberate against your back, deep in his chest. He doubles his efforts, fingers fucking you a little faster in response, his shallow breaths tickling your ear and mixing with the slick sounds in the air. The hand at your throat squeezes, just a little. You don’t know if it’s purposeful, but it makes you moan all the same.

He’s too good at this. He’s right, it only took him a few minutes to figure you out. If there were some kind of competition to be won, he’d win it by a landslide. It wouldn’t even come close. 

Because now that you think about it, nothing you and Yoongi have done together has been too crazy, too far outside of the realm of what you’ve done with others. You’ve barely even scratched the surface of his scary-exhaustive list of Deviant Sexual Acts. You haven’t needed them.

He’s capable of getting so much out of you from so little. You guess you have his slut era to thank for that—which was, apparently, also the era where he learned how to fucking talk like he does. In that way that makes all the hair on your body stand up. 

You have to give credit where credit is due.

You feel like you’re burning up. Your muscles spasm as Yoongi’s fingers curl and rub at your inner walls, and when his thumb joins the mix to stimulate your clit in tandem, you realize with dread that you’re about to cum.

It’s kind of funny. You told him not to stop, and now you have to tell him the opposite.

Chest heaving, you moan, “think I’m gonna…” 

You hope that’s enough for him. You don’t really want to say anything at all.

In response, Yoongi—the bastard—has the audacity to laugh at you, breath puffing against the back of your neck. “Yeah, I could tell.”

The pumping of his fingers slows, and your orgasm slowly recedes. Which is enough to make you whine on its own, but it certainly doesn’t help that now that he’s worked you up so much, you’re unbelievably sensitive. Even the languid pace he’s set now is enough to have you squirming in his hold.

“Still good?” he asks.

“I kind of want to kill you.” 

He laughs again. “Mm. Are you tapping out?”

You stretch your neck awkwardly to give him a flat look. “Are you gonna let me cum anytime soon?” you counter.

“If I feel like you’ve learned your lesson, maybe.”

If he thinks you’re going to unlearn literal years of psychological bullshit just by denying you a few orgasms, he’s got another thing coming. It isn’t that easy. 

Still, you’re no quitter.

“I’m not tapping out,” you sigh. “I’m actively fantasizing about smothering you with a pillow, but I’m not tapping out.”

“Whatever works for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Green, go, get on with it.”

“Don’t be like that,” Yoongi murmurs, and you absolutely intend to continue being like that, but his lips find the side of your neck before you can, tongue laving over your pulse as his fingers continue to lazily pump in and out of you. Instinctively, you tilt your head to give him better access. “I’m doing this for a reason, baby. I’m not being mean just to be mean.”

His reason is stupid. He’s stupid.

“Your reason is stupid,” you mumble, although it’s half-hearted. Logic isn’t really on your side here. Everything feels so nice. 

“I don’t think so. You’re already proving my point, aren’t you?”

The hand at your throat slides down to grope at your chest, squeezing each breast once before settling in to tease his thumb over one of your nipples, still stiff and sensitive from earlier.  

You moan, hips wiggling to coax his fingers deeper, and Yoongi lets out a groan that sounds almost pained as he obligingly picks up the pace. You haven’t been able to see any of his reactions this whole time, forced to face away from him, so the audible evidence that he’s affected by this too—maybe just as much as you are—turns you on even more.

“You think something’s wrong with you?” he rasps, nipping at the shell of your ear and causing you to shiver. “‘Cause it doesn’t seem like it from where I’m sitting.”

You can’t help but preen openly at the praise.

“How could anything ever be wrong with you? Shit, I wish you could see yourself, baby. So pretty. So fucking perfect for me.”

All over again, you’re so wound up you’re about to cum. He says things with such certainty it makes it damn near impossible to doubt him, and the idea that he sees you like that? That he thinks you’re perfect like this? It’s a good thing your eyes are closed, because if you were to open them and make eye contact with him in any way, you’d be a goner.

“Yoongi, I—”

“I know, I know,” he soothes, clearly taking pity on you this time. But unfortunately for you, this time he backs off completely, withdrawing his fingers from your aching cunt. You can’t stand it.

“Please,” you beg, eyes wide as your neck strains to look behind you. “Please, please, please let me, I can’t—”

Yoongi shushes you, the tip of his nose brushing your temple. “Just a few more, yeah?” he says, pressing a kiss there. “You’re doing so good for me. You can take a little more.”

You don’t see how that could possibly be true, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. So, weakly, you nod your consent for him to keep going.

“You sure it’s okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you breathe, swallowing hard. “Green, just… mm, please touch me, Yoongi…”

“Fuck,” Yoongi grunts, shifting behind you and immediately snapping your attention to the thick press of his cock against your lower back. Fuck indeed. You’re going insane. “Think you can take it if I get a little rough?”

“Yes,” you whoosh out instantly, uncaring of how needy you sound. Suddenly, you don’t have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. “I can take it, I promise.”

He makes a low sound in his throat, and then, sudden enough to make you cry out, he grabs a fistful of your hair and roughly forces your gaze back to your laptop screen.

“Fuck—!” 

“Remember what I told you to do?”

You can barely think, let alone speak! Three denied orgasms, and now he’s switching up on you so fucking fast, like it’s as easy as breathing for him. You whimper and blink hard as you grasp at straws for any coherent thought.

“A-ah, um, you,” you gasp, licking your dry lips, “y-you told me to watch!”

“Were you watching?” he demands.

“Yes! I-I, fuck, I was trying—”

“Then try harder this time,” he says, and then he splits you open on his fingers again.

“Ah—!”

You don’t even try to bite back your sounds—it would be useless. Up until now, Yoongi has been relatively gentle. Coaxing. Teasing. Now, the pace he sets is cruel.

“Oh my god, Yoongi—”

Your hands fly to grip his forearm just for something to hold on to. If your body wasn’t so securely cradled in his, you’re sure you’d be careening off the mattress. 

“Shit, I fuckin’ love when you say my name like that,” Yoongi groans, but even as he praises you, his grip at your scalp tightens. “Watch, baby.”

Fuck, right, you’re supposed to be doing something. Somehow, you just barely manage to keep your eyes open, your bleary vision fixed on the filthy scene playing out in front of you.

For someone who has probably never seen this video, Yoongi’s timing is sick. Because when your eyes finally focus, you’re greeted with the sight of the dom pulling out to stroke his cock fast and hard while his sub lays beneath him, still shaking with the tremors of her orgasm. You swallow hard when a throaty moan sounds from the speakers, thick spurts of cum landing all over the sub’s stomach and cunt.

Yoongi’s fingers falter just slightly, and behind you, his dick twitches hard against the small of your back.

Oh.

The overworked gears in your brain stutter back to life all at once, and suddenly, you’re overwhelmed at the thought of being fucked. Of Yoongi fucking you. This isn’t the first time the thought has crossed your mind in recent memory, but it’s certainly the first time you’ve felt this desperate for it. 

You can imagine it so clearly. Yoongi flipping you over and fucking you hard, giving it to you so good you can’t help but scream into the mattress just like the girl in the video. Pulling out and marking you with his cum, maybe on your back, or your stomach, or your tits, or your face. Maybe he wouldn’t pull out at all. Maybe with his last thrust, he’d press his hips even harder into your ass to get as deep as possible.

You’re so caught up in the fantasy—mouth hanging open on a moan, eyes heavy-lidded, practically drooling—that you don’t register your screen going black. You don’t register the grip on your hair disappearing. You don’t register anything at all except the pleasure sparking hot in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through every limb in your body as Yoongi pounds you closer and closer to—

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The fingers stuffing you full withdraw so fast it sends you reeling, and before you can even ask why, Yoongi’s full palm comes down hard on your aching pussy.

“Ohhh!” you wail, clit throbbing.

“Filthy slut,” Yoongi spits. “You think you can get away with breaking the rules now?”

You blink hard, tears pricking at your eyes. What? What is he talking about? “I-I… I don’t…” 

His knuckles graze the side of your face, the fleeting gentleness tethering you back to reality for a moment. “Color, baby,” he says softly.

Your chest heaves as you gulp a big breath, turning your head to look back at him. There’s a crease between his brows, but it’s in concern, not anger. Like he’s nervous he took it too far.

Your Yoongi.

“Green,” you whisper. 

You want to say more. You want to tell him how much you liked it, how much you want him to do it again. But you can’t find the words, so you silently hope that’s enough.

Yoongi lightly traces your cheekbone with his thumb. “Want a breather?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay, just…” You crane your neck a little more, tilting your head towards him in what you hope is a clear request for a kiss.

Thankfully, Yoongi gets the hint, dipping down to gently press his lips to yours once, twice. On the third, he lingers, deepening the kiss just enough for you to relax in his hold. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs, reaching past your body to shut your laptop and push it closer to the edge of the bed. Satisfied, he takes a minute to rearrange your bodies so you’re laying on your back beneath him. “Let’s slow down anyway, okay? Just for a minute.”

Part of you wants to reassure him that you’re fine, that you don’t need to be coddled just because you’re a beginner, but you can’t find it in you to complain. Not when he’s finally allowing you to face him.

Instead, you loop your arms around his shoulders, pulling him back in. Your thighs spread wide to accommodate his body between them as he kisses you thoroughly, over and over until the scattered pieces of your mind lock back into place.

Satisfied, Yoongi sucks gently at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue, pulling back to admire your swollen mouth. “Feeling good?”

“Mhm,” you hum, hands sliding down from his shoulders and over his chest. “You’re mean.”

Yoongi huffs. “Too mean?” he jokes, but you can tell he’s genuinely wondering.

“No,” you softly insist. “Not too mean.” Then, you pause. “Actually, the not letting me cum part is pretty evil.”

His responding laugh is real this time, your own worries quelled by the sight of his gums showing. “You knew what you were signing up for,” he reminds you, features settling into something gentle and fond. “I make you cum literally every day. I think you’ll survive a little longer.”

“Nooooo,” you complain. “There’s more?”

“Only if you’re really okay,” he says, kissing your pout away. “Wanna taste you.”

The thought makes your body heat up all over again, your eyelids fluttering shut and hips lifting all at once. “Oh?” 

“Mhm,” Yoongi hums against your lips. His hips roll down, his clothed cock pressing against your still-soaked cunt. “You like that idea?”

You nod eagerly, a breathy moan tumbling from your parted lips. “Uh-huh…”

“Even if I still don’t let you cum?”

“Yoongi…” you whine. 

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes, sliding his hand between your legs again. “Don’t you want me to eat this pretty cunt?”

Your head falls back against the mattress. You moan softly, looking up at him as he tenderly traces your oversensitive slit with one finger.

He drives a hard bargain, he really does. You hear what he’s really offering loud and clear—you can either say yes, and he’ll edge you until he’s satisfied enough to finally give you what you want, or you can say no, and everything stops now.

It’s still a punishment, after all.

So you take a breath, gather all the determination you can, and say “yes.”

Eyes still locked on yours, Yoongi smirks, his hand retreating. He braces his hands on each side of your head. “Do you want me to be nice about it?” he asks. 

You know why he’s asking. He’s making sure you can take it, after everything you just did.

You don’t even hesitate. “Fuck no.”

Delighted, Yoongi grins. “That’s my girl.”

And then he’s quickly sitting up, his strong hands taking hold of your hips to roughly flip you over. You gasp, bouncing against the mattress once before he yanks you up onto your hands and knees.

You don’t even get a chance to adjust to the new position before a hand cracks down harshly on your ass. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut as you brace yourself for more.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” Yoongi says, spanking you again. “You think you can cum without my permission?”

“N-no!”

“No,” he agrees. “Because that was one of, what, three things I asked you to do? If you have such a hard time following simple instructions, I think I’m gonna have to punish you more often. Train you up.”

The thought makes you dizzy. Honestly, just the phrasing makes you dizzy, a reminder that while you may be new to this, Yoongi isn’t. Not even a little. 

His palms smooth over your ass, kneading and squeezing unabashedly, like it’s a simple fact that he gets to touch you however he pleases. And to prove him right, you practically mewl, pushing back into his touch.

“Oh, you like that idea, huh?” Yoongi asks, sucking his teeth. “Knew you would. Such a nasty fucking girl.”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, unashamed. 

“No wonder you couldn’t cum with anyone else, baby.”

You look over your shoulder in surprise at his words, only to find him biting his lower lip as he admires your pussy. His thumbs dig into the softness of your inner thighs, spreading you open even further. When he looks up to meet your eyes, he raises a brow.

“They didn’t treat you like the slut you are.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs, and before your brain can fully process what they mean, Yoongi surges forward to push your head back down.

“Still green?” he asks.

Cheek pressed into the sheets, you breathe your muffled consent, and then the mattress dips behind you. After some shifting, Yoongi’s hands spread over your ass again, holding you open.

“Oh, shit,” you moan when he kisses your clit.

He told you he was going to eat you out, but you didn’t know he was planning to do it like this. There’s something so dirty about it, being on all fours while his tongue darts out to taste you.

Yoongi hums in satisfaction, the sound vibrating through you before he pulls back, breath ghosting over your soaked folds.

“You remember your rules?” he asks.

Your chest heaves. “D-don’t cum without permission.”

“And?”

“Tell you when I’m close.”

“Good girl,” he praises. He gives your ass a gentle squeeze. “Keep that shit up, you understand?”

“Yeah,” you pant, digging your knees further into the bed to stabilize yourself. 

Yoongi doesn’t waste any time after that. 

He licks a luxurious stripe up your slit, collecting your arousal on his tongue and groaning into you at the taste, to which you respond with your own strangled moan. Fuck. He’s already so good at this to begin with, you don’t know how long you’re going to last with how sensitive you’ve become. 

Every delicious stroke has your thighs trembling, breathy whimpers spilling into the sheets as he fucks his tongue into you, using his grip on your ass to lock your squirming body into place.

Surely you must be dripping onto the sheets by now, with the way he’s devouring you. You wish you could see, but it’s almost hotter like this—only being able to hear the way he messily laps and slurps at your cunt.

And then, just when you think you can’t take anymore, he switches course.

“O-oh!” you cry, your legs nearly giving out when his lips wrap around your angry, swollen clit. 

But Yoongi doesn’t take pity on you. If anything, he doubles his efforts, sucking so ruthlessly your vision whites out. You do your best to clench your muscles in a desperate attempt to keep your orgasm at bay, but at this point, it’s only making things worse. There’s no way you can hold back anymore.

“Yoongi,” you cry, “I can’t—fuck, please, please, I’m gonna—!”

Suddenly, the warmth of his mouth leaves you entirely. Yoongi slings his left arm around your shoulders, hauling you up until you’re seated in his lap, your sweat-slick back pressed against his chest again. Your head is forced back against his shoulder when his arm tightens, bicep and forearm squeezing at your throat. You reel at the way he’s used that deceptive strength of his to manhandle you exactly how he wants you.

“What do you want?”

“I wanna cum,” you gasp, unable to control the way you squirm, grinding back against his cock.

“Yeah, I know,” Yoongi snarls into your ear. “‘Cause you know you can, don’t you? How many times would you have cum already if I let you, hm?”

“F-four…”

“Four is nothing, baby,” he mocks. “You’re already done? I can do this all night.”

Your eyes go wide. “N-no, Yoongi, please, I’ve been so good!”

“If you wanna cum, tell me what you’re gonna do to earn it.”

Fuck! You can barely even remember what you’re being punished for anymore. Your brain has gone all fuzzy again, exacerbated by the delicious pressure at the sides of your neck. All you’re able to grasp onto is your single-minded need to cum, right now.

“I…” You gulp a breath, vision swimming. “I don’t know what you want… Please…”

He loosens his hold on you. “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” you panic. Your hands fly up to grip his bicep, nails biting as you encourage him to squeeze again. “Nonono, green, fuck, I’m okay!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Yoongi hums. “But you want me to make you cum,” he clarifies, and you nod eagerly. He chuckles, breath tickling your ear. “You need it, baby?”

“Need it,” you moan.

“Hm.” He takes a moment to consider that, nosing the side of your neck. “Well, maybe we can switch things up a little.”

You perk up instantly, straining to look at him behind you. “Really?”

He smirks. “Don’t get too excited.”

Fuck that! You can barely contain yourself! 

You grin at him, eyes sparkling. “Sorry,” you say breathlessly, not meaning it at all.

“Uh-huh.” His arm drops from around your neck, his palm coming down on the side of your thigh. “Lie back.”

You instantly scramble off of his lap and flip flat onto your back, spreading your legs. Is he going to fuck you? You hope he’s going to fuck you. 

“Shit,” he groans, sounding amused and turned on all at once. He climbs over you, caging you in. “Look at you. So fuckin’ easy for me, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” you agree shamelessly. You tug gently at the front of his shirt, and Yoongi leans in to kiss you once, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Why’s that, huh?” he mumbles, nipping your bottom lip.

“‘Cause you make me feel so good,” you answer breathlessly. “Please make me feel good, Yoongi…”

“You make it hard to say no,” he says. “Too fuckin’ cute.” His hands run greedily over your spread thighs, stroking and squeezing. “Okay, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Thank you!” you moan, tilting your hips up towards him.

He laughs, scooting down on the bed until he’s kneeling between your legs. “Don’t thank me yet. This doesn’t mean your punishment is over.”

You sit up on your elbows, brow furrowing as you blink at him. “Wh-what?”

Yoongi looks up at you, eyes dark. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he tells you, sinking his teeth into your inner thigh just to hear you yelp. “I’m gonna eat this pussy again, and you’re gonna be loud for me. You’re gonna scream my name until our neighbors know exactly who makes you cum so good.”

Your face goes hot, your stomach swooping.

“And then you’re gonna keep cumming,” he continues. “You’re gonna cum over and over until you have no choice but to tap out. Do you understand?”

Oh, fuck. You can’t even be mad at him for this, because you’re the one who suggested it in the first place. This is just what you get for running your mouth.

“I understand,” you manage, because what else can you say? You want to cum so badly.

“Good.”

And then he’s sucking on your clit with fervor, and you’re screaming just like he told you to.

“Yoongi—!”

Your first orgasm catches you by surprise. You’re so pent up that it crashes through you within mere seconds, your body floundering pathetically from the force of it. Yoongi just grunts in satisfaction, gripping your thighs tightly to keep you spread open beneath him as he feasts on you.

Because he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down! He just adds even more, pushing three fingers inside your sopping cunt and making you shriek as they curl up to rub hard at your G-spot.

“Oooooh my god!” you cry out, another wave of pleasure wracking your body.

“Fuck yeah,” Yoongi groans against you, pistoning his fingers even harder, “cum again. Keep fucking cumming.”

And you do. 

Every time you think you can’t have any more left in you, that you can’t possibly cum again, you prove yourself wrong. You lose track, breaking over and over until you can’t tell where the last one ended and the next one begins.

“C-can’t take anymore, fuuuuck, p-please,” you plead. You reach down to push at his shoulders, but Yoongi uses his free hand to smack yours away, still mercilessly fucking you with the other.

He pulls back, the lower half of his face completely soaked. “Are you gonna use your safeword?” he asks, and you shake your head. “Then show me you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I’m sorry!” you wail. 

To your surprise, Yoongi stills his fingers inside you, watching your face intently. Something clicks into place.

“I-I’m sorry for talking badly about myself,” you continue, eyes welling up with a fresh wave of tears. “I-I don’t… I know there isn’t anything wrong with me.” You immediately shake your head, because that isn’t quite right. “I’m trying. I’m trying to know that. I’m trying to believe it.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “I know.”

“I’ve felt this way for years, it isn’t…” Your words break off with a sniffle, your bottom lip trembling. “It isn’t easy to stop.”

“I know,” he repeats. Slowly, carefully, he withdraws his fingers.

“I need you to help me,” you say, tears streaming freely now. “I wanna stop. I wanna keep working on it, but I can’t… Will you help me?”

You don’t even really know what you’re asking for, if it makes any sense at all. All you know is that you only feel good lately when you and Yoongi are doing this. When he’s showing you exactly how not broken you are.

Maybe that was his point.

Yoongi wipes his hand off on his pants and moves closer to pull you up and into his arms, shushing you gently.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs against your hair. Overwhelmed, you sob into his chest, a pathetic, hiccupy sound that instantly makes Yoongi’s arms tighten around you. “You’re okay, baby. I’ll help you. That’s all I wanna do.”

He holds you for a long time, rubbing your back as you get it all out. You haven’t cried like this since the first time, and this is so much more intense. You aren’t sure if it’s from the way your day began, seeing your ex, or if it’s from sheer overwhelm. Maybe it’s a mix of both, but regardless, it’s clear to both of you that you need it.

Once your breathing evens out, Yoongi carefully pulls back, nudging your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“You’d tell me if I gave you too much, right?” he asks, his words laced with clear concern. 

“It wasn’t too much,” you reassure him. “I think you were right. I think I needed it.”

Yoongi frowns, cradling your face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have started anything while we were arguing like that. It wasn’t the right time. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you tell him honestly. “It, like… It got me out of my head, you know? I liked it.”

Something in his expression changes then, just for a moment. It isn’t there long enough for you to know what it means or how he’s feeling about that. He just rubs your back some more, deep in thought.

“Hey,” he says after a minute, nudging you, “we’re gonna have a good week.”

Oh, right! After all the drama with your ex, you almost forgot about the trip.

Hoseok’s dance crew has a big showcase happening in Tokyo, so you, Yoongi, Jimin, and Taehyung are all flying out to support him. Your vacation time officially starts tomorrow, and you’ll be there for a whole week.

Your mouth lifts at the corners. “Yeah,” you say, thankful for the reminder.

“We’ve both been needing some vacation time, I think,” he says, matching your small smile. “No work, no exes. It’ll be fun. Get your mind off of things.”

You hum in agreement, resting your cheek against his shoulder. He’s right. It’s been a long time since you’ve taken a trip like this. For a long time, neither of you were able to afford it. Lately, you’ve both been so busy—you in particular.

But you took the time off months ago, and you’re excited for it. You know Hobi’s been working hard.

Suddenly, a thought pops into your head.

“Are we telling them?” you ask. “About, uh… this.”

Yoongi looks down at you. “Uh,” he says, surprised. “Do you want to?”

You only realize how ridiculous it sounds after you’ve asked—letting your friends in on the suddenly-sexual nature of you and Yoongi’s relationship because… why? Because they’d find it interesting?

“Actually, nevermind,” you say, covering your face with your hands. “Forget I asked.”

Yoongi’s chest shakes with a laugh. “I mean, if you want to tell them—”

“No,” you say emphatically. 

He gently pulls your hands from your face, his lips twitching at the corners when you finally open your eyes. “We won’t, then.”

“Good.”

“It isn’t anyone’s business unless you want it to be.”

“Good,” you repeat.

"Besides,” he continues, his thumb tracing slowly across your shoulder. "I kind of like this being ours."

You swallow. "Oh."

It’s unbelievably stupid, you think. After everything that happened today, that's what makes your stomach flip the hardest? Not the punishment. Not the orgasms.

I kind of like this being ours.

"Yeah," you agree softly, caught off guard.

And although you both have so much left to do tonight—dinner, packing, coordinating plans—you allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his arms for just a little bit longer.

୨ৎ

The next morning, Jimin and Taehyung arrive earlier than you expected them to.

You’ve been on trips with them before. Yoongi and Hoseok have a tendency to take point when it comes to vacations, the most punctual and practical of the group. You, on the other hand, used to be a nightmare when it came to getting anywhere early. But to your credit, that was back in college. Working in the adult world has beaten punctuality into you. Plus, living with Yoongi always meant that if there was somewhere to be, you woke up when he woke up. 

Jimin and Taehyung, though? They’ve always been the last ones out the door. Both have a tendency to preen, determined to look their best even if they’re going to be stuck in the airport (and then a stuffy metal tube) for hours. It only got worse when they started dating, because… well. Morning sex, of course.

So when you open the door still nursing your first cup of coffee, only to find both of them standing in the hallway with their luggage already in tow, it’s hard to mask your surprise.

"Good morning," Taehyung says breezily.

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide as you let them both in. “Yoongi’s not back yet.”

They both set their bags by the door and walk to the living room, dropping onto the couch.

"Where'd he go?" Jimin asks.

You shrug. "No idea."

Yoongi left over an hour ago, and all he'd said was that he had to run an errand before the flight. No explanation. No elaboration.

"He didn't tell you?"

"No."

That seems to surprise both of them. It surprises you a little, too.

Not because Yoongi reports his every movement to you—he obviously doesn't—but because it’s so unlike him on a day like this. He’s usually carting everyone to the airport with hours to spare, double and triple checking everyone has what they need.

The conversation drifts elsewhere—Hoseok's showcase, travel plans—until the sound of keys rattling outside finally cuts through the apartment.

The front door opens, and your eyes nearly bug out of your head.

Suddenly, you understand why he didn't tell anybody where he was going.

The longer hair he'd been sporting lately at the behest of his eomma is long gone. It’s significantly shorter now, exposing more of his forehead.

Yoongi closes the door behind him and sets a small shopping bag on the entryway table before looking up. Immediately, he catches three people staring at him.

"What?"

Taehyung blinks first. "You got a haircut."

"Oh,” he says, as if he'd forgotten.

Jimin squints. "When did you do that?"

"This morning."

"That's where you went?"

"Yeah."

The conversation continues around you, but you're only catching about half of it, too distracted by your monkey brain going haircuthaircuthaircuthaircut.

You hate that you're noticing things like the shape of his neck. Or the cut of his jaw. Or the fact that the delicate silver hoops in his ears are more visible now. 

He looks pretty.

Yoongi catches you staring. "Do you not like it?"

The question catches you completely off guard. Shit.

Jimin and Taehyung follow his gaze to you. Double shit!

"What?" you ask, heat creeping up your neck.

"My haircut."

"It's fine," you say.

The second the words leave your mouth, you know they were a mistake. Yoongi's eyebrows lift.

"'Fine?'" he repeats.

Taehyung looks between the two of you. "I think it looks good,” he offers.

"Thank you," Yoongi says.

“It makes you look like a baby,” he continues.

"Thank you?" 

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment,” Jimin says.

"Neither am I,” Yoongi says, glancing at you pointedly, “but it’s better than ‘fine.’”

Your cheeks are so hot at this point you don’t know how much more you can take.

"Can we please leave before we miss our flight?" you ask, standing up from the couch. “We have places to be, people!”

“Damn, hello Hoseok,” Jimin says, but still, thankfully, everyone starts grabbing their bags.

Once the luggage is packed into the trunk and the four of you are finally settled in the car (Yoongi in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger seat, Jimin and Taehyung in the back), your phone buzzes three times in your lap.

You pick it up and flip it over, squinting to your left when you see that it’s a text from Yoongi. You were wondering why he was spending so much time fiddling on his phone. You figured he might be checking the flight details one more time, or queueing up some music, but apparently not.

When you open it, your eyes widen. Oh. That’s why he texted you instead of saying it out loud, then.

Yoongi: I’m glad you like my haircut.

Yoongi: By the way, there’s a BDSM club in Tokyo I’ve been wanting to check out. If you’re down.

Yoongi: Think about it :-)

You slam your phone back down onto your lap before Jimin or Taehyung have a chance to be nosy, your cheeks going hot.

Fuck.

So much for this trip being relaxing.

a/n 2: please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts! if you’d like to be added to my taglist, you can go ahead and fill out my form here (no need to do so if you’re already on my permanent taglist)

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--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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