NekoChivi

Your partner, once eager and excited to see you during every free moment, starts to pull away. Suddenly, they're too busy to hang out. Their normally easygoing job starts demanding the world of them, seemingly out of nowhere. Phone calls become less frequent. Texts lose their enthusiasm, or stop entirely. 

You knew it was coming. All week, your days have been underscored with a sense of dread that's become all too familiar to you lately. 

When you get dumped this time, you don't even cry. Mostly, you're just annoyed. Annoyed that you've wasted your time, again. That you stupidly expected this one to be different. That you have to go home and explain to your roommate that yet another notch in your belt has amounted to absolutely nothing. That it's not even the poor guy's fault—it's yours.

It's always your fault.

You've suspected that something is deeply, horribly wrong with you for a long time now. This year's failed relationship number four is just more evidence to support the theory. Rubbing salt in a wound that's been festering for… god, a decade? Longer?

The first time you had sex, you thought to yourself, this is it? And you've been smacked in the face with the universe's emphatic yes every single time since. 

It's been the same way since your very first relationship, back in high school. You start seeing someone who checks all of your boxes on paper—intelligent, attractive, driven—but the second things start to get physical, your body just refuses to cooperate. 

You even thought, for a while, that maybe you'd overestimated your attraction to men, prematurely labeled yourself as bisexual when you were actually a lesbian. It made sense, at the time. But when you dated a woman for the first time during your senior year of college, the result was more of the same.

It doesn't matter how hard you try to make things work, and you've tried real fucking hard. 

Lots and lots of foreplay. Different positions. Fingers and oral and toys. 

You've had caring, attentive partners who actually give a shit if you cum. But despite their very best efforts, nine times out of ten you just can't. You struggle to even get very wet most of the time, to the point where you've gotten in the habit of carrying a travel sized bottle of lube in your purse.

People say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, so. Maybe you're insane. Who fucking knows?

You're insane and you can't cum. A real winner.

And now you have to go home and face Yoongi, and he's just going to smell the failure on you.

Fuck.

Yoongi may be your best friend, but you hate talking to him about your love life. Not because you don't trust him! That man would take a bullet for you, even if he'd hold it over your head for the rest of your life. Truthfully, you don't know exactly why you hate it. You just know it makes you feel queasy.

It could be because Yoongi, to your knowledge, has never had much of a problem in that department. You've been his roommate for years. You watched the endless string of hookups he paraded in and out of your shared apartment in college. 

It was honestly crazy. You were worried for his health.

He's slowed down in the years since you both graduated, but you know it isn't due to a lack of options. He's just got more shit to worry about now that he's not a student. Less time to get his dick wet, you suppose.

You just don't want him to be, like, disappointed in you for failing again. Maybe that's stupid, but… you're stupid sometimes. 

Whatever.

Once you pull into the parking lot, you immediately climb out of your car and trudge up the stairs of your apartment building. There's no point in delaying the inevitable, and you honestly just want to get it over with.

You know Yoongi is home. He sets his own schedule and he works from the apartment, which means he's probably cooking dinner right about now. He usually times it so he's awake and prepping the ingredients by the time you're home, and you can tell him about your shitty day at work while he cooks. The lukewarm breakup you played your part in tonight has only made you a little late.

You rummage around in your bag until your fingers find purchase on the key Yoongi had made when you both moved in last spring. A bigger place, an upgrade you could both afford thanks to Yoongi's promotion and your brand-new "big girl job." To celebrate, Yoongi got the dumbest set of keys he could get his hands on. Shaggy and Scooby. You're the dog, of course.

You push the key into the lock and turn it, greeted with the smell of garlic and onions when you open the door. You drop your bag, kick your shoes off at the rack by your feet, peel off your coat, and brace yourself as you walk down the hallway into the kitchen.

When you turn the corner, he's facing away from you, standing at the stove in an old gray sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up. His dark hair is still mussed from his ritualistic post-work nap, and he's cutting glossy glass noodles with scissors as marinated meat sizzles in a pan.

You hover in the doorway for a second, watching his back.

"Hey."

Yoongi glances over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, eyes flicking to your face, and whatever he sees there makes his brows knit together almost imperceptibly. He turns the stove down, sets the bowl of noodles aside, and faces you fully.

"Bad day?" 

You hum, already queasy. "You could say that."

He hums, then jerks his chin toward the counter. "Sit. Dinner’s almost done. We're having japchae."

"I’m not hungry."

“Mm,” he says. “Sit anyway.”

Without protest, you hop up onto the high stool, feet dangling, hands tucked into your sleeves like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.

Yoongi goes back to the stove, but you can tell his focus is split now. He keeps glancing over at you, like he’s waiting for you to speak first. You don’t.

After a few minutes, he sighs softly and turns off the burner completely. He leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed.

"So," he says gently. "How's what's-his-face?"

What's-his-face. Hm.

Yoongi knows his name. You know he knows his name, because he's met him, just like he's met all your other partners over the years. Normally, you'd be annoyed by the nickname. It's not like it matters anymore, though.

You fold your arms on the counter, pressing your forehead to your sleeves. "What's-his-face is done," you say simply, not wanting to get into it.

"Oh yeah?" Yoongi asks knowingly. At least it's easier having this conversation with your head down. You don't have it in you to look him in the eye.

"Mhm."

"That's a shame," he says, and you hear the metallic clink of utensils as he goes back to preparing dinner. "Are you okay?"

"I guess," you mutter, closing your eyes. "It's not like I was with him for long, you know? And I kinda knew it was coming."

"How so?"

You scoff. "Haven't you noticed that I've been with you every day after work for, like, two weeks?"

"Mm. Yeah, I guess that isn't a good sign."

The sound of ceramic sliding against granite forces you to lift your head, and you blink at the plate that's appeared in front of you.

"I told you I wasn't hungry," you mumble.

"You're just going to feel worse if you don't eat anything," Yoongi reasons, reaching out to flick lightly at your forehead. "Don't be a baby. You love japchae."

Scowling, you rub your forehead and wordlessly reach for the chopsticks on your plate.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, softer now.

"Not really," you mutter, taking a small bite of noodles. It's good. He was right. "I'm fine, it's just annoying."

"Annoying?" Yoongi leans against the counter between you as he gathers his own bite.

"Getting dumped again."

"It's part of the process," he says as he chews. "You know what they say. Gotta kiss a lot of frogs, or whatever."

You know he's just trying to make you feel better, but you can't help but scoff. "Honestly, it kinda feels like I'm the frog, Yoongi."

"Yah, look at me," Yoongi says, and you do. "You're not a frog. That's stupid. And for the record, what's-his-face is also stupid for dumping you in the first place."

"He had his reasons," you reply bitterly. Like the fact that you're physically incapable of having an orgasm with another person, for one.

He scoffs. "Yeah? Like what?"

You stare at your noodles, realizing the opening you just offered. Nope. You're not having this conversation with him. It's not happening.

"It doesn't matter," you say, pushing your plate away weakly. "Look, this is great, but I really just want to take a shower and go to bed, okay?"

Yoongi watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to decide how hard to push. Then he frowns, resigned.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Relief loosens something in your chest, immediately followed by guilt. 

You slide off the stool. “I’ll… wrap this up,” you offer, even though you both know he’s going to beat you to it.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving you off. “I’ll handle it.”

You're unsure what to do with your hands, your body, yourself, so you start to retreat to your room like you said you would.

"Night," you mumble.

"Night."

The bathroom light is harsh after the warmth of the kitchen. You strip out of your clothes and step under the spray, letting the water pound against your shoulders until your skin starts to sting. You rest your forehead against the tile and close your eyes.

You hate that this keeps happening. Hate that you feel defective, like there’s a piece of you everyone else got instructions for and you somehow missed. Hate that you can’t even articulate it properly without sounding like a freak.

By the time you crawl into bed, your hair damp and your head aching, the apartment is quiet. You assume Yoongi has retreated to his room for the night, door closed, headphones on.

Good. You have research to do. 

You prop yourself up against your pillows, tug your blanket over your legs, and reach for your phone. The screen lights up your face in the dark, and even though you're alone, you shamefully rush to turn your brightness as low as it'll go.

Then, with a kind of bitter determination, you open a private browser tab.

why can’t i orgasm with a partner?

Article after article fills your screen tormenting you with detailed anatomical diagrams for men without a clue. Not helpful.

You try again. 

low arousal but high libido

This time, you're met with medical jargon that makes your eyes glaze over, citing prescription medications as a possible reason for your problem, and suggesting different prescription medications to solve it. No thanks.

sex feels boring even with people i like

is it normal to have a difficult time getting wet

aaaaaaafhfhsjdhdjdkwkske is something wrong with me??????

Each search leads you down the same rabbit holes you’ve already crawled through a million times. Articles with "tips and tricks to spice up your sex life!!!" Forums full of strangers insisting it’s asexuality, trauma, hormones, antidepressants, anxiety, attachment styles, moral shame, capitalism, mercury in fucking retrograde.

Then, finally, three pages into another endless sea of search results, something catches your eye.

Getting Started with BDSM and D/s Play

It isn't like you've never heard of BDSM. You're a grown woman with internet access, after all. Thanks to the popularity of shit like Fifty Shades, everyone has a passing knowledge of that world. You remember trying to read it once in college. You never made it past chapter four.

Besides, that kind of thing isn't meant for someone like you, is it? You are, for lack of a better word, boring. Laughably predictable. You work a desk job with reasonable benefits. You rarely go out, and when you do, it's with the same group of friends you've had since college. You've never even had a one night stand.

So, you're clearly not the kind of person who "does BDSM." The phrase alone conjures images that feel lightyears away from your own reality—latex bodysuits, dungeon chains, riding crops. You picture dominatrixes in thigh-high boots, or beefy guys in black masks who call themselves "master." None of it sounds like you. None of it even sounds real.

But it isn't like you have a ton of options. At the very least, it's an avenue for you to explore before you rule it out entirely. So you click on it.

You're expecting a porn site, honestly. Garish, explicit ads trying to sell you penis enlargement pills or connect you with hot singles in your area while you read. 

But there's none of that. Instead, the website is clean. Clinical, even. Written by someone who sounds less like a sex-crazed internet stranger and more like a therapist—or maybe a teacher. Someone who knows what they’re talking about.

The article walks you through the basics. Consent is the cornerstone. BDSM doesn’t work without communication and boundaries. This isn’t about pain for the sake of pain, or submission to erase autonomy. It’s about creating a space where you can let go because you’ve agreed to the rules. Where trust doesn’t just exist, it’s structured.

You’ve never really thought about sex that way. As a structure. A container. Something with guidelines and rituals and roles. You’ve always approached it like you were supposed to already know what to do. Like you were always already failing because you couldn’t just relax and enjoy yourself. 

But what if that wasn’t your fault? What if you’ve never had the right structure?

You keep reading. The article links out to other beginner resources, and you follow each one like a trail of breadcrumbs.

You learn more acronyms—SSC, RACK, CNC. Definitions. Sub vs. dom. Kink vs. fetish. Safe words. Aftercare. Sex contracts??? Whole communities built around something you were taught to dismiss as deviant or degrading. And yet here are people talking about it like having a little bit of kinky sex saved their lives or something. Like it gave them language for feelings they could never articulate.

After a while, you find that you're not just skimming; you're studying. Your eyes trace over every word like you're preparing for a test. You dive into beginner guides, curated book lists, Reddit posts, blog entries. You learn about the physical, yes—ropes and cuffs and spanking and clamps—but you also learn about the mental. Negotiation. Anticipation. Protocols. Praise. Service. Rules and rituals that some people use to ground themselves, but also to feel wanted. Needed. Seen.

It all sounds great! In theory.

But how are you supposed to know if any of this will actually work for you in practice? BDSM or D/s or kink or whatever the hell you're meant to call it (apparently they're all different things, who knew?) is such a broad umbrella, and you don't even know what you like. And given that you can't even be honest with your partners so that they can meet your most basic sexual needs… 

It doesn't exactly bode well for being able to ask for them to—what, hit you? There's no way in hell you'd be able to ask some random person to do that. They'd probably run for the fucking hills.

You feel yourself starting to get more and more stressed. You don't want to extinguish that tiny flicker of hope, so you decide to focus on something else. Something more fun.

Like… maybe it is actually a good time to visit one of those sites with the 'hot singles in your area' ads. Maybe if you start to figure out what you might enjoy, you'll have a better idea of what to ask for when the time comes.

You drag yourself out of bed, tiptoeing across the room. Which is ridiculous. You live here. This is your space, and Yoongi is on the other side of the apartment, probably passed out with his own headphones in. Besides, you've lived with him long enough to know he could sleep through a fucking earthquake without any.

Still, you’re quiet. Stealthy. You fish around in the bottom drawer of your desk and pull out your beat-up old headphones. Then you plug them into your phone and climb back into bed, heart hammering, screen still dimmed to the lowest possible brightness.

You pull up a site you haven’t used in ages, mostly because you’ve never once finished a session on it feeling satisfied. It’s always too fake, or too forced, or too loud. Too porny.

But maybe you were looking for the wrong thing.

You scroll past a dozen thumbnails on the homepage without clicking. Anything with studio lighting, waxed bodies, or exaggerated porn faces gets dismissed immediately. Eventually, you start narrowing things down with different tags, different categories, until you find something that interests you enough to click on it.

You burrow further into your blanket, turn your volume low despite your headphones being plugged in, and click play.

The screen stays black for a second, and then there’s a faint rustle, someone fumbling with a camera. 

"Look at you. You're making a mess."

The voice behind the camera is deep, a little scratchy. The way he talks isn't theatrical, not too gruff or exaggerated like you expected. That alone is enough for you to give the video a chance.

The camera focuses, finally, and you can see a woman sprawled across a bed, completely naked. She’s flushed, squirming, breathing heavily. She’s tied—her wrists bound to the headboard with rope, thighs spread wide with a bar between them. Her chest lifts and falls in erratic little pants, and her eyes are glazed with a sort of blissed-out daze.

You can’t see the man's face, which is probably for the best. Finding him unattractive would take you out of the fantasy entirely and dump you right back onto the search page. Instead all you see is the hand that isn't holding the camera, wrapped loosely around her throat. Not choking, necessarily—just enough to hold her still, to show who’s in charge.

"You’re drooling from both ends, pet," he continues, tone dripping with condescension. "That desperate to be fucked already?"

The woman whines. Her hips jerk uselessly, like she’s trying to chase a touch that isn't even there.

His hand leaves her throat for just a second. A soft smack, barely audible, echoes through your earbuds as he smacks her cheek in reprimand.

A startled breath slips out of you, pulse skittering, heat blooming low in your belly in a way you’re not used to feeling this fast.

"So shameless," he murmurs. "You should be embarrassed."

"Please," she gasps.

"Please what?" he presses. His fingers slide between her legs, ghosting over her glistening pussy. "Use your words, pet. I’m not gonna play with you if you can’t tell me what you need."

"P-please, sir, I want you to fuck me," she cries. "Please, please—"

He tsks softly. "Yeah? You want my cock that bad? Want me to wreck this pretty little hole until you can’t walk straight?" he taunts, slapping her pussy hard enough that she squeals, her thighs trembling, but not closing. They can’t. Instead, her body opens for him like a flower. 

You lick your lips, finding them dry from your panting.

"You’re lucky I even feel like fucking you tonight," he says. "But since you asked so nicely…"

Her eyes go wide like she's hanging on his every word.

"I'll give you what you want, pet."

The woman moans like he’s already inside her. Your thighs press together beneath your blanket, and your free hand drifts lower without conscious thought. 

Oh, fuck. You’re wet.

Not just vaguely warm or idly interested. You are actually soaked. Slick enough that when your fingers graze the front of your underwear, they come away damp.

The realization knocks the breath out of you.

The man finally gives the woman what she begged for, and you can’t look away. His voice gets rougher, the rhythm of his thrusts audible in the way the mattress creaks beneath her.

The woman screams. She shakes. She’s not faking shit.

And you're not even really touching yourself, but still, you're flushed and trembling and panting like you’ve just been dragged underwater and resurfaced gasping for air. 

It’s overwhelming. Not just the arousal, but the validation of it. Of wanting this. Of responding to this.

You pause the video and lie there in the dark, heart racing, the ache between your legs a quiet, persistent pulse. The blanket is too warm now, your skin still humming, thighs still sticky. 

You close your browser, lock your phone with your heart still pounding, and slide it under your pillow again. 

It's late.

Horrifically late. You don't have nearly enough time to unpack what all of that meant, even though you desperately want to.

You want to savor this. You want to understand it. Name it. Hold it up to the light and study it, like the answer you’ve been searching for your whole adult life. But you have work in the morning.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

୨ৎ

You get home just after six, drained down to the marrow.

The elevator ride up to your floor feels like it lasts forever, and when you finally push through the apartment door, it takes every ounce of your remaining energy not to collapse right there in the entryway. Your heels dangle from your fingertips, your hair has half-fallen out of the clip you threw it into this morning, and your makeup has long since given up.

Working as a secretary is not glamorous. People think it is—power blazers and legal drama like you're Donna in Suits or something—but most days, you're just quietly drowning in endless filing, scheduling partner meetings for egos the size of god, and trying not to scream when someone forwards you a 97 page PDF to "clean up" before close of business. You ran entirely on caffeine and spite today, and even that started to run dry around 3 p.m.

Last night’s research session didn’t help, either. You finally forced yourself to close your eyes around 3:30, and your alarm went off at 6:15. You couldn't focus all day. You felt like you were wearing a fucking scarlet letter or something.

The silence of the apartment wraps around you like a weighted blanket, and you sigh as you lose the heels and make your way to your room, already undoing the top buttons of your shirt. The urge to collapse face-first into your comforter is overwhelming.

You don't bother turning your bedroom light on. You just drop your bag, toe the door closed behind you, tug your blouse off the rest of the way, and sink down onto the edge of your bed in your camisole and skirt, shoulders slumped.

You’re debating whether to change clothes or just die here when there’s a knock at your door.

"Hey."

"Yeah?" you call back, not moving.

Yoongi pushes the door open a few inches and peeks his head inside. His hair’s damp, pushed back from a recent shower. He looks at you for a moment—rumpled and wilted and half-undressed on your bed—and raises an eyebrow.

"Wow. You look like a corpse."

"Feel like one," you mumble. "Death by capitalism."

He snorts. "Brutal. The suits worked you hard today?"

You groan, letting your back hit the mattress. "I hate everyone. I hate everything. If one more attorney emails me asking for a document they already have access to, I will throw myself into the Han."

"Solid plan, though I think HR might frown on that."

You close your eyes. “Let them try and stop me.”

He chuckles, and there’s a pause, like he’s gauging how far to push your current state of despair.

"Hey, um," he starts, casual. "Got a text from Jimin earlier."

You open your eyes and prop yourself up slightly, elbows digging into the bed behind you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. He, Tae, and Hobi are hitting up that new club downtown tonight. Said to invite you."

You make a face. "And you want to go?" you ask, bewildered. "You, Min Yoongi, want to go clubbing?"

Yoongi shrugs. "Figured it might be a good distraction. Y’know. From… what’s-his-face."

Ah. That's why he's offering. He's trying to save you from yourself. You should've known. Yoongi never wants to go out, especially to a club that Jimin picked.

"We don’t have to," he adds quickly. "If you’re dead, you’re dead. Just figured I’d offer."

You sit up slowly, stretching your arms over your head and wincing at the way your spine pops. You feel like shit. Your legs are sore. Your blouse is wrinkled. You fully intended on sleeping through the rest of your Friday night, and most of your Saturday, too.

But… 

"Yeah," you say, surprising even yourself. "Yeah, fuck it. If you're in, I'm in."

Yoongi raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

You nod, rubbing your eyes. "Just give me thirty minutes to look more human."

"Are you sure you don't need an hour?" he teases. "An hour and a half? Speak now or forever hold your peace."

You toss a pillow at him with one hand and flip him off with the other as he backs out of the room, snickering to himself.

୨ৎ

The club is insane.

It opened a few months ago in an old textile warehouse downtown—completely gutted and reimagined as a fantasy land for people who want to get wasted on a Friday night. The line to get in wraps around the block, but Jimin, of course, knows someone. You’re not even surprised when you bypass the wait entirely, guided in with a wristband that glows faintly under the UV lights.

Inside, the ceiling stretches high above you, strung with dangling light installations that look like electric jellyfish. The DJ booth pulses with fog and lasers, and the bar’s lit from underneath so everyone’s drinks glow as they move through the crowd.

You and Yoongi cut through the crowd together, shoulder to shoulder as you push past clusters of sweaty strangers and swaying bodies. You almost forget how tired you were an hour ago, how bone-deep your exhaustion had settled in. There’s something about the promise of a night out with the right people that revives you.

Jimin’s the first one you see, perched on the edge of a velvet couch in the VIP section he somehow managed to sweet-talk his way into. He lights up when he sees you, arms outstretched in a dramatic flourish.

"There she is!" he sings. "My favorite overworked girlboss!"

You laugh as you approach, Yoongi trailing only a few paces behind you. "You’re drunk already, aren’t you?"

"I’ve been drunk since 5 p.m., baby," Jimin declares proudly, grabbing your hand and tugging you past the velvet ropes. "And you look hot, by the way. Who let you walk out the door like this?"

"I did," Yoongi deadpans.

“Then thank you, Yoongi. I owe you my life.”

Taehyung’s sprawled next to him, waving as he sips something neon green out of a plastic cup. Hoseok’s halfway out of his seat to greet you next before you’ve even set your bag down, wrapping you in a warm hug.

It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice.

You don’t get to do this often—see all of them together like this. You and Yoongi have known them since college, but adult life has a hell of a way of scattering even the most tightly-knit friendships. Different schedules, different cities, different priorities. Sometimes different continents, with Hoseok's dance troupe doing as well as they are. Nights like this feel like slipping back into a version of yourself you almost forgot existed.

"I was starting to think you guys bailed!" Hoseok shouts, releasing you from his hold to dap Yoongi up.

"And miss you being back in town?" you gasp, mock-affronted. "Never!"

"I had to peel her off the floor after work," Yoongi cuts in dryly. "Secretary life."

"You poor thing," Hoseok coos at you as he pinches your cheek.

"I’m never working again," you whine, pouting. "I’m quitting and going full sugar baby."

"Bold of you to assume anyone could afford you," Taehyung drawls, suddenly appearing by your side. He reaches out, takes both of your hands, and spins you once in place before pulling you into a slow, exaggerated dip that makes you laugh. "You’re priceless, darling. Like a Fabergé egg."

You snort. "That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year."

Yoongi taps your arm. "Drinks? I’ll go."

You nod gratefully, waving him off with a little salute as he turns toward the bar and disappears into the crowd. You settle into the couch, sinking next to Hoseok as Jimin and Taehyung drop into the seats across from you.

They immediately pepper you with questions about work, your boss, your love life (you deflect), and your outfit (approved). Hoseok starts scrolling through the group’s old college photos on his phone, passing it around to collective groans and laughter.

You forget to feel weird. You forget to think about what’s-his-face. You forget to care that you were exhausted just an hour ago.

Yoongi reappears a few minutes later holding a tray precariously stacked with glowing cocktails—red, blue, electric green, hot pink—and a whiskey you already know is his. Boring old man.

"Don’t say I never do anything for you," he says, sliding you the pink one.

You smile at him, already pulling the straw between your lips. "My hero."

The song blasting over the sound system fades into something you all recognize, and Taehyung grabs your free hand. "We're dancing now."

"I just sat down," you protest.

"Too bad," Jimin chimes in, jumping to his feet with an eyebrow waggle. "You’re not allowed to wallflower tonight. You've been spending too much time with the old man."

"Okay, okay!" you laugh, nearly spilling your drink as Taehyung tugs you to your feet and forces you to climb over Yoongi's lap. Once you're out of the booth, Jimin flanks your other side like a synchronized pincer movement. "God, give me one second to chug this."

"There's our party girl," Taehyung says approvingly as you down your drink, linking his arm through yours. 

The three of you weave out of the VIP section and into the sea of bodies moving below, abandoning Yoongi and Hoseok entirely. Normally, Hoseok would be following and showing all of you up on the dancefloor, but he's always been the closest to Yoongi aside from you, and 'Yoongi' and 'dancefloor' are rarely used in the same sentence. It makes you feel better knowing you aren't leaving him alone.

The dance floor is a living organism—pulsing, thrumming, loud. It pulls you in with heat and motion, envelops you in a crush of bodies moving to the rhythm of the bass. You squeeze between two strangers to find a pocket of space just big enough to claim, your friends flanking you like bodyguards-slash-backup dancers.

Jimin immediately starts showing off, all delicate lines and loose hips that draw stares from nearby partygoers. Taehyung bounces in place with his drink held above his head, whooping along to the beat before pulling you in.

It’s pure chaos, but the good kind. The kind that turns your brain off. You let it take you.

The music pulses in your veins, the drink you chugged already buzzing warm in your bloodstream. Your limbs loosen. You start to move, slow at first, then more freely, your hands lifting into the air as the tempo kicks up. 

It feels good. Really good. You haven’t danced like this in ages. Not just swayed in place, not politely nodded along—let go. It's like your body needed it.

Taehyung’s eyes sparkle under the strobe lights as he spins you out and reels you back in, grinning like a devil. "I forgot how hot you get when you’re tipsy."

"Quit hitting on me in front of your boyfriend," you shoot back, giggling.

"You can be our third, beautiful!" Jimin calls, cackling as Taehyung grabs two handfuls of Jimin's ass, clearly only partially for show.

You're so happy to see them doing so well, happy and in love and just as obsessed with each other as the day they got together—which didn't take long, once they'd met. They make compatibility look so easy.

You’re still laughing when Hoseok appears beside you a moment later, sweat glistening at his temples, his black shirt already sticking to his chest because it's that hot down here. He beams and starts dancing without a word, all fluid limbs and natural rhythm, like his body was music in a past life.

You fall into step with him, letting him guide your tempo. His presence is grounding, playful. His hands skim your waist as he spins you around, and you twirl back into him easily, laughing all the while.

You’re flushed, winded, but happy.

Eventually, you lean into him and pant out, "where’s Yoongi?"

"Still in the booth, I think," he shouts over the music. "Said he was enjoying the show."

You roll your eyes but something in your chest tugs a little. You rest a hand on Hoseok’s shoulder. "Cover for me?" you shout back.

He throws you a lazy salute and instantly turns his attention to Jimin and Taehyung, already back in his element.

You make the trek back, weaving through the dense tide of bodies like a fish swimming upstream. Your skin is damp with sweat, your chest heaving a little from dancing, but you’re smiling, breathless in the best way. It takes longer than expected to reach the booth—you forgot how far back you'd gone. The VIP section is elevated slightly above the main floor, just enough to give a view of the writhing crowd below. 

As you climb the shallow steps, you scan the seating area, spotting your table right away. Yoongi is still in the booth, right where you left him, one arm stretched lazily across the back of the couch, whiskey glass resting on his thigh.

But he’s not alone.

A woman stands beside him, her body angled towards him in interest. She’s gorgeous—tall, confident, draped in a silky dress that catches the light every time she shifts her weight. One of her long legs is propped casually against the edge of the table, emphasizing the length of her thigh. She touches his arm when she laughs, a perfectly manicured hand skimming lightly down the fabric of his jacket like she has every right to be doing it.

And Yoongi lets her. 

He's decidedly not pushing her away. His mouth tilts at the corners, eyes sharp and watchful. He takes a slow sip of his drink and says something that makes her laugh again, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder.

You stop dead in your tracks, just outside the velvet rope, watching the whole thing unfold. Eventually he glances in your direction, as if sensing you watching him. When your eyes meet, he lifts a brow, then shrugs like what can you do?

You look away, heart skipping for reasons you don’t examine too closely. 

It’s not jealousy. It’s not. You’ve watched that exact same scenario unfold a thousand times and never felt a thing.

Back in college, it was practically a revolving door. Girls and guys alike, slipping in and out of your shared apartment at all hours. You’d roll your eyes when you heard muffled sounds from his bedroom, put your headphones in, do your best to ignore the obvious, because that was what living with Yoongi was like. That was just how he was, back then.

You didn’t ask questions, although you made fun of him for it sometimes. Called him a slut, which he never denied.

But now, standing here in the middle of a bar surrounded by your oldest friends, watching your best friend get casually flirted with by someone who clearly wants to go home with him, you can’t stop thinking about it.

Yoongi knows things. Yoongi’s done things.

You can't, for the life of you, contend with the idea that he's done those things, but at the very least, you know he isn't a prude. Maybe he would be a good person to talk to about all of this. He's your best friend. 

You square your shoulders and make yourself move again, even though your instincts are screaming at you to turn around and pretend you didn’t see anything. You step past the velvet rope, heart thudding, the confidence you’d found on the dance floor wavering with every step closer. 

Yoongi’s attention snaps fully to you now. Whatever he says to the woman beside him next is still quiet enough under the blaring music that you don't catch it, but it's firm. She follows his gaze to you, her smile faltering just a fraction before smoothing back into place. She straightens, gives Yoongi’s arm one last lingering touch, and disappears back into the crowd without another glance your way. 

You slide into the seat next to him, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still racing.

"Not your type?" you ask, instead of commenting on how fucking weird that was.

"I don’t really have a type."

You hum. "That’s very bisexual of you."

He snorts into his whiskey.

"She was pretty," you add after a moment.

Yoongi sets his drink down, eyes on the dance floor instead of you. "She was."

"You could’ve taken her home."

"I could’ve," he agrees.

You tilt your head, watching him. "But you aren't."

He shrugs, finally glancing at you. "Didn’t feel like it."

"Mm. Getting soft in your old age."

He huffs, lips twitching at the corners. "Please. I’m still ten times worse than you think."

You roll your eyes, but a matching smile tugs at the corner of your mouth anyway. "You’ve mellowed."

"Only because you're around. I'm not here for that, I'm here for you, remember?"

You snort, playing it off like he’s joking—but part of you bristles at the subtext. "So you're my caretaker now?"

"I've been your caretaker since we were kids," he says, and takes another sip of his whiskey.

You pause at that. Not because it surprises you—he’s said things like that before, half-teasing, half-serious, like it’s just a fact of life that he looks out for you. But tonight, it sounds different. You don't know why.

"You don’t have to do that anymore, you know," you say.

"Do what?"

"Take care of me."

He turns his head then, finally meets your eyes. "I know I don’t have to."

"Then why do you?" you press.

His jaw tightens so subtly you almost don't catch it, but you've known him practically your entire life. Of course you catch it. You know what it looks like when he doesn't want to talk about something.

"You’re my best friend," he says eventually. "I look out for you. It’s not that deep."

Before either of you can say anything else, the couch cushions shift beside you. Taehyung flops down with zero warning, sweaty and breathless, a bottle of water in one hand and what looks like a melted Jell-O shot in the other.

"God, that dance floor is disgusting," he pants, turning to you both with a boxy grin. "I love it."

Jimin appears next, a glittery sheen of sweat dusting his collarbones and the tops of his cheeks. "You ditched us," he accuses, pointing at you like you committed a crime.

"I didn’t ditch!" you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "I retreated."

"You went to flirt with Yoongi," Jimin says.

You open your mouth to argue, but Yoongi cuts in flatly, "we weren’t flirting."

"Ugh, killjoy,” Taehyung says, waving a hand. "Let us dream."

That conversation is thankfully cut off when Hoseok hands you another cocktail—purple this time, with a sugared rim and something floating in it that might be edible glitter.

"What is this?" you ask, not really caring.

"Magic."

You take a gulp. It’s strong. Very strong, and very sweet. You don’t know what the hell is in it, but it’s exactly what you need right now.

Conversation flows easily after that. You all lounge together, tangled and comfortable in the way only old friends can be. Someone brings up that one disastrous spring break trip in college—Busan, sunburns, motel room horrors—and the whole group dissolves into laughter that leaves your cheeks aching.

Yoongi’s beside you, as always, close enough to feel the warmth of him through your clothes. He’s quiet, letting the others do most of the talking, but he’s listening. You can tell by the way his gaze tracks each speaker, the way his mouth twitches into half-smiles at your shared inside jokes.

At one point, Jimin pulls out his phone to show a video of Taehyung dancing on a pool table during that same trip. Everyone loses it.

"No, no—wait," Taehyung wheezes. "Play the part where I fall off—there—right there!"

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how he won me over," Jimin teases, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

It’s like that for a while. Comfortable. Easy.

But not endless.

Eventually, your eyelids feel heavy. You’re not in college anymore. You feel it in your knees, in the way your back aches a little from standing in heels too long. You’ve been running on fumes since yesterday, and one look at Yoongi tells you he’s in the same boat. 

Eventually, he leans in, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. "Wanna head out?"

You glance at the time on your phone and wince. Nearly 2 a.m. "Yeah, probably. Before my feet fall off."

He stands first, stretching with a muted grunt, and then offers you a hand to help you up. You take it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand lingers at your lower back as you steady yourself.

"I think we’re gonna head home," you say.

"Nooo," Jimin groans immediately. "It’s too early!"

"It’s almost two!" 

"She needs her beauty sleep," Hoseok says gently, already helping Jimin shift to make room for you to grab your bag.

"And Yoongi?" Jimin asks, eyes narrowing. "What’s your excuse?"

"Someone has to be there when she falls asleep in the Uber," Yoongi says.

"You two are no fun," Taehyung pouts.

"Text us when you get home," Hoseok says, pulling you into another warm hug. Sweaty, this time. Gross.

"I will," you murmur, squeezing back. "Don’t let Jimin convince you to go anywhere else tonight."

"I make no promises!"

Before you go, Taehyung demands a final selfie, pulling all of you into the frame of his phone camera.

You and Yoongi weave your way out the way you came in—past the glowing jellyfish lights, past the packed dance floor, past the line of strangers still waiting to get inside. The cool night air hits you like a wave the moment you step outside, prickling your skin.

"Thank god," Yoongi mutters.

You glance sideways at him. "Too much for the old man?"

"Shut up."

You smile, stepping off the curb to flag down a car.

It’s only when you’re seated in the back, the city blurring past the windows, that you let your head fall softly against Yoongi’s shoulder. He adjusts slightly so you’re more comfortable, so you don’t jostle too much when the driver hits a pothole.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" you mumble, eyes fluttering shut. "That you’re here for me."

"Yeah," he says, quiet.

You don’t reply. You just let yourself drift, lulled by the quiet, steady beat of his pulse where your temple rests. He doesn’t move until you’re home.

୨ৎ

You toe your heels off as soon as the front door closes behind you. The club is still pulsing in your blood—bass in your bones, sweat on your skin, sugary liquor coating your tongue—but underneath it all, there’s something else. A deeper ache.

Yoongi locks the door behind you with a soft click and shrugs out of his jacket. You hang back in the entryway, watching him tiredly.

Yoongi glances over his shoulder. "You good?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then rub your face with both hands and groan. "I don't know."

Yoongi raises a brow but doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet sticking faintly to the cool tile. The room tilts slightly under your feet. "I need to tell you something."

"Ominous," he says lightly, following you to the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge until he emerges with two water bottles.

"Do you…" You trail off. Try again. "You’ve… been with a lot of people, right?"

"Is this your roundabout way of calling me a manwhore?" he jokes, pushing a bottle into your hands. "Am I being slut-shamed in my own home?"

You shove his arm gently, frowning. "No, I just—I mean—you know things. About… sex."

Yoongi sobers a little, his teasing expression fading. He sits at one of the high stools at the kitchen counter, and you follow, sliding into the other one. "Yeah…? I know a thing or two."

You hesitate for a second. "I’ve been looking stuff up," you say quickly, forcing the words out.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just blinks, like he’s waiting for the rest.

"It’s… kind of embarrassing."

"Nothing you say is gonna shock me," he says gently. "You know that, right?"

Ha. Yeah, he says that, but…

Catching the expression on your face, Yoongi just gestures with his water, like try me.

You hesitate, picking at the edge of the label on your bottle. "Last night, after what's-his-face… I don’t know. I was thinking about all the times I’ve tried to have sex. Like, actually enjoy it. And it just… never worked, you know? For me."

Yoongi’s brows pinch slightly, because no, he didn't know. You never told him. But again, he doesn’t interrupt.

"I used to think it was just me. That maybe I was broken or something," you go on, your words gaining momentum now, tumbling out unchecked. "But I started reading. And watching things. And I came across these forums, and—" You swallow. "Turns out there’s, like, a whole community of people who feel the same way. And then I started reading more about, uh…"

You finally open the bottle and take a long drink, like it might wash the words out of your mouth.

"…BDSM."

There. You said it.

Yoongi goes perfectly still.

"I wasn’t planning on, like—I didn’t think I’d be into it," you continue. "But the more I read, the more things started to click. About me." You draw in a shaky breath. "And I found these sites. Places where people meet up. Find partners who are into the same things as them…"

You trail off again, suddenly hyper-aware of how much you’re saying.

"Holy shit," he replies.

It seems like it's about all he can manage.

You bark a laugh, even though your cheeks burn. "I thought you said I couldn't shock you?"

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah well, I-I… wasn’t expecting that."

"Sorry."

"No, don’t be sorry," he says quickly, taking a gulp of water. "Just… wow. Okay. So you’ve been researching?"

"Too much." You press the cold bottle to your cheek, trying to cool the heat rising under your skin. “I even made an account,” you admit. “On one of the sites. Just to lurk at first. I wasn’t gonna message anyone or anything, but I filled out the profile. I picked, like, preferences and limits and stuff. There were drop-downs for everything—kinks, experience levels, dynamic roles…” 

Yoongi makes a strangled sound, something between a cough and a groan.

You glance at him. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," he says, clearing his throat. "Just… processing."

You nod slowly, eyeing him for a moment before looking down at your water again. 

"Anyway… That’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t think I’d ever tell you, but… I don't know. I need to tell someone."

Yoongi is silent for a long moment. "I’ve been in the scene for years. You know that, right?"

You whip your head toward him. "What?"

"Yeah. Since college." His voice is calm, but his ears are turning red. "I, uh. Yeah."

You gape at him. "You’re into BDSM?"

He nods, scratching the back of his neck. "Yep."

"And you never told me?"

"I thought you knew!"

"Wait, hold on. You're seriously—"

"—You shouldn't be on those sites," he interrupts.

It stops you cold.

"Excuse me?"

He holds up a hand. "I don’t mean it like that."

"Then how do you mean it?" you bite out, sharp with defensiveness. "What, you think I’m too soft or something?"

"No! Fuck no," he says instantly. "That’s not what I meant."

"Then what?" you demand.

He exhales hard. "You’re too green. Too new. I mean, you said it yourself, you just learned about this shit last night. Those sites are full of people who can sniff out inexperience from a mile away, and some of them will absolutely use it against you. They’ll push your boundaries, make you think you’re consenting when you’re not, manipulate you into stuff you’re not ready for. And if something goes wrong… you won’t even know until it’s already happened."

That shuts you up.

You sit there, staring at him, your grip tightening around the bottle in your hands.

He softens. "I’m not saying you can’t explore it. You absolutely can. But you should do it with someone who knows what they’re doing."

You stare at him, incredulous. "Like who?"

"…Like me?"

What. The. Fuck.

You laugh nervously. "What?" 

"If you’re just looking to test it out," he says, watching you carefully, "do it with me."

"Yoongi, you have to know how fucking crazy that sounds. You're my best friend!"

“I don’t want you to get hurt. Look, you think some random dom online is going to care if you get freaked out? That they’d stop the second your body freezes even if you can’t get the words out?"

You hesitate, blinking fast. Because the truth is, you don’t know if they would. During your research, among all the positive stuff, you also read the horror stories. The idea of that happening with someone who doesn’t know you or care to learn—yeah. That scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I would," he says confidently. "I’d stop before you even asked."

"But we’re friends," you say weakly.

"That’s why you can trust me, right?"

You slide off the stool and start to pace, like maybe if you move around you'll be able to make sense of things.

You and Yoongi have never really had the type of friendship where you talk openly about sex, but there were hints, now that you think about it. Little breadcrumbs scattered over the years. 

You didn’t have the vocabulary for it back then—BDSM, kink, safe words, aftercare—but you had eyes. You had ears.

And memory.

Like the time you passed by his room on your way to brush your teeth, only to find Yoongi walking a girl out. She was glowing. Lipstick smudged, hair a mess, but she looked like she’d just been told the secrets of the universe. You barely had time to register the faint pink ligature marks circling her wrists before he was pulling her coat over her arms. She wobbled slightly in her heels as she walked out the door, and Yoongi caught her elbow to steady her.

The same girl had cried the night before, loudly enough for you to hear the hiccuped sobs through the thin walls. But they hadn’t sounded distressed. If anything, they’d sounded like… like she was enjoying herself.

At the time, you didn’t want to know the details. Now… maybe you do.

You just hadn’t wanted to put two and two together. You hadn’t wanted to believe that the same man who stocks your favorite snacks when he knows you’ve had a bad week, who remembers how you take your tea and buys your tampons when you forget, who quietly places a pillow under your head when you fall asleep on the couch—your Yoongi—could also be the same man who ties pretty girls up and whispers filthy things in their ears and ruins them in the best possible way.

But he is. He is. And maybe that’s the part that makes your stomach flutter—how those two sides coexist so easily in him. How he’s never tried to hide it, but never flaunted it either. Just carried it, like everything else, like something quiet and steady and sure.

And now he’s offering it to you. Not in a casual, "let’s fuck" kind of way. Not like a guy trying to take advantage of a drunk confession.

He's offering because he knows you better than anyone. Because he sees how overwhelmed you are and wants you to be safe. Wants you to understand. Wants you to learn with someone who gives a shit about what happens to you.

You stare at him, still reeling. Still pacing. Still piecing together all the signs you should’ve paid more attention to. Your heart is loud in your chest.

"You’re serious," you say finally.

"Dead serious."

Baffled, you ask, "Yoongi, are you even attracted to me?"

His eyes flicker, just for half a second, but it’s enough. You know him too well. The answer’s already there, even before he speaks.

"I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t."

You stop pacing instantly.

"I’m not saying we jump into anything tonight," he continues. "I’m saying… if you want to learn, I can teach you. Safely. At your pace. With rules, and check-ins, and safewords, and—hell, a whole fucking PowerPoint if that’s what you need."

You laugh, despite yourself, at the way he's rambling in a very un-Yoongi-like way. It comforts you to see that tiny crack in his armor, to be able to think that he might be just as nervous as you are.

"And if we start, and you decide you hate it?" he continues. "We stop. No questions asked. And nothing will be ruined, okay? I'll still be the same Yoongi I've always been."

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. "And you really think you can help me?"

"I know I can."

Fuck.

Your mouth feels dry. Your whole body feels hot, flushed from the inside out. 

You search his face, looking for some kind of sign that he’s joking or just caught in the heat of the moment. But there’s nothing performative about him right now. His expression is wide open. 

You exhale shakily. "This is a lot."

"I know," he says gently. "You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to say anything right now."

"But if I did," you ask quietly, "what would happen? What would that even look like?" You swallow thickly. "I mean. You’d, uh… You'd be the one in control, right?"

He nods. "You’d have control too. More than you think." He bites his lip. "We’d talk through all of it first. No surprises, if that's what you need. I’d explain everything. Show you the ropes."

"Literally?"

He smirks. "Maybe."

Another nervous laugh bubbles up from your throat and you shake your head, disbelieving. "God, I can’t believe this conversation is real."

"Me neither. But I’m glad you told me."

"I need time to think."

"I know."

"But I'm not saying no," you clarify.

Yoongi does a really, really shitty job of biting back his smirk this time. "Noticed that, too."

God. Has he always talked like that?

Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of everything: your bare legs under the hem of your dress, the soft brush of your hair against your collarbone, the fact that your nipples are pebbled against the thin fabric of your bra, and oh god, he can probably tell. He's staring at you, and you've never had this look directed at you before, not from him. 

You cross your arms, trying to act normal, trying to suppress the heat blooming across your chest and spreading lower.

Yoongi gently pushes back his stool and stands.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "But that doesn’t mean we have to keep talking about it tonight."

Your brows pull together. "You’re not… weirded out that I brought it up?"

"No. Absolutely not. Never. I’m proud of you for telling me."

That shouldn’t do what it does to you. The quiet 'proud of you' shouldn’t make your legs go a little weak. But it does.

You nod, looking away.

He steps forward and rests a hand lightly on your upper arm, not gripping, just a warm point of contact, grounding you.

"You’ve had a long night," he says. "You’re buzzed, tired, probably overloaded with new feelings. It’s a lot. Let your body catch up with your brain, okay?"

You nod again, slower this time. "Okay."

"I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything. Seriously. Anything."

You know he means it. He always has.

He squeezes your arm gently before letting go. "Go wash your face. Put on pajamas. Get some rest, okay?"

"Okay," you say, knowing instantly that you're going to do exactly all of that. How many times has Yoongi told you to do something and you've just listened without a second thought? Oh god. "Goodnight."

"Night."

You linger there after he leaves the kitchen, fingers brushing the spot where his hand had been.

But your brain is still a mess. You exhale hard and press your palms to your burning cheeks.

Jesus fucking Christ. Are you seriously considering fucking your best friend?

a/n 2: RRRRRAHHHHHH THIS ONE IS GOING TO BE SOOOO FUN YOU GUYS!!! i SO hope you enjoyed the first chapter! i jumped the gun on this one, BUT we’re on a tentative posting schedule for this fic (every other friday) so you can hopefully expect the next drop on feb. 20!!!

please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts so far 😋 also the taglist for this fic is officially open, so if you’d like to be added 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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Date No. 3: The Flat Earther Tee

When Yoongi texts on Friday to hit up his friend’s gig in a club downtown, you think okay, yes, maybe this is the night the tides turn. Clubs are sweaty. Clubs are loud. Tongues do be coming out in clubs! Yessss!

You show up in one of those trendy black off-shoulder tops with asymmetrical, distressed hemlines. The strap of your lacy lilac top peek from your shoulder. For bottoms, you got cargos and platform Converses. Honestly, it’s giving Kuromi-chic and you feel cute as hell, okay?

Speaking of cute.

At the bar, you spot Yoongi dressed head to toe in black, loose tee splashed with white typography, black baggy jeans, two silver hoops glinting under the dim light, and silver chains around his neck. 

Ughh. He looks fresh as hell!

And you’re actually kind of matching. Heehee.

“Hey,” he says when you reach him, voice warm but low enough you have to lean in and get a whiff of his scent. “Sup?”

“I like your hair.”

He scrunches his nose, scratching it with his index after. “Thanks. I had time to mess with it earlier.”

“Looks good.”

Taking your hand, he brings you to a cordoned off area. He goes straight for the bar and asks if you’d like a martini, which is what you ordered on your first date. He remembered!

He cannot be this perfect, really. But your mental tabulation of his stellar qualities is telling you otherwise.

Fit: check. Cologne: check. Attention to detail: check.

Later on, you’re eating some light fare and enjoying your drinks in a quieter corner of the bar while waiting for Doom & Hope’s set to start.

You chat, nothing too deep. Just regular stuff about work, what you had for lunch, this new show. This and Thats that are casual, but very much needed as you get to know each other.

You did remember Tae said to ask Yoongi this specific question and gauge his reaction. So, here goes.

“So,” you start conspiratorially, swirling your drink with the plastic stirrer that came with it. “Why are you single?”

He breaks into a smile full of gum and enamels. “No game, remember?”

“Nah, don’t give me that. What’s your deal?”

He leans back, shrugs, “I’m kind of a hermit. I rarely go out.”

“Why not?”

“Eh, I just keep to myself most days. Me and my music.”

“But still, you meet people, right? Work, grocery runs, socials?”

“Totally.” He nods with a wry smile. “People look at me and immediately think, ‘Wow, he must love small talk.’” 

“Okaaaay?”

“Uh huh, my DMs be wild.” His expression stays flat just long enough to make you question him, then he chuckles. “I’m joking. No one messages me. They know I don’t answer.”

You smirk, taking a sip. “And yet you’ve been sending me memes…”

He hums, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Guess I have been doing that, huh?”

A short beat passes, and now he is looking at you with calm curiosity.

“Well,” he says finally. “You’re one to talk. Why are you single?”

“I date, but…” You trail off, but decide you can just be upfront with him. “You do know what people use Hookie for, right?”

“What do you mean?” His mouth quirks into a curious pout.

“Yoongi…?”

He blinks, genuinely lost. “What? It’s just another app, like Tinder or Bumble, isn’t it?”

You almost choke on your drink. “No. Hookie is for… shit, how do I explain this—umm, if one might need, you know, a one night stand. It’s kind of its whole niche.”

“Oh.” His brows lift. Then again, longer, “Ooohhhh.”

“Yeah...”

A beat of silence settles as you both process this new information. 

On his side, probably, irked that his friends did him dirty.

But for you, everything suddenly clicks into place. Of course he didn’t know. It explains why he’s been the way he is with you: polite, measured, never pushing, never trying to get handsy every five seconds. 

It dawns on you that this self-professed non-dating, people-hatin’ hermit actually swiped right to give dating you a solid try. Huh.

You watch as he takes a slow sip of whiskey, thinking. When he sets the glass down, his top lip is still wet, catching the light.

“Well,” he asks, adjusting a ring on his index, “is that still what you want from me… just a quick fuck?”

The way the profanity sounded coming from him is stupidly sexy, but why does he look… worried? There’s a small crease between his brows that you impulsively want to kiss away.

You shake your head. “No,” you say, a little breathless. “I like getting to know you. I want… way more than that.”

Because the truth is, you’re in too deep now and your days of one and done might be over.

His friends’ set is electric. The bass hits like a heartbeat, and when their song Sexy Nukim drops, the room practically thrums with it.

The sound wraps around the crowd, a melody so sexy and sultry and just impossible to ignore. 

You and Yoongi are caught right in the middle. The lights dim a little as the visual effects machines envelop the club in smoke and strobe. 

You catch a vibe and you start to sway without meaning to, letting the rhythm find you. It’s a slow, easy motion at first. You circle your hips, the back of your thigh just grazing his. You look over your shoulder, sweeping your hair aside to bare your neck.

Yoongi watches you move, lip caught between his teeth. But he doesn’t move yet. He shakes his head, smirks, like you’re doing something both hilarious and dangerous. Even in the dark, there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he is hungry, but still holding back. And you’re fully determined to pull out all the stops to test his restraint.

The music swells again, and he’s nodding to the beat. You force your eyes ahead at the performers, but your body has a mind of its own.

Your back meets his chest and finally fuckin’ finally you feel his touch—fingers ghosting along your waist, sliding against the strip of skin where your clothes don’t meet. His hands splay across your stomach, pushing you back slightly before his thumb curls itself on the belt loop of your jeans, as your bodies start moving to the rhythm together.

The bass drops. Your hips roll. His follow. 

He angles his body forward just enough that you feel him with every shift. His palms slide lower, fitting perfectly against the curve of your hip, guiding your movements.

You might not be a dancer, but you know how to work your body. You try it. You roll against him once, twice, and then slower, dirtier, and shit, Yoongi is matching your pace so fuckin’ well. You dip low when the bass thumps, and he’s right there with you, knees knocking the back of yours. Your bodies are fused, skin on skin, sweat against sweat, friction building with the music. You’re sure he can feel it. How feral this is making you.

The tempo of the song seems to swim inside your veins. When you arch back, ass brushing his front more deliberately than before, you hear it, a soft groan spilling from his beautiful mouth. You echo it, unable to control yourself.

You turn around to link your hands at the back of his neck, your chest against his. There’s a curve on his lips that you haven't seen before. It’s a snarl, almost, and he nods, lip bitten, as if he knows all your filthy thoughts and he’s thinking them, too. 

Oh you’re so fucked when he slots his thigh between your legs. You’re both moving now, a slow grind that isn’t even pretending to be dancing anymore. 

Your nails rake against his scalp, his sweat drenching your fingers. The squeeze on your hip is wanting but also a warning, though his eyes trail the glistening skin on your neck like he is mesmerized.

When you tug his messy long hair, he hisses through his teeth. His eyes are onyx, deep pools of desire and you’re wet and drowning. There’s no question now. He wants you, too.

Feeling more brazen, you pull him closer, nosing the slick heat of his neck. You probably inhale every single pheromone he is emitting because what you do next can only be described as primal. You drag your tongue across his skin, licking the salt and spice like a fuckin’ animal.

“Ah, shit—” he rasps, caught off guard by your actions. And you are, too because that rough gruff against your ear nearly ruins your panties.

“Yoongi,” you breathe out his name and it feels like the confirmation that you’ve gone mad.

It’s almost sick, the desire to kiss him in the middle of this oasis of bodies, raw beats the soundtrack of your lust because you know he needs it as bad as you. You tilt your head, seconds from closing the distance, from finally knowing what he tastes like…

But the song ends and the spotlight flares towards the stage as the performers say their ending ment. Yoongi releases you from his embrace as he looks up at his friends and claps, and that’s your cue to do the same. 

Moment over.

Speaking of his friends.

Namjoon and Hoseok, otherwise known as Doom Boy and Hope World, are actually nice guys.

You say this, because they are sitting in front of you in this limo, doling out shots like it’s going out of style.

Truth be told, you don’t remember much about the conversation, but it was light and breezy because y’all were just driving around Seoul drizzunk.

By the time you reach your house. You decide: oh, you really like Yoongi’s friends. Even though in less than 24 hours they’ve already unwittingly cockblocked you twice.

Yoongi walks you to your door, hand warm against the small of your back. This time, the hug lasts longer and his hand dips lower, suspiciously close to your ass.

He still has his arms around you when he drawls in his smoky satoori, “You looked so fuckin’ hot tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmh, was the luckiest man out there.”

It’s the alcohol sloshing in your brain that makes you say: “You can be the luckiest one in here, too… if you want.” You hook your finger on the chain around his neck, pulling him in.

He grins, wide and syrupy, like he’s letting your words warm him up, before he tongues the inside of his cheek.

“Baby,” he rasps and you might have come just from that alone. “I want this too, but I want you to remember every single thing I’m gonna do to you.” He tucks a stray tendril behind your ear,  then cups your jaw. “Next time, yeah? When we’ve had less to drink.” 

He leans in, presses a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, and murmurs, rumbly and deep. “Take care of yourself for me, mkay?” 

Before you can protest, he’s squeezing your hip once before he retreats to the car.

You close your door, forehead against the wood. He’s edged you all night, and now you’re left with no choice. You’re taking his advice to take care of yourself, battery-powered assist included.

Meanwhile, in the 📱 Boy Scouts GC

Jin: pay up, kids Namjoon: fck hold on i dont remmber my paswrd Hobi: sent ✅ Yoongi: tf Namjoon: she so fine hyung Hobi: fr, it should be a crime to look that fine Yoongi: 🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽 somebody explain before i Jin: we bet on who’d find the lucky lady to get you out of your hermit era Jin: you’re welcome 😘 Yoongi: i literally met her on an app ??? Jin: behold. exhibit a:

(screenshot attached — From a chat with Namjoon and Hobi six months prior. There’s a photo of Jin grinning with the glam team from his “Bachelors” shoot, captioned: “The girl, 2nd from the left. Wdyt?” It’s you.)

Yoongi: typing… Jin: yoongi… let hyung tell you a story

[Interlude: 6 months ago]

🗓 June 2025📍 Whitespace Studio, Gangnam-gu, Seoul

You’ve been on your feet since sunrise, adjusting hems, fixing collars, chasing stray flyaways. You’ve met nine of Seoul’s most eligible bachelors (supposedly, and according to readers of the magazine, at least). Finally, you’re down to the last one.

Kim Seokjin. The restaurateur-slash-model-slash-everyone’s-type. He greets the crew with a polite bow that somehow captivates the entire room. You’re all tired having done this thing for hours, but he brings in a crate of strawberries from his farm and some pastries from his bakery and the mood shifts just like that.

“Hi, I’m Jin,” he says when you hand him the pressed jacket. “Sorry, I’m a little sweaty. I was running late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, crossing your arms. “You still look disgustingly eligible. And showing up with food? You’re really out here tryna one-up the rest, huh?”

He grins, eyes crinkling. “Happy to know it worked.”

He wears the jacket in one fluid motion, through his arms and over his chest. You step back to check the line of the blazer then you fuss with lapels a bit. Satisfied, you say, “There. Now you look like Seoul’s 6th most eligible bachelor.”

“Fifth!” he blurts, half-embarrassed, half-proud. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know? Living up to Top 5 bachelor expectations.”

“Tragic,” you say, deadpan. “Beautiful, successful, unattached man can’t catch a break.”

You suddenly hear the sound of windshield wipers, before you realize it was him laughing. The makeup artist approaches both of you and starts applying lip balm on his lips.

You say bye and he winks. You think he’s just being friendly, another charming client to cross off the list. When he asks for your number in case he needs a stylist for other projects, you don’t think twice before typing it into his phone.

[Jin’s POV]

He’s supposed to focus on the shoot, angles, light, remembering not to blink when the flash hits, but all he can think is, she’s kind of great. You, the stylist with bright eyes and an easy-going energy. He enjoys it, the way you joke without fawning, the casual banter. It’s refreshing.

When the photographer calls for a break, he watches you rearrange a rack of suits. You hum to yourself, oblivious to the fact that Jin knows that melody, too, because his best friend wrote it.

“You like that song?”

“Yeah, I heard it on the radio and I can't get it out of my head. Why?”

“No reason,” he says, smiling too quickly.

But in his head, a thought sparks. Yoongi’s song, hummed by who could potentially be Yoongi’s girl. Same quiet humor. Same edge that hides warmth. Honestly, you look like you might be his type. 

It’s been a while since he had that bet with Namjoon and Hoseok. Underneath the jokes, he really does want to help Yoongi be happy again. And so Jin imagines being the author of this cute little story. Introducing you, how awkward Yoongi would get, how you’d tease him into talking anyway. Fun dates, good banter. It’s a love story for the ages!

Jin nearly says something, I have this friend you might get along with, but the photographer’s calling him back before he can decide if that’s weird.

Instead, he asks for your number, promising himself to text for future projects.

You wave as you leave, telling him, “Good luck with the bachelor thing.”

He smiles, a little distracted, wondering for a fleeting second if he should just keep you to himself. But no, he’s a good hyung. He follows his first instinct and texts Yoongi about you, tacking your number at the end of it. In his haste, what he doesn’t realize is the tiny red text that appears underneath the bubble. The message never actually sends.

Weeks pass. Work piles up. When he finally remembers to ask about it, Yoongi just shrugs, distracted and dismissive as always, and Jin laughs it off. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.

And like most things, it fades, just another almost in their busy lives. There are dinners, deadlines, music, tuna, inside jokes. He forgets to finish the story.

Until one slow night at a pub, Namjoon teases Yoongi about “his monk era” or was it “shriveling dick” and before Yoongi knows it, they’re all huddled over the beat-up olive Galaxy phone, drunk as hell, but full of good intentions.

Jin signs Yoongi up for the app and picks the best photo in his gallery. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figures it’s harmless fun, just a way to nudge Yoongi out of his rut.

But without realizing it, he’s setting the story back in motion.

To be continued... [Date no. 4]

A/N: Hehehehe 😈 Maybe in date no. 4...?

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human xo

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Date No. 3: The Flat Earther Tee

When Yoongi texts on Friday to hit up his friend’s gig in a club downtown, you think okay, yes, maybe this is the night the tides turn. Clubs are sweaty. Clubs are loud. Tongues do be coming out in clubs! Yessss!

You show up in one of those trendy black off-shoulder tops with asymmetrical, distressed hemlines. The strap of your lacy lilac top peek from your shoulder. For bottoms, you got cargos and platform Converses. Honestly, it’s giving Kuromi-chic and you feel cute as hell, okay?

Speaking of cute.

At the bar, you spot Yoongi dressed head to toe in black, loose tee splashed with white typography, black baggy jeans, two silver hoops glinting under the dim light, and silver chains around his neck. 

Ughh. He looks fresh as hell!

And you’re actually kind of matching. Heehee.

“Hey,” he says when you reach him, voice warm but low enough you have to lean in and get a whiff of his scent. “Sup?”

“I like your hair.”

He scrunches his nose, scratching it with his index after. “Thanks. I had time to mess with it earlier.”

“Looks good.”

Taking your hand, he brings you to a cordoned off area. He goes straight for the bar and asks if you’d like a martini, which is what you ordered on your first date. He remembered!

He cannot be this perfect, really. But your mental tabulation of his stellar qualities is telling you otherwise.

Fit: check. Cologne: check. Attention to detail: check.

Later on, you’re eating some light fare and enjoying your drinks in a quieter corner of the bar while waiting for Doom & Hope’s set to start.

You chat, nothing too deep. Just regular stuff about work, what you had for lunch, this new show. This and Thats that are casual, but very much needed as you get to know each other.

You did remember Tae said to ask Yoongi this specific question and gauge his reaction. So, here goes.

“So,” you start conspiratorially, swirling your drink with the plastic stirrer that came with it. “Why are you single?”

He breaks into a smile full of gum and enamels. “No game, remember?”

“Nah, don’t give me that. What’s your deal?”

He leans back, shrugs, “I’m kind of a hermit. I rarely go out.”

“Why not?”

“Eh, I just keep to myself most days. Me and my music.”

“But still, you meet people, right? Work, grocery runs, socials?”

“Totally.” He nods with a wry smile. “People look at me and immediately think, ‘Wow, he must love small talk.’” 

“Okaaaay?”

“Uh huh, my DMs be wild.” His expression stays flat just long enough to make you question him, then he chuckles. “I’m joking. No one messages me. They know I don’t answer.”

You smirk, taking a sip. “And yet you’ve been sending me memes…”

He hums, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Guess I have been doing that, huh?”

A short beat passes, and now he is looking at you with calm curiosity.

“Well,” he says finally. “You’re one to talk. Why are you single?”

“I date, but…” You trail off, but decide you can just be upfront with him. “You do know what people use Hookie for, right?”

“What do you mean?” His mouth quirks into a curious pout.

“Yoongi…?”

He blinks, genuinely lost. “What? It’s just another app, like Tinder or Bumble, isn’t it?”

You almost choke on your drink. “No. Hookie is for… shit, how do I explain this—umm, if one might need, you know, a one night stand. It’s kind of its whole niche.”

“Oh.” His brows lift. Then again, longer, “Ooohhhh.”

“Yeah...”

A beat of silence settles as you both process this new information. 

On his side, probably, irked that his friends did him dirty.

But for you, everything suddenly clicks into place. Of course he didn’t know. It explains why he’s been the way he is with you: polite, measured, never pushing, never trying to get handsy every five seconds. 

It dawns on you that this self-professed non-dating, people-hatin’ hermit actually swiped right to give dating you a solid try. Huh.

You watch as he takes a slow sip of whiskey, thinking. When he sets the glass down, his top lip is still wet, catching the light.

“Well,” he asks, adjusting a ring on his index, “is that still what you want from me… just a quick fuck?”

The way the profanity sounded coming from him is stupidly sexy, but why does he look… worried? There’s a small crease between his brows that you impulsively want to kiss away.

You shake your head. “No,” you say, a little breathless. “I like getting to know you. I want… way more than that.”

Because the truth is, you’re in too deep now and your days of one and done might be over.

His friends’ set is electric. The bass hits like a heartbeat, and when their song Sexy Nukim drops, the room practically thrums with it.

The sound wraps around the crowd, a melody so sexy and sultry and just impossible to ignore. 

You and Yoongi are caught right in the middle. The lights dim a little as the visual effects machines envelop the club in smoke and strobe. 

You catch a vibe and you start to sway without meaning to, letting the rhythm find you. It’s a slow, easy motion at first. You circle your hips, the back of your thigh just grazing his. You look over your shoulder, sweeping your hair aside to bare your neck.

Yoongi watches you move, lip caught between his teeth. But he doesn’t move yet. He shakes his head, smirks, like you’re doing something both hilarious and dangerous. Even in the dark, there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he is hungry, but still holding back. And you’re fully determined to pull out all the stops to test his restraint.

The music swells again, and he’s nodding to the beat. You force your eyes ahead at the performers, but your body has a mind of its own.

Your back meets his chest and finally fuckin’ finally you feel his touch—fingers ghosting along your waist, sliding against the strip of skin where your clothes don’t meet. His hands splay across your stomach, pushing you back slightly before his thumb curls itself on the belt loop of your jeans, as your bodies start moving to the rhythm together.

The bass drops. Your hips roll. His follow. 

He angles his body forward just enough that you feel him with every shift. His palms slide lower, fitting perfectly against the curve of your hip, guiding your movements.

You might not be a dancer, but you know how to work your body. You try it. You roll against him once, twice, and then slower, dirtier, and shit, Yoongi is matching your pace so fuckin’ well. You dip low when the bass thumps, and he’s right there with you, knees knocking the back of yours. Your bodies are fused, skin on skin, sweat against sweat, friction building with the music. You’re sure he can feel it. How feral this is making you.

The tempo of the song seems to swim inside your veins. When you arch back, ass brushing his front more deliberately than before, you hear it, a soft groan spilling from his beautiful mouth. You echo it, unable to control yourself.

You turn around to link your hands at the back of his neck, your chest against his. There’s a curve on his lips that you haven't seen before. It’s a snarl, almost, and he nods, lip bitten, as if he knows all your filthy thoughts and he’s thinking them, too. 

Oh you’re so fucked when he slots his thigh between your legs. You’re both moving now, a slow grind that isn’t even pretending to be dancing anymore. 

Your nails rake against his scalp, his sweat drenching your fingers. The squeeze on your hip is wanting but also a warning, though his eyes trail the glistening skin on your neck like he is mesmerized.

When you tug his messy long hair, he hisses through his teeth. His eyes are onyx, deep pools of desire and you’re wet and drowning. There’s no question now. He wants you, too.

Feeling more brazen, you pull him closer, nosing the slick heat of his neck. You probably inhale every single pheromone he is emitting because what you do next can only be described as primal. You drag your tongue across his skin, licking the salt and spice like a fuckin’ animal.

“Ah, shit—” he rasps, caught off guard by your actions. And you are, too because that rough gruff against your ear nearly ruins your panties.

“Yoongi,” you breathe out his name and it feels like the confirmation that you’ve gone mad.

It’s almost sick, the desire to kiss him in the middle of this oasis of bodies, raw beats the soundtrack of your lust because you know he needs it as bad as you. You tilt your head, seconds from closing the distance, from finally knowing what he tastes like…

But the song ends and the spotlight flares towards the stage as the performers say their ending ment. Yoongi releases you from his embrace as he looks up at his friends and claps, and that’s your cue to do the same. 

Moment over.

Speaking of his friends.

Namjoon and Hoseok, otherwise known as Doom Boy and Hope World, are actually nice guys.

You say this, because they are sitting in front of you in this limo, doling out shots like it’s going out of style.

Truth be told, you don’t remember much about the conversation, but it was light and breezy because y’all were just driving around Seoul drizzunk.

By the time you reach your house. You decide: oh, you really like Yoongi’s friends. Even though in less than 24 hours they’ve already unwittingly cockblocked you twice.

Yoongi walks you to your door, hand warm against the small of your back. This time, the hug lasts longer and his hand dips lower, suspiciously close to your ass.

He still has his arms around you when he drawls in his smoky satoori, “You looked so fuckin’ hot tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmh, was the luckiest man out there.”

It’s the alcohol sloshing in your brain that makes you say: “You can be the luckiest one in here, too… if you want.” You hook your finger on the chain around his neck, pulling him in.

He grins, wide and syrupy, like he’s letting your words warm him up, before he tongues the inside of his cheek.

“Baby,” he rasps and you might have come just from that alone. “I want this too, but I want you to remember every single thing I’m gonna do to you.” He tucks a stray tendril behind your ear,  then cups your jaw. “Next time, yeah? When we’ve had less to drink.” 

He leans in, presses a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, and murmurs, rumbly and deep. “Take care of yourself for me, mkay?” 

Before you can protest, he’s squeezing your hip once before he retreats to the car.

You close your door, forehead against the wood. He’s edged you all night, and now you’re left with no choice. You’re taking his advice to take care of yourself, battery-powered assist included.

Meanwhile, in the 📱 Boy Scouts GC

Jin: pay up, kids Namjoon: fck hold on i dont remmber my paswrd Hobi: sent ✅ Yoongi: tf Namjoon: she so fine hyung Hobi: fr, it should be a crime to look that fine Yoongi: 🖕🏽🖕🏽🖕🏽 somebody explain before i Jin: we bet on who’d find the lucky lady to get you out of your hermit era Jin: you’re welcome 😘 Yoongi: i literally met her on an app ??? Jin: behold. exhibit a:

(screenshot attached — From a chat with Namjoon and Hobi six months prior. There’s a photo of Jin grinning with the glam team from his “Bachelors” shoot, captioned: “The girl, 2nd from the left. Wdyt?” It’s you.)

Yoongi: typing… Jin: yoongi… let hyung tell you a story

[Interlude: 6 months ago]

🗓 June 2025📍 Whitespace Studio, Gangnam-gu, Seoul

You’ve been on your feet since sunrise, adjusting hems, fixing collars, chasing stray flyaways. You’ve met nine of Seoul’s most eligible bachelors (supposedly, and according to readers of the magazine, at least). Finally, you’re down to the last one.

Kim Seokjin. The restaurateur-slash-model-slash-everyone’s-type. He greets the crew with a polite bow that somehow captivates the entire room. You’re all tired having done this thing for hours, but he brings in a crate of strawberries from his farm and some pastries from his bakery and the mood shifts just like that.

“Hi, I’m Jin,” he says when you hand him the pressed jacket. “Sorry, I’m a little sweaty. I was running late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh, crossing your arms. “You still look disgustingly eligible. And showing up with food? You’re really out here tryna one-up the rest, huh?”

He grins, eyes crinkling. “Happy to know it worked.”

He wears the jacket in one fluid motion, through his arms and over his chest. You step back to check the line of the blazer then you fuss with lapels a bit. Satisfied, you say, “There. Now you look like Seoul’s 6th most eligible bachelor.”

“Fifth!” he blurts, half-embarrassed, half-proud. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know? Living up to Top 5 bachelor expectations.”

“Tragic,” you say, deadpan. “Beautiful, successful, unattached man can’t catch a break.”

You suddenly hear the sound of windshield wipers, before you realize it was him laughing. The makeup artist approaches both of you and starts applying lip balm on his lips.

You say bye and he winks. You think he’s just being friendly, another charming client to cross off the list. When he asks for your number in case he needs a stylist for other projects, you don’t think twice before typing it into his phone.

[Jin’s POV]

He’s supposed to focus on the shoot, angles, light, remembering not to blink when the flash hits, but all he can think is, she’s kind of great. You, the stylist with bright eyes and an easy-going energy. He enjoys it, the way you joke without fawning, the casual banter. It’s refreshing.

When the photographer calls for a break, he watches you rearrange a rack of suits. You hum to yourself, oblivious to the fact that Jin knows that melody, too, because his best friend wrote it.

“You like that song?”

“Yeah, I heard it on the radio and I can't get it out of my head. Why?”

“No reason,” he says, smiling too quickly.

But in his head, a thought sparks. Yoongi’s song, hummed by who could potentially be Yoongi’s girl. Same quiet humor. Same edge that hides warmth. Honestly, you look like you might be his type. 

It’s been a while since he had that bet with Namjoon and Hoseok. Underneath the jokes, he really does want to help Yoongi be happy again. And so Jin imagines being the author of this cute little story. Introducing you, how awkward Yoongi would get, how you’d tease him into talking anyway. Fun dates, good banter. It’s a love story for the ages!

Jin nearly says something, I have this friend you might get along with, but the photographer’s calling him back before he can decide if that’s weird.

Instead, he asks for your number, promising himself to text for future projects.

You wave as you leave, telling him, “Good luck with the bachelor thing.”

He smiles, a little distracted, wondering for a fleeting second if he should just keep you to himself. But no, he’s a good hyung. He follows his first instinct and texts Yoongi about you, tacking your number at the end of it. In his haste, what he doesn’t realize is the tiny red text that appears underneath the bubble. The message never actually sends.

Weeks pass. Work piles up. When he finally remembers to ask about it, Yoongi just shrugs, distracted and dismissive as always, and Jin laughs it off. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.

And like most things, it fades, just another almost in their busy lives. There are dinners, deadlines, music, tuna, inside jokes. He forgets to finish the story.

Until one slow night at a pub, Namjoon teases Yoongi about “his monk era” or was it “shriveling dick” and before Yoongi knows it, they’re all huddled over the beat-up olive Galaxy phone, drunk as hell, but full of good intentions.

Jin signs Yoongi up for the app and picks the best photo in his gallery. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figures it’s harmless fun, just a way to nudge Yoongi out of his rut.

But without realizing it, he’s setting the story back in motion.

To be continued... [Date no. 4]

A/N: Hehehehe 😈 Maybe in date no. 4...?

See you in the comments and please reblog this with your review if you enjoyed. It’s the best way you can show your support. 💜

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human xo

Permanent Taglist: 

@tea4sykes @glossdebut @angellekookie @rottingbedpost @kiki-zb 

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@libbieminie @pastelmin @goldietigers294 @michaela0901

You were always too much. Too much for him, yet clearly not for his other siblings. Anne, who had taken a special liking to you and bragged about you being her best friend, confided in you about the disappointments of her marriage. Arthur felt comfort in your presence, spending hours drinking whiskey and chatting on about recent escapades you’d never let anyone else hear about. From what Benjamin could remember, you always comforted him when he felt like such a failure, keeping him from drowning in the seas of sorrow after the funeral. But with Edward, what use would there be? He seemed to be the perfected child—no vices, certainly no escapades or disappointments. He would bow his head at you, and that would be the furthest greeting. 

But your dress—god, it’s perfect. He’d never seen such a gorgeous hue of blue, no matter the other ladies wearing the same shade. Why was he so concerned about this dress? The woman beneath it was everything he had distaste for. She was careless. She had men wrapped around her finger; just one glance could have them dropping to their knees. But not Edward, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t let himself fall for any of it.

“Care for another drink, Mister Guinness?” You put on a deep, posh accent to mimic the butlers, creeping up behind him to give him a good scare. It clearly didn't work.

“I’m fine. Though, I believe my sister is looking for you.” His hands rest clasped at his waist, not even daring to glance your way as you speak. For a lady like you, he should be bowing, should he not? The kind of beauty that deserved to be worshiped. God, why was he thinking like this? It must have been the champagne. “You should go find her.”

“Oh, nonsense. I just spoke to her.” You drop the grip on your skirt, smoothing out the soft fabrics carefully decorated with lace and rosettes. The bows tacked onto the sleeves threaten to come undone, the ribbon so thin that it flits against your skin with every move. You looked like a painting, yet the only glimpses he got were from his peripherals. He didn't need to see you to know.

“Your suit looks lovely, tailored nicely and all. The seamstresses did a fine job.” He notices your hand reach up to adjust his bow tie, sucking in a breath and embarrassingly locking eyes with the flustered ladies across the ballroom hall. He pries away just enough for you to get the hint, peering at you with a soft nod. He seems irritated, struggling not to blow up on anyone, his annoyance seeping through his words like venom. “I’d love some silence, Ma’am.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I need someone to talk to.” You took a small sip from your glass, humming along to the violin tune that would be soon coming to an end. Seated at the head table, Arthur and his new wife cradle each other, leaning in and conversing about something playful while observing the crowd and sipping whiskey.

“The butlers are a fine choice.” He adjusts the lopsided tie on his own now, face stern as he tries to shoo you away. That’s one thing you were always good at: finding something to distract you just long enough for him to escape. But now, it seems his skill of getting you preoccupied has depleted.

“Ah, but the butlers don’t insult me any chance they get. In fact, they’re quite respectful.” Another sup from your glass, though now this one is bigger.

“I don’t insult you. It’s insulting to insinuate that.” The regretted tone in his voice is hushed, like he is speaking through clenched teeth. Even while sufficiently keeping the annoyance at bay, he feels guilt for speaking so improperly towards a lady of your stature. 

“Very well, whatever you say. Help me with this lace on the back, it keeps flipping up when I dance.” Obliging, he carefully reaches up, smoothing the lace down across your shoulder and across your back. His touch is gentle, trying his damndest to barely touch you. Expecting eyes watch the two of you, whether it be his family or the few in this building he hadn't seen since he was a boy. Can't they just shut the hell up? The music is obnoxiously loud, and zoning out doesn't work when you’re being pestered. He should’ve just hidden in one of the empty tea rooms.

“What a marriage. I can't wait until I'm up there. Do you think they’d let me play the fiddle if I asked?” You fiddled with one of your curls, adjusting the way it rested against your shoulder. The band was in your direct line of sight, and he hoped to god that none of them could have heard you. Impossible, yes, but it seems that impossible things keep happening to him. If only he could just leave already, escape from the prying eyes. One right after the other, the musicians pick up into a new melody, some couples lining up to dance again.

“I think you should go sit down somewhere. You’re drunk, and you’re going to hurt yourself.” His hand reaches towards you, gesturing for you to pass him the glass perched in your fingertips. You pull away, mimicking him when you tried to stubbornly fix his tie. The liquor nearly sloshes over the edge, threatening to stain your silky dress.

“I am not. I’ve had…” Drinking down the last bit of the champagne, you clink the glass down onto the table behind you, seeming to be unoccupied. “...two glasses. But do you think they would?” He watches you turn to the band again, clicking his tongue.

“Christ, just go find my sister. Or go sit with the bride. I’d like to be alone with my thoughts.” The words snap you out of your gaze on the fiddler.

“What’s so wrong, anyways?” You nudge his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood and ultimately failing.

“For one, you, so loud in my ear.” His eyes darted around, hoping to find something to excuse himself to do. His fingers tap against his palm, hands still clasped like when you first walked over. The guests might as well think he is a sculpture, though he is already being treated like a prized one, from the lack of moving.

“Is it your big brother finally growing up? You know, when—" He cuts you off, gliding a hand across his hair and turning away from you, making his way around the tables and crowds of people gossiping about the newlywed couple. He accidentally bumps into a well-dressed lady, quickly apologizing without taking a moment to slow his stride. “Hey! I wasn't done,” you call out from behind him, just quiet enough to not cause a commotion. God, why was he so irritated? Weddings are supposed to be lighthearted, especially when everyone else is so drunk.

“Where are we going?” He slips through the doorway to the foyer without caring to hold it open for you. “We're not going anywhere.”

“Fuck! You are so insufferable, aren't you? God, I've—" He quiets himself down further, glancing around at the few folks moseying around the small room. In a quick and regrettable decision, he grabs onto your arm and tugs you into the kitchens. He doesn't let the door shut behind him before he starts speaking again, let alone take a glance around at the surprised servants. “Where was any of this care for me and my emotions before? You couldn't care less just a year ago. You pester me and expect me to reciprocate this stupid banter, the kind of which you know I despise. I've despised everything about the way you act since we were children. Why should I reciprocate anything you give me? Aside from vexation. And then you act oblivious? You constantly chose Arthur, to the point I expected you two were sure to marry. That’s why I…”

He drags his hand over his face, hastily pulling it away to gesture as he speaks again. “I stopped all of my advances. Every…ounce of attraction, I shoved it down; I pushed it away. All of that for you to be prim and fucking proper. I don't want this game of cat and mouse.”

He reaches over to a tray nearly overflowing with champagne coupes, picking one up and drinking down at least half of it. He wipes the alcohol from his mouth, slamming down the glass on the counter. “Leave. Just leave, go congratulate Arthur and his wife.” He flails his arm around, sniffling and sighing while he zones into the floor. 

He waits for you to turn around, to hear the heels click on their way out and watch the skirt of your dress trail behind. That never comes. You move displeasingly closer. “I said, just fucking leav—”

Your dress knocks against his knees. In a swift move, your hands reach up to grasp his cheeks. His words are cut off by you leaning up to meet his lips, devolving into a short hum. He is hesitant to reciprocate, hands pausing halfway to your waist, the weight of servants watching lying heavy on his shoulders. Any other time, he would have jumped at this opportunity. You pull away, feeling him stiffen up beneath your arms.

He pulls back, clearing his throat and smoothing his hair out again. He clasps his hands behind his back and glances around at everyone who had just watched. “Just— um…have a good evening.” He nods towards the timid girls holding trays of hors d'oeuvres, meeting your eyes as he pushes past you and out the same door you entered.