#asks queue

“I never stress,” he says with a sneer in your direction.

But he does stress. He stresses the first syllable in “never”, tongue tip nearly sucking flesh from the roof of his mouth as he spits out the word. He stresses his own self-importance with his determined gaze. And he stresses the disdain that he immediately has for you as he runs that determined gaze around your perimeter, outlining you, your form like a cookie cutter, thinking that you’re essentially just that — just another rando with a less-than-stellar resume under their arm.

You stress, too.

But you take a seat at the table anyway.

And you set your resume, kept pristine in a leather folio, in front of the man flashing curious eyes at you both.

“Glad you’re on board,” that one says, adjusting his glasses to inspect your resume. “We find that doing these stress interviews adds an element of competitive energy that is advantageous to the candidate selection process.” He smiles at you as he finishes reading your perfectly bulleted list of achievements. “The standouts really stand out,” he summarizes.

“Just appreciate getting to be part of the process, Mr. Park,” you reply, mirroring his smile as you hang your coat on the back of your chair.

“Call me Jimin,” he replies, his tone getting friendlier by the minute. “And I appreciate your appreciation.”

If there’s one thing you don’t stress about, it’s the ability to connect. While a rare few may admittedly have you beat on things like work experience or business savvy, no one can connect to people like you do, and that is a savviness of its own.

“Well, Jimin,” the other candidate butts in, leaning forward, “I think you’ll note that punctuality is something important to appreciate when dealing with clients.”

The candidate looks at his phone pointedly before sliding it back into his pocket, patting it to make sure everything else in that pocket is still in place.

“That is true,” Jimin replies, nodding and turning to the candidate, sharing a knowing glance with him. Jimin sets your resume down on the table, side-by-side with the other candidate’s simple folder, before looking back up at you and raises his eyebrows. “Mr. Jeon and I have been waiting for a little while.” He gestures to his coffee mug. “There was even time for a refill.”

“My train was delayed,” you reply, trying to relax your mouth so as not to push your words through grit teeth. “I also had a little bit of trouble finding the coffee shop. That street outside is so busy. I hope you got my texts as I was searching.” You hang your head a bit. “Apologies.”

“Excuses,” Jungkook mutters, tossing the word aside as he turns his body away from you and back to Jimin. “And, please, Jimin, you can call me Jungkook.”

From the looks of it, you and Jungkook do share quite a bit in common. Your resumes are comparable; a quick glance at both of your resumes shows that you’ve had similar paths and interests, and excelled at the same kinds of things. Your shared penchants for competitiveness seem to be rearing their ugly heads, circling as if about to brawl. And rather than feeling deflated, you both seem to be spurred on by the teasing, pot-stirring look in Jimin’s smirk.

“Great. Then you get the first question, Jungkook,” Jimin replies.

He leans down and picks up a tablet from his bag. The screen clicks on and comes to life. Jimin detaches the pen-shaped stylus nestled in a notch at the side of the case, and, in getting ready to capture your answers, he lets his hand hang near the top of the screen.

“In the first round of interviews, we talked about a scenario where our advertising agency had taken on a new client,” Jimin begins. “What do you remember about that client?”

“Bankers,” Jungkook replies. “They were consulting with us after some kind of security breach. They want to reassure their customers that they essentially have everything under control.”

“Nice,” Jimin replies. “Over to you, then.” His eyes meet yours. “What do you remember about the initial meeting?”

“I remember that they seemed quite impressed with the way I handled that hypothetical proposal,” you remind him, smiling brightly. “We discussed a series of commercials and social media posts that acknowledged rather than buried the scandal. Lots of imagery of unsure people changing their minds after reading updated brochures, meeting with financial advisors, and that sort of thing.” You feel so much pride in your idea, as if it had been a real proposal. The goal was to communicate ownership of the problem while also being transparent about what they’re going to change.”

Jimin chuckles to himself. “Yes. But let’s say that you’ve given that first pitch, and this client now expresses dissatisfaction with the direction our creative team has presented.”

“Probably because it wasn’t as impressive a proposal as you thought,” Jungkook murmurs your way.

You’ll let the gnat buzz all it wants. It doesn’t have teeth.

“Is there something specific that the client has given in their feedback?” you ask, keeping your eyes locked on Jimin.

“No,” Jimin says, seemingly thrilled to launch you into this hellish nightmare. “And they’ve been a bit aggressive, to boot. A complete 180 from the first meeting that you’d had with them. They don’t want to acknowledge the scandal at all. They want to move forward.”

“Maybe they were being fake at first,” Jungkook suggests. “I’d suggest catering to their current direction. No harm there.”

The gnat likes to stroke egos. You know that will only get him so far.

“Kind of harsh to judge the client like that,” you reply, disgusted at Jungkook’s quickness to appeasement. “And doing that doesn’t really address the situation that they’re coming to us for in the first place.” You turn to Jimin. “This is one of those times when a leader has to show a calm sense of assurance,” you explain. “I trust in the vision. I’d probably say something like, we’d be happy to change the creative proposal, but the core of the matter is honesty. There’s no getting around it. It’s absolutely vital.”

Jungkook scoffs, smoothing his tie against his body and leaning back in his seat. “You wanna make it in this business?” he asks. “You’re gonna have to examine what ‘honesty’ really means. I mean, you don’t exactly tell your boss when he’s got a terrible haircut, or that his suit is unflattering, or that he’s wearing awkward looking glasses that don’t really frame his face well—” 

Jimin pushes his lips out, his expression souring as his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose.

“I-I mean,” Jungkook quickly readjusts, “you don’t just call it out like that.” He gestures to the general space around you, at your table. “Instead, you should nudge. You should make suggestions here and there. You should sneak in messages of reassurance in a way that doesn’t threaten their pride.” 

You roll your eyes, and Jimin takes notice.

“You disagree?” he provokes.

As you take a deep breath, you think through exactly how you want to share what you want to say.

“Respectfully,” you admit.

“Honesty. Respect.” Jungkook grins. He hums. “Such a good girl.”

This is when you snap.

“Can we do this without all the condescension??” you demand. “Have I done something to upset you? Because so far, all I’ve done is say hi, tell you my name, sit down at the table, and try to answer Jimin’s questions. I don’t happen to agree with what you’re saying, but I don’t believe I’ve dismissed you outright. Besides, I believe in the vision that I proposed, and I don’t appreciate the way you critiqued it by telling me what I should do instead.” You force the last of your words out quickly, before your burst of confidence fades. “I’m a hard worker, and I always want to do right by people. I believe that starts with the way I treat the people I work with, clients and teammates alike.”

“Hmm.” Jimin grins to himself. “Well.” He exchanges a glance with Jungkook. “I think that means we’re done here.”

“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “D-done?”

“Yes,” Jimin replies, closing his tablet case and stuffing it and Jungkook’s resume into his bag. “Thanks for your time. We’ll, uh, be in touch.”

He stands and reaches out for your hand. Though you stand, smile, accept the handshake, and thank him for the opportunity as professionally as you can, once Jimin disappears into the crowd on the busy street outside, you flop down into your seat and sigh in aggravation.

It doesn’t help to see your resume still sitting on the table.

“Well, that was something,” Jungkook says, leaning forward in his chair and smirking at you. 

It’s probably a good thing that you haven’t had any coffee. You’re glad that you said what you said. You think it came out appropriately. But caffeine in your system might’ve meant completely abandoning decorum.

“Are you always that rude?” you ask.

Jungkook laughs. “Maybe.”

“Well, no wonder you’re still on the job hunt,” you grumble, picking up your folio and putting it into your purse.

You stand to leave, but you’re surprised to find that Jungkook stands with you, kind of getting in your way.

“Look, I know that was kind of intense,” he says, straightening his suit jacket. “You never did get a coffee. Can I buy you one now?”

“No,” you say curtly, moving to shove past him.

“C’mon.” Jungkook grins. “We both know I’m getting this job. Let me buy you a coffee on their dime.”

The anger is seeping through your pores. You’re sure people can smell it on you, stronger than the arabica beans being pressed up at the counter. 

“No harm, right?” Jungkook asks, shrugging.

You had planned on being in this interview for a few hours at least. Who knew what you were going to do afterwards. It’s not like you have any place to be. And a free coffee is a coffee that is free, even if it’s being served by a complete asshole.

You sit back down.

“Mocha latte,” you reply.

Jungkook nods once before strolling up to the counter.

You watch him interact with the barista. He seems calmer now. Probably soothed by the added confidence of knowing he’s secured a job. 

Or maybe that confidence comes from everything else about him. His build, strong and sure. Athletic. That’s probably where that competitive nature stems from. And those looks. Celebrity-tier. Not many people can pull off that long-haired look. If you hadn’t found out immediately that he was a complete dick, you would definitely be one of the people sitting at the tables off to the side, admiring and giggling about him as they observe the rest of the coffee shop. 

As he waits for your orders to be made, he pulls his phone out. His wallet pokes out near the top of his pocket. Some kind of blue cloth hangs out, too. A handkerchief? He checks his phone, types something, and then he stuffs it back inside, making sure nothing else falls out. 

You wonder what the message was. Was it Jimin’s offer? How much will Jungkook get paid?

It’s been so long since you’ve gotten paid. It must be nice to get paid.

When Jungkook finally turns around, two mugs in hand, you look away immediately and wonder just how long you’ve been staring.

He sits back down and sets your latte in front of you.

“Congrats are in order, no?” he jeers, raising his mug.

“If you think I’m going to cheers you on getting this job, you’re just as stupid as you act,” you say, tilting the mug against your lips and trying to enjoy this consolation prize.

“As long as I don’t look stupid,” he replies, smiling.

“Of course you’d be vain,” you grumble.

He laughs and sips from his mug. He watches you as you lean back in your seat, setting your mug back down and letting your gaze fall unfocused.

“Been rough out there, I take it?” Jungkook asks.

“You know how it is.” You pout. “I really wanted this job, too. I felt like I could really do it.”

“Can’t always get what you want,” Jungkook says, shrugging and taking another sip of his coffee.

You nod. You’ve learned that lesson before. You’ve taught that lesson before.

“Liked how you fought for it, though,” Jungkook replies thoughtfully.

You turn to him, thrown by the compliment. “Oh, so now that all is said and done, you shed the condescension?”

“It’s a rat race,” Jungkook replies, “but you and I seem to share an affinity for honest conversations.”

“I like mine to be a little less mean,” you point out, folding your arms.

“Fair,” Jungkook says, nodding. “But if it’s worth anything to you, I had to try really hard to be mean to you.”

You shake your head. So the gnat admits it. “You were trying to make me bomb this interview?”

“Well, I mean, yeah,” Jungkook replies. “Obviously. That’s how these things are done.”

“And so you think this coffee makes up for that?” you ask.

“No,” Jungkook says, in that calm, increasingly infuriating way that he seems to have a knack for, “I just figured you’d like a coffee.” He shrugs. “I don’t want this to get personal. I actually like your style. The way you think.” He grins, seemingly earnestly, at you. “Maybe we can get to know each other better?”

Jungkook’s hand chases yours as you give up on running your card through the reader on the turnstyle.

“Are you—” 

You turn around and furrow your brow at Jungkook.

“Are you following me??” you ask, voice a little more timid than you were hoping it would sound.

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “No! This is my train.”

“This is my train,” you say, frowning.

He smirks. “So then it’s both our trains.”

You want to tear your hair out. “I can’t believe you followed me.”

“Seems like it helped you out,” Jungkook observes. 

You throw your card back into your purse. “The reader’s broken, or something,” you say. “I know my card is full. Now please tell me why the hell you’re following me.”

“Look, I swear, this is my train,” Jungkook says adamantly. “I didn’t realize you were right in front of me in this line. You ran out of the coffee shop so fast that I lost track of you in the crowd.” He frowns. He almost looks disappointed. 

You both make your way to the train platform, and Jungkook annoyingly waits next to you, just checking his phone or checking the announcements screen, completely unaware at how just his presence is making you want to throw yourself onto the third rail.

“Is the eastbound train the one you took up here?” Jungkook asks, gesturing to the train arriving at the opposite end of the platform.

You deny yourself the satisfaction of slapping him across the face. “Yeah, obviously,” you mutter.

“No wonder you were late,” he says. “That line operates on a new schedule. It only runs three times a day.” He blinks at the announcements screen. “Seems like this one is going to be delayed, too.”

You groan and wander over to some empty benches. You take your purse off your shoulder and set it in the empty seat next to you, rubbing where the straps had been digging into your skin.

Jungkook unfortunately follows you.

He stands there, close by, just kind of hovering.

And then, he asks, “Tired?” 

“C’mon, man, I clearly want my space,” you sigh. You lean forward to rub your ankles. Gone are the days of your joints being unknown to you. Running around the city in heels all day means that when you get home, you’ll have to do a soak.

Jungkook looks around. “Barely any people here.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Though, by the looks of it, that’ll also change,” Jungkook replies. 

You look over at him to see him blinking at the announcements screen. There are now two delays. Something about a driver shortage. The next train won’t arrive for a while, forcing you to have to deal with the after-work crowd.

Jungkook paces around, looking at the tiles on the walls, or the concrete floor. He switches sides, gazing at the posters and graffiti that people have hung up. He laughs a little when an old woman and her dog pass by.

You try to calculate how far you have to dash upstairs to the street level to try and find a cab or rideshare. Knowing how busy it is downtown generally, you wonder how long you’d have to wait for a driver. Also, what money would you use to pay for the ride? Your subway card is fully stocked for the month. Would it be worth it to ask Jungkook to help you out with a ride? But then, would he end up sharing the ride with you? Would that really be so bad? He’d probably say more insipid nonsense, but at least you’d get that much closer to your foot soak. Maybe you could put your earbuds in and listen to some music so that you could just look at him instead of having to listen to him.

Before you can finish your calculations, you and Jungkook are fighting for space as you cram into the late train’s busiest car.

You get shoved toward the middle of the car, meaning that you’ll have to stand and grip one of the poles running from floor to ceiling, nothing for you to lean on when the train makes its sharp turns.

Jungkook, perhaps in an attempt to help you out, stands behind you, shielding you the best he can from all the bodies pressed up against one another in this, your second hellish nightmare of the day.

You scowl and try to pretend like he isn’t there. But it’s hard to pretend. His cologne is tickling your nostrils, and his body is contoured to yours. You can feel how tailored his suit is. You can feel every muscle. You can feel every part of him.

“You… uh… you OK?” he whispers. 

You hate that you can hear him through the din in the car. You hate that his voice sounds so calm and reassuring. Why is he being so nice?

“I’m fine,” you stress, no longer feeling the need to hide your grit teeth.

“Just checking,” he whispers.

You sigh and look around. “I fucking hate this train,” you whisper back. 

He laughs softly, and you bonk your forehead on the pole in annoyance.

The train shudders forward and starts to take one of those sharp turns. Jungkook’s left arm springs to life, having no choice but to wrap around your waist to be able to access the pole that you’re surrounding. His arm being there helps you stay upright. You’re begrudgingly thankful, as everyone not sitting down starts to bounce wildly, all of them roaring with complaints.

“I fucking hate people,” you whisper, letting yourself lean into Jungkook as the train rocks you around.

Jungkook hums, and you feel it vibrating in his stomach as strongly as the metal around you.

You hate that oncoming feeling of pinpricks behind your eyelids, and when the train goes through a tunnel, engulfing you in blackness for a moment, you squeeze those tears out and hope that blotting them with the hem of your coat sleeve back at the back of your hand keeps the damage to your makeup to a minimum.

“I fucking hate everything,” you finish. 

Jungkook notices the way you’re gripping the pole. Knuckles white as the blinding light that you’re all washed in when the train exits the tunnel and ramps up, traveling above ground.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers back. “This can’t have been a pleasant day for you.”

You glance backward, seeing his free arm dangling.

“No, it hasn’t been, and you’ve certainly made sure of that,” you snipe back.

Jungkook hums again. He wonders if you know that he can smell your perfume, too. If you know how well you actually carried yourself today. If you know what moves he’s trying to make.

“I wasn’t trying to ruin your day. And I wasn’t following you. But if I’m being honest, I’m glad that I met you today. And that I ran into you here. Now.”

You see his right arm starting to wrap around you.

His breath hits warm on the back of your neck.

You both look up at the crowd around you, scanning to see if anybody’s paying attention. 

Nobody is.

“I know you were watching me at the coffee shop,” he whispers, right into your ear, as you both keep scanning furtively. “Just like I was watching you.”

You think about his eyes roaming your perimeter. Maybe he didn’t think you were so cookie-cutter after all.

“And, after watching you, I’m wondering if I can… help in a… different way?” he asks hopefully.

You hold your free arm against your body, a buffer between you and him. “And what way is that?” you ask, quietly.

“You didn’t like my coffee,” he says, “and you didn’t seem to like my train card—”

You growl.

He chuckles. “But maybe you’d… like my fingers?”

He heeds your warning buffer arm and places his hand on your right shoulder instead. He starts to massage you there, putting just the right amount of pressure in all the knots that have formed.

You close your eyes and inhale sharply, letting out your gigantic breath slowly as he works the tension away.

“Good?” he asks.

You have to give it to him. “Yeah,” you admit. “That’s, uh… yeah. It’s good.”

He watches as your neck leans further to the left. If he could nibble on the space you’re making for him, he would. 

And when you let out an appreciative grunt at a particularly good rub, he nearly does.

“Where else do you want my fingers?” he asks.

You sigh and bite your lip.

His eyes glance around the subway car. Everyone’s too pulled into their own phones or books or newspapers to notice what you’re doing. Too lost in the grind.

“Maybe your back?” he whispers. 

You nod slowly, taking in a sweeping glance of the rest of the train. Usually, you’re just like them, using your phone to move onto the next thing. Check for the next appointment. Scan for the next message. It’s interesting, being in the moment, even if you’re still technically in the whirl of the hustle.

He places his hand on your lower back, just above the back belt loop of your coat’s sash, and starts to work on the knot of flesh there.

Your knees nearly buckle, his fingers work so well.

You lean back into him, sighing softly as he works away more of that tension. That frustration.

“Glad you’re liking it,” he says gently, his lips grazing your earlobe.

You take in a breath and hold it, looking around quickly to see if anybody heard you.

“What about… where you seem to need it most?” Jungkook asks. There’s an edge to his voice. Jagged. Almost uncaring if you happen to get caught.

You turn back to him.

Your eyes meet and lock, and you’re surprised that he’d even have the thought. Not because the thought is surprising. You’ve definitely fantasized about this sort of thing before. Maybe not on the subway, per se, and especially not on your train, where you might run into people you know. 

But you’ve fantasized about stopping in the middle of your day. Making everything come to a grinding halt. Allowing yourself just a moment of pleasure before you have to rush off.

You nod again, even slower.

He smiles and licks his lips.

But he doesn’t move until you raise your arm, making room for him to tighten his hold around you, and press you into the pole.

His hand searches for your sash. He pulls the long, free end and undoes the bow. He unbuttons the big, black, circles at your waist and hips. And then he presses his hand against the front of your skirt. Through your clothing, he dips his fingers into your flesh, wet and slippery, even with your layers of fabric soaking up some of your juices. 

He grunts softly into your ear, and you push back into him, moving your hips in barely discernible circles against his mound. You feel him stirring awake, but his pants are thick. He won’t be able to come, but you’re getting closer and closer, feeling him sort out what is cotton and what is flesh, and honing in on your clit. Unable to stroke it the way he wants, the way he knows you want, he changes tact and flattens his palm. He lets you grind against it, pressing into you, letting you press back into him, both of you moving forward against the pole for more of that delightful pressure.

He works hard, evaporating the last of the frustration and hate. His watch clinks against the metal of the pole, and the train dives back underground. You know that you’ll be in darkness for a little bit. You take the chance, hugging the pole and even riding his arm a little, eager to squeeze out that delicious orgasm before light hits you again.

No one knows when you come.

No one except him.

You exit the train station and, red-faced, re-tie your coat even tighter than the last four times since you left the train car, wanting to make sure that you’ve hidden any evidence of what you’ve just done. 

You stare at the ground as Jungkook tries to meet your eyes.

“Never had a train ride like that before,” he comments.

“Yeah, well…”

When you look up, he’s smirking.

You still want to tear your hair out.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, a weird, confusing mix of emotions starting to layer themselves within you. “This was… interesting.”

Jungkook laughs. “Very.” He looks around your surroundings before looking back at you. “Can’t believe this is your stop, too.”

“One of them,” you admit. “I’m grabbing a few things from the store. I’m a few blocks up ahead.”

You gesture down the block, and Jungkook nods. “I’m that way,” he replies, pointing in the opposite direction. He smiles at you. “We’ll run into each other again.”

“Maybe,” you say.

Jungkook just smiles.

And then you part ways.

For the first time in a while, you get the itch to check your phone. When you reach into your purse and pull it out, you notice three missed calls from Jimin.

You stop in your tracks and call him back immediately. You feel the crowd around you continuing to move, your hair and your skirt ruffling in the breezes set in motion by their coming and going.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Hi, yes—” Someone knocks into you, and you take the cue to get off the sidewalk, moving toward your grocery store’s awning. “Is this Park Jimin? I interviewed today, just returning the calls I missed.”

“No worries. You mentioned the train, so I figured you just had bad reception,” Jimin responds. “Mind if you jump on video with me?”

“Sure, just let me—” You look around and find an alleyway to duck into.  You check your hair and try to ignore how flustered you still feel before switching on the camera. You’re glad to see that even though you shed some tears, your eyeliner and mascara have stayed put.

Jimin’s pleasant face appears on your screen. “Great! Thanks for making this a video call. This won’t be quick. I just like seeing people’s expressions when I deliver the news.”

“What news?” you ask, that mix of confusing emotions evolving into more puzzlement. 

“You’re hired!” Jimin cheers. “We’d absolutely love it if you could join our team as an account manager. I’m drawing up the paperwork as we speak, and I’ve got just a few questions—”

“What?!” you ask, shocked and still processing.

“Yeah,” Jimin laughs happily, “congratulations. You’re hired.” He smiles proudly at you. “Your resume is extremely strong, and I have been continuously impressed with how you’ve responded during our interviews. Jungkook felt the same.”

“Jungkook?” you ask.

And that’s when you notice a blue lanyard around Jimin’s neck, holding his work badge in place.

You think of Jungkook’s pocket.

“We both liked the way you responded to our stress interview questions,” Jimin replies. And then he blinks, suddenly realizing something. “Oh, right. I was so excited that I forgot.” He grins again. “Jungkook is another account manager, same as you. He and other teammates tag along on these interviews to mimic the stress.” Jimin laughs heartily. “God, he was trying so hard to pretend to be one of those difficult clients! He’s not usually like that.”

“He’s not?” you sputter. You whirl around, trying to catch Jungkook in the crowd. “He’s— I’m— He and I are— We’re—”

“Coworkers,” Jimin replies, “hopefully. If we can work out an acceptable contract. Sometimes the onboarding process can be a bit stressful.”

You laugh to yourself. 

You place a hand on your coat’s sash.

And then you look at Jimin.

“What are you talking about?” Jin scoffs, furrowing his brow and leaning back in his seat. “I just told you an entire epic. I was Homer. You were my… my…” 

He grimaces and shakes his head around. 

“Whatever those campfire dudes were called. Anyway, I just told you an Iliad-length tale of how many times I made her come, with excruciating detail of how I made her come, how every fold of skin on my dick all the way up to every fold of skin in the prints of my fingers—” 

Jin never misses an opportunity for great hand comedy, so he dazzles his fingers here, before curling them into fists to pound them on the table for effect as he adds, “made her scream, and you have the nerve to ask me if I’ve—” 

Air quotes should drive the point home. 

“Been there for her?”

“The fact that you’re leading your response with romanticizing your dudes and glorifying your dick doesn’t bode well, for you, and for her,” Namjoon admits, exchanging knowing glances with a smirking, drinking Yoongi.

Jimin and Taehyung seem to be in on whatever secret this is. The only ones who aren’t are Jungkook, who is staring at Jin’s chest, and Hobi, who passed out about half an hour ago. Jin will have to remember that for later, though it doesn’t exactly encourage him to know that the only friend that he has left is only his friend because he couldn’t hold his liquor. 

“You made her come,” Namjoon goes on. “Great.”

“Not just great,” Jin grumbles, “fantastic!”

“Fantastic,” Namjoon continues, though, from the way it sounds, Namjoon couldn’t have been listening closely to the details. “What our esteemed colleague is trying to express is that there are many different ways a girl can come.”

“You think I don't know that?” Jin can't help but snarl when he asks it. The alcohol is getting to him, but it doesn't take much to let the ever-simmering rage bubble over. “Again, I just—”

“You just schooled us in how to dick someone down,” Jimin tries, leaning forward in his seat. He clasps his hands together and tilts his head. He even grins in that winning, boyish, flirtatious way that he always uses when he's trying to get something out of someone. Even his hair is part of the plan, those bangs just effortlessly swooshing by his eyeline. If Jimin thinks this makes him seem more like friend than foe, he is sorely mistaken. “But have you explored other parts of the body? Specifically, parts of her body?”

Jin doesn’t just know every part of your body. He beholds it in other dimensions, like a synesthete. In colors, specifically. Your collarbones are white, when his teeth sink in. Your hips are blue, when his hands take them. Your cheeks are red, when his lips land on them. And your ass turns from red back to gold, when it gasps for breath from its relentless, punishing meetings with his palm.

Instead of listing all the shades he sees in the mosaic swirling around him and starting to take the place of these six idiots’ dumb grins, Jin shrugs and says, “Duh!”

“Well, do you find yourself exploring them in exactly the same way?” Jimin asks, punctuating his question with another perfect bang-swoop.

Jin shakes the hair out of his eyes, rough and angry. “What’s it to you??"

Jimin raises his hands and presses his back against that of his seat. 

Taehyung moves forward to take his place. 

“No offense, hyung, but as epic as your sex is, well… frankly… we’ve heard it all before,” he replies. “Every bite around the mole on her back. Every shift of your hips as you rail her from behind. And then, eventually, every time you gather the sweaty strands of her hair in your fist before she—”

“Screams your fucking name,” the rest of the group joins in, startling Hobi awake.

Jin looks at Hobi, who smacks his lips. 

“Must’ve dozed off,” Hobi mumbles, smacking his lips. “Were you just talking about the ponytail part?” He grins sleepily. “That’s always my favorite part. Was it epic?”

Jin has never frowned so hard in his life, the muscles in his chin quivering under the weight of all his anger, and his gang's laughter, and Jimin’s bang-swooshes swooshing, and Hobi's annoyingly innocent eyes fluttering with grave concern.

“Don’t be mad, hyung!” Namjoon says gently. “We just want, y’know, we want you to—”

“Have better stories,” Jimin can’t help but tease.

“Have better sex,” Yoongi corrects.

Yoongi’s eyes lock with Jin’s, and instantly, Jin feels it. Yoongi’s sage insistence. The accompanying look is eerie. Disarming in the most thoughtful of ways. Saying that if Jin could set his almighty sword down for just a moment, he might actually learn something.

“Well… like… what… what kind of… like…”

This is embarrassing. How do you learn something when you don’t even have the words to form the question?

“Hyunghyunghyunghyunghyunghyunghyung!” Jungkook pants.

The group hushes as they all turn to their youngest, eyes wide and filled with promise.

“Fingers!” Jungkook pipes up.

Jin sighs. “Huh?”

Jungkook bounces in his seat, but he can’t muster much more than that either. How do you try to explain something when the person you’re talking to is usually the one explaining things? Plus, Jin has that super scary look on his face, and Jungkook would just rather not.

“You talked about every fold in your fingertips,” Yoongi picks up. “You ever use those fingertips all over her body?”

“Sure,” Jin says, but it comes out uneasily. Only faint brushstrokes of color appear in his mind, rather than the Rothko-sized swaths that usually consume his brain at the thought of you. 

“Everywhere?” Yoongi asks.

“Sure?” Jin answers.

The six others aren’t sure where to look. Jin's voice usually commands direction, rather than fading into the background noise of other groups at other tables with other drinks.

“It’s a new relationship,” Jimin thankfully reminds everyone. He meets Jin’s eyes and smiles, like the true friend that he is. “Maybe once you talk it out, you’ll find out more of what she likes, and you’ll be able to…”

Jin doesn't need much of a prompt to echo, “Be there… for her.”

Jin’s calm, happy smile is something you’re quickly realizing is a must-have to truly start your weekend. The way his lips shrink into a bit of a pout. The way his eyes curve up and curl in, letting his long, sweet lashes fan out. The way his broad shoulders relax, offloading whatever worries that might have piled up over the week to make space for your gentle arms.

So this frazzled, squinched-up, teeth-gnashing tangle of trepidation is not something you would ever expect.

Soft, comforting tones would be best. Go easy. 

“Hi,” you breathe, eager, but quiet. Smile just as big, but eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised. 

You reach out and smooth your fingertips over his soft, purple hoodie. You run them up from his stomach, up his body, resting just below his neck in the stitching of the yellow letters that, funnily enough, spell your name.

“You OK?” you ask.

His left hand grips yours and presses it into his chest, your palm curving around his pec. His eyes are focused on you, but he seems lost in thought. He softens, but he still chews his lip. 

“It’s just brunch, sweetie,” you say with a gentle smile, as he crouches down into you to steal more of your embrace. Your bodies slowly sway side to side, wobbling you back and forth over the threshold, feet dancing from the front porch to your entryway and back again in lopsided time. “It’s just my friends.”

Friends. 

What kinds of conversations do you have with your friends?

Do they think he uses his fingers enough?

Jin anxiously tightens his hold on you, resting his head on your shoulder. “You look pretty,” he whispers into your neck.

Your soft laugh gets choked off when he tightens his grip on your body.

“Jin,” you chuckle, wriggling a little to make more room. “Jin, I can’t…” 

When he pulls away slightly, giving you the spaces that you seem to want, he whines a little. His eyes don’t glimmer with their usual cheery sparkle. They seem… You’re not sure how they seem, actually. You’re still learning each others’ patterns. Each others’ expressions. Frustrated doesn’t quite describe it. 

Wounded. 

That’s closer.

You might not fully know each others’ expressions yet, but you don’t need to know exactly what’s running through Jin’s mind to feel his heart twinge in your chest. 

Your hand leaves the curve of his pec and finds the bend of his jaw. “We don’t have to go,” you offer, angling his face toward you, trying to get his eyes to refocus. “We can just stay here and—”

You’ll learn that a sense of duty always helps Jin plant his feet on solid ground again, like he does now, stamping the heels of his sneakers firmly back on the porch.

“No, no, I’m sorry.” The words come in swift whispers, hurrying to outrun the outside eyes and eavesdropping ears of momentary embarrassment. “I wanna meet your friends. I wanna—” 

His eyes don’t quite sparkle, but the little crinkles in the corners are a good sign. 

“I wanna be there for you.”

You smile and run your hand back down from his jaw, down his chest, and down to his hip, giving him a squeeze back, tight, like he had just squeezed you, before you run your hand up your long, white-sleeved arm, landing on your shoulder to readjust your purse strap. 

“I’m excited for you to meet them,” you say, shrugging that shoulder as you pull the leather band closer to your neck. “And they’re excited to meet you.”

Their grinning faces are certainly a promising sign. And their genuine laughs, full and warm and echoing, are starting to clinch the win. You’d know. You’re able to elicit the same ones. And you take it as a particular point of pride that Jin’s puns and turns-of-phrase have brought them out before the first round of drinks. 

Soon enough, Jin’s body stops twitching and starts settling into yours. Just as you calmed his chest, and softened his bite, you ease his back with slow, soft circles. On your next pass, you gently press your short, manicured nails into his skin. He takes a deep, refreshed breath at your touch. Looks at you with a caring gaze. Places his hand on your thigh. Squeezes. 

Jin looks around at the six faces surrounding you. They’re admittedly pleasant company. All of you are so beautiful, and kind, and sweet. Most importantly, though, you’re endlessly interesting. 

Topics range from the petty to the philosophical. The girl with the shawl shares witty quips that would float beautifully in the warm sunlight of Namjoon’s library. The girl with the long earrings talks entertainingly with her hands, slender hands that Jimin would enjoy watching as they loop and bob, or maybe even swoosh caringly through Jimin’s bangs. The girl with the big, opal ring follows every word, a conversational chameleon game enough to follow Taehyung’s random, winding roads. 

The girl with the freckle on her nose detonates sentences like fireworks and wiggles like the shimmer in her bright pink eyeshadow, something Hobi’s keen eye would never tire of. The giggly girl would easily vibe with Jungkook, her strategic mind on display with her Valorant phone case, and the way she strategically positions empty plates on the table in such a way that the waiter is never troubled too much with service. 

And the pleasant girl with the wavy hair even frown-laughs like Yoongi, who would count her charming, amused murmurs like medals. 

Still, it’s best not to get too comfortable. The last six-ring circus that Jin was in tore him apart.

“You know,” the girl with the long earrings replies, as she reaches for her glass, “I was beginning to think our friend here was overdoing it. Putting you on a pedestal.” She exchanges a teasing, knowing glance with you. “But after having met you, I think she might’ve been underselling.”

“A good strategy,” Jin says.

You complete his thought for him by adding, “Undersell and overdeliver.”

Tingles travel up and down his forearms when you wink back at him.

And his ears turn the same shade as his sangria-stained lips, which are pulling into a similarly sweet, if not hesitant, smile.

“Oh, I bet you deliver every time,” the girl with the long earrings jokes, looking around the table.

Even though the girls squeal excitedly, Jin can’t really interpret the coquettish but ultimately silent grin you send to them in response.

You don’t bring it up, but if you did, Jin wouldn’t disagree that he’s pretty weird on the drive home. He stutter-steps the gas a couple times. Keeps changing the music. Settles on a podcast instead to try to keep talking to a minimum. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to you. He’s practically bursting with words once you’re both fully inside your apartment. He’s even jumpy as he trails you to your bedroom.

“I just wasn’t sure how to phrase it,” he finally says, as he stands next to your bed, eyes following you to your clothes rack. “And I didn’t want to have too serious of a conversation in the car. I really wanted to talk it out.” He softens. “Check in with you.”

At this, you pause. You hang your purse on the end of the rack and peer at him through the full-length mirror just beside it. “Check in?” you question. “Like, to see if we’re OK?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes widen hastily. “Are we not OK?”

The irony of the question. Both of you are so worried about each other’s answers that you’ve missed that you’re completely comfortable with asking the question in the first place.

“We’re more than OK!” Jin exclaims. You smile immediately as his eyebrows shoot up. “Things are fantastic!”

“Good,” you laugh, though you quickly re-furrow your brow and ask, “so, then, why were you so nervous?”

Jin knows he could bail right now. He’d know exactly how to. Save himself the embarrassment. It’s not like what the guys had to say rang true, anyway.

But he’s curious.

Not just about what might happen if he explores more of you.

He’s curious about what makes you tick. 

What makes you… explode.

Not bailing feels antithetical. It’s the strangest thing, being in a relationship where things are so good between you that he wants to know how to make you feel even better. 

“I, uh, worry that I’ve been maybe… kinda… one-note?” he asks. “Y’know. In the…”

He looks over at your bed. And then back at you. He gives you another look that you know you’re going to treasure. Eyes open, lips in pout. A puppy with his tail between his legs.

“No,” you say reassuringly, voice low, almost at a purr. You walk over to him and wrap him up in a hug, kissing his neck, just under his jaw. “That’s been good.” You sigh. “Really good.”

“I wanna do more,” he mumbles, running his hands over your ass.

He grabs both of your ass cheeks. Kneading them. 

Needing you. 

He pulls you into him. The pieces of you that are touching him — your breasts, your hips, your sex — illuminate fiercely. You sigh, placing your right temple just under his left collarbone, watching his Adam’s apple rise and fall as his hand traces down your fly.

“Good,” he purrs, “but I wanna do more of what you like.”

You can’t help but smile.  

“I like you.”

Jin chuckles before groaning, “Mmm, I like you, too,” as he undoes your zipper. You sigh as he wraps you up in his left arm, right hand busy with your button. Your pants sit a little lower on your waist, and you feel him start to slide his fingers into your cotton panties, stroking the front of your flesh gently with the side of his index finger’s knuckle. Gently. 

Questioningly.

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as your neck cranes left, pulling your body in front of his and giving your hands more room to roam his body.

But Jin steers you back into his chest. He doesn’t have to pull hard. The way his hand is circling your flesh, then sliding down, fingers parting to surround your entrance before sliding back up again, has made you delectably malleable.

“Seriously,” he whispers, continuing to massage you slowly. “Tell me more.” 

The room is starting to fade. And the faint, slightly electronic buzzing that usually accompanies total silence is getting softer. 

“Doesn’t seem like you need me to tell you anything,” you answer honestly, swaying a little.

Colors swirl magnificently around you. Even with your eyes shut, he wonders if you can see them, too.

His chest rises to cradle your cheek. The breath makes his voice fuller. Resonant, and rich. “Tell me,” he says, as velvet and slick in tone as your velvet is slick to touch. “Tell me what no one else knows.”

“You want me to—”

A gasp catches in your chest as Jin’s finger slides through your folds, and back again. Coaxing you. Rewarding you. Perhaps dangling a bit of another reward just out of your grasp.

Your eyes flutter open, and you’re met with Jin’s lidded but determined gaze. He keeps his finger’s rhythm steady as he pulls you into a kiss, but when your hands trace his sides down to his hips, he pulls his hand from you altogether.

A new whine seeps out of you. It’s not like the clear ring of his name from your parted lips. It’s a dulcet hum wrinkled slightly by the scrunching of your chin and muffled by the puffing of your cheeks. Flushed pink haloes you. He wonders if you’ll keep tiptoeing to the edge with him. He’ll feed the embers as long as you’ll allow. He wants nothing more than to see that adorable, wanting face again, and again, and again.

“I’m serious,” Jin says, a bit of concern creeping back into his voice. “Tell me what I’m missing. Tell me what I don’t see.”

Jin’s knuckles are no stranger to your flesh. But you’ve admittedly wondered what it might feel like to have him play with you a little more. What it might feel for him to twirl you. Dip you. Caress you. 

Unleash you.

You tilt your head and examine him, head to toe. Few others have actually asked. And fewer still have delivered. 

“What if I show you?” you ask.

Jin nods eagerly, pupils darkening as your excited glow lets more color into the room.

You slowly unbutton your white top, smiling when Jin’s mouth hangs open as you reveal the full brightness of the fuschia push-up bra you have on underneath. You wiggle out of your pants and underwear, kicking them over to the side. Your ankle knocks the angle of your mirror down a bit, and you turn back to inspect it. Which gives you an idea.

“Lie back on the bed,” you tell him.

Jin jumps onto your mattress, leaning back against the headboard, limbs sprawled out and ready to engulf you.

You bring the mirror closer before you crawl into his lap, and then you turn to lie back against his solid chest.

“You look while you touch yourself?” Jin breathes, watching as you bring his right hand up to your mouth.

You graze your jaw with the backs of his knuckles. “This is more for our little show-and-tell,” you say, tossing in a grin before adding, “though I have in the past.”

He moans as you open your mouth and wrap your tongue around his fingers, pulling them inside to soak them. The trail of your spit breaks when his fingers near your chin on their way down to your dewy, warmed flesh, guided by your soft, expert hand.

He nuzzles into and kisses your neck, tongue gliding up and down, lips coming together to suck and pinch, drawing giggles out of you as you place his wet fingers between your folds and against your clit. 

Your gentle, appreciative grunt tells Jin that things are already getting better. And he stays warm, open, and obedient as you swirl his fingers around. He keeps going exactly as you’ve shown him, even after you let go of his hand to better revel in the lusciously creeping heat spreading up your body. You guide it through your toes and calves, into your thighs, throughout your torso, higher still to your chest and arms. Heat gets trapped where Jin is sucking on your neck. You need both of your hands to shake your fingers through your hair in order to help some of that heat dissipate.

“Mmm, a little more pressure,” you whisper, as you twist your hips. “Play with me. Part my lips a little. Nice, wide circles to start.”

Jin’s hand feels heavier, and hotter. And he works at the speed you showed him, neither dragging out of nervousness, nor rushing out of excitement, not even at the captivating sight of you blossoming for him.

“Feels good?” he mumbles, into your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you sigh, eyes rolling back, and head soon following. You shiver and start to move your hips in tandem to Jin’s sublime, sinful rhythm. 

Jin looks at your bodies in the mirror, his still clothed, and yours so beautifully naked, your soft, natural skin contrasting his commercial purples and blues. He loves watching your clit dance, and the bold outlines of his shape keep him focused. You’re starting to come undone, and he wants nothing more than to hold you. Support you. Give you what you need.

“What else?” he whispers eagerly.

You moan as your feet start to slide against your sheets. “Play with my tits?” you say, voice slightly weaker than before.

He knows your nipples are sensitive, but he doesn’t know how much more sensitive they are like this. He learns quickly, when his forearm has only barely brushed against your bra, and your hips buck up in response. The lesson is cemented when you inhale sharply as Jin dips his left hand into your right cup.

“Hurts?” he checks.

“No,” you murmur in bliss. “Keep going.”

He massages your breast with his fingertips, grazing, then pinching your nipple as your body rolls in waves. One really good pinch has your jaw hanging open, aimed toward his, and he steals a kiss, his tongue soothing you there while his fingers flatten to soothe you at your chest.

You break your kiss with a squeal.

“F-faster?” you ask, hips moving more exaggeratedly. “Tighter circles now, and—”

Your forehead nearly bashes into Jin’s jaw, which clenches as he rubs your clit with more focused ferocity. 

“Fuck, that feels amazing,” you whine, nodding and shutting your eyes, bringing the back of your head to his shoulder again. You can feel his hoodie getting damp, and you’re about to apologize for sweating all over him, but his hand moves to your left breast, his pawing and clawing rendering you speechless. 

All you can do is reach back for him, hand running through the hair at his left temple, and grabbing in sheer excitement.

You turn your hips to the right a little, and Jin’s wrist presses into the space between your bone and your flesh. That slight bit of pressure, plus the bind of your bra misaligned and flicking against your sensitive nipples, has you faltering. 

You look in the mirror and lock eyes with him. You’re so glad to see that familiar sparkle.

Jin may seem more like his old self with you, but what brings a smile to his face is experiencing a new side of you. Hearing new moans. Watching your body, as well as your reflection, moving in new ways.

And he’s a quick learner.

He doesn’t need to be told, for instance, that he should take your swollen clit between his fingers and roll it. When he does, your eyes shut again, and your head loops and swirls the way his skin does in his fingerprints. 

Touch is not the only sense bringing new information. He’s even starting to see new colors, no longer primary in nature, but more evolved. Mahogany to maroon to mauve, the color of your flesh when heat and pressure move through it. Bursts of glitter where the tips of his fingers alternate between the room’s heating air and your heated sea, the inside of the knuckle of his thumb working with the inside of the top knuckle of his forefinger.

When he glances at the two of you in the mirror, your body writhing in ecstasy, and his eyes shining with lewd delight, he thinks that it looks like he’s sending you little finger hearts.

“Wanna know more,” he murmurs. 

He licks your cheek, and your body starts to shake. He grunts as he uses his body to cage you in, looping his ankles around yours, and clasping his other arm even tighter around you. Ironic, perhaps, as he had wanted to unleash you. But now, he’s realizing that he wants to unleash something from within.

“More about you.”

His hand grasps your chin, fingers and thumb digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze to meet his in the mirror. He holds you there for a moment so that you can see what he sees.  

“More of you.”

There aren’t just colors now. There’s enticing, immeasurable depth to every part of you now. Your bright, ravenous eyes. Your licentious, loose lips. Your voluptuous body. Your vivid clit, nearly bursting at the way Jin’s fingers are now starting to milk it.

“What turns you on.” 

You celebrate the sybaritic, Jin’s alluring voice, and his decadent fingers swirling in your opulent shine. You don’t mean to whine so much, but your whines aren’t the reason Jin’s free hand snakes up between your breasts to clutch your neck, a collar to go with the cage.

“How you turn yourself on.”

You have to agree that you look exquisite like this in the shimmering mix of the glow of the late afternoon sun, the thrill of the familiar, and the augur of something newly, beautifully devastating.

“How I can turn you on.”

His flexible fingers and wriggling wrist don’t seem to tire of winding you up, so you keep spiraling, confused about why the astonishing blitz of a daze hasn’t set on yet. You need to lunge forward. Your veins are screaming. Your pulse is a straight line. Where else is there to go? 

“How I can be there for you.” 

His arm digs in just below your stomach, and you cry out at the interlocking of the final, missing piece. The added pressure sends you into overdrive. Your heart is working so forcefully that each one of your senses is heightened. As streams of ambrosia spill out of you, you see a melding of forms in the mirror. The smell of hard work deliciously paying off. The savor of Jin’s lips and tongue and sweat and saliva being emblazoned in your taste buds. The feel of more fabric around you dampening. The sound of your juices filling each capillary in your sheets. 

When that sound is replaced with a reverent silence, you slowly lean your head back onto Jin’s shoulder.

“H-have you, uh,” you nervously, arduously sigh, “have you ever made a girl… squirt… before?”

Jin just shakes his head. He can’t rip his eyes away from you, taking in every square inch of your body, your juices clinging to the soft hairs on your skin like morning dew on still-sleepy grass. Will you let him drink from the lotus next time? Let him not just eat, but feast? 

“It happens sometimes,” you admit. “When I get really, uh, excited.”

Jin rests his cheek against yours. 

“Weird?” you ask meekly.

“Gorgeous,” Jin whispers. He nudges your cheek with his and nods toward the mirror. You grin happily at his mischievous face when tells you, “Want it all over my face next time.”

His hand lazily massages your mound, careful not to touch your clit again just yet, in an attempt to help ease you down. 

You turn to face him. 

“Where did that come from?” you ask, nearly voiceless, but smiling brightly.

Jin shrugs, and you see him go back to whatever anxiety-ridden cave he was in earlier.

Wanting to balance everything out with a little more resolve, you ask, “Seriously, Jin, is everything OK?”

“It’s fine, I just…” 

Jin leans forward to kiss you, but you both keep your eyes open. Feeling caught, he pulls away. 

You study each other for a brief moment. 

You don’t know it, but you’re telling yourselves the same thing. 

That this is what it looks like when it means more.

Now isn’t the time for pride. “I just didn’t realize that I knew so little,” Jin says shyly.

“You know more than you might realize,” you counter. “It’s never been that intense.”

Rising a little, Jin asks, “Never?”

You smile and shake your head. 

“I mean it, y’know,” Jin squeaks. He scoots his hips down a little, taking you with him, making it easy for you both to lie flat together, with you straddling his still-clothed thigh. “When I said I wanted to know more. Do more. Be there. For you…”

He takes a deep breath, and you run your hand over his chest, playing with your name in yellow stitching again.

“I wanna keep going to brunch,” he says, trying to sound like he’s just decided it, though each sentence he tells you sounds more and more like he decided it long ago.

“Good,” you say, your heart waking. “I want that too.”

Jin hums happily. You follow his eyes as they catch on the ceiling.

“Is there something else?” you ask.

Jin tilts his head. “Well, now, I’m wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

He smiles and wiggles his leg, your clit jolting against his thigh. 

“Me on top, and facing you,” you mumble. You pat your stomach. You run your hand thoughtfully along your jawline. You poke and prod. “I don’t know if my angles are the best like this.”

“I like all your angles,” Yoongi tells you, grabbing at your thighs and rocking his hips up, bouncing you. Your calves adjust to keep you balanced, the sweet curve of your supple muscles sliding along his bedspread. As they stretch, and then relax, you sink back down with him. He places his hands on your hips to make sure you’re comfortable. “It’s why I want you on top like this,” he adds. “I want to see you. All of you.”

You lock eyes with him. There are marks on the wall of posters that he’s leaning his back against. With a soft laugh, you lean forward and smooth Allen Iverson’s face back down to the wall, hoping his face doesn’t smear from Yoongi’s sweat. 

As you lean forward, Yoongi presses a kiss where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Mmm, Yoongi,” you say fondly. “That was sweet of you to say.”

He beams up at you. His hair has gotten a little longer. He never did get that haircut after the summer. It’s adorably messy. Especially now. A little shaggy. But you’re kind of glad. His little strands are so cute, laying against his pillow like that. 

As if all of this were calculated. Nearly down to a science. Makes sense. Science is what brought you together.

Experiments always thrill you, but this one feels different. There are no hypotheses. Nothing to base your discovery on. Just you and Yoongi twisting and turning, falling freely with each other, serving as each others’ life rafts as you throw each other into the depths of newfound delight. Without any kind of compass, you’re surprisingly so much more invested. Much more curious. Eager.

Your head falls forward, and you scrunch your eyes closed as you start to move against him, grunting softly as he starts to work his hips along with you.

“Fuck,” he moans.

You gasp at the stroke. It pries your eyes open. You see him squeezing his eyes tight as your hips force their ways toward each other, his head pressing back into his pillow, his forehead wrinkling with delicious effort. He lifts his right hand from your left hip for a moment and brushes the top of his hair back. He hisses through his clenched teeth as he does it. You think you might come at the sight.

You bite your bottom lip and force your eyes closed again. Was that private? You know it’s a silly question. But it felt good. Looked good. Looked like it felt good. Too good. Like it wasn’t meant for you.

As you even out your pace, you run your hand down from his shoulder to the base of his neck. His right hand flies off of your hip again and grasps your wrist just as your hand reaches his chest. Right over his heart. 

He holds you there. 

You ride, calm, taking another moment to feel each other out. Even though you arguably know each other quite well at this point, you like that you both seem to enjoy taking the time to check in with each other in the moment like this. How does he feel today? How do you feel today? How do you want it this time? 

More often than not, it starts sweet and slow. 

Everything about this has been sweet and slow. Sweet, with the reassurance that you give with one another during and after every session. All the “yes”es and “ooh”s and “I liked it when you”s. All the smirk-inducing notes hastily scribbled down in the notebook that’s now sitting on Yoongi’s desk and happily awaiting its forthcoming update. 

Slow, as you’ve taken it step by step, each entry like a building block, shapes forming as you figure this whole thing out. And that’s maybe your favorite part. The unpacking of the “why”s. Why it feels good when Yoongi rolls your clit between his lips as he sucks. Why it feels good when you arch back as he takes you from behind. Why he wants you straddling him, like this, now. The fact that he actually likes all of your angles. 

That’s absolutely a footnote for the notebook.

He presses your palm into him. 

So you allow yourself a look.

There’s a tenderness in his eyes. You’ve seen it before, but less so in these moments. You usually get this look when you’re keeping each other company while studying, or walking to class, or just hanging out, and you’re giving him one of your impassioned speeches. It could be about anything. Your work. That show you keep going on about. How horrible that donor money went to the new, ugly fountain in the quad instead of toward funding for lab space. He likes that he always knows what you’re thinking.

You can usually tell what he’s thinking. But they still feel a bit like guesses. Like you’re never really sure.

He squeezes your hip with his left hand, and you lean forward a little, the heel of your hands pressing into him at his chest where he’s kept you, and at the shoulder you haven’t left yet.

He’s moaning so… deliciously. Growls that summate and stretch into aching pleads. For more. Always more. More of whatever you’re giving. You still aren’t sure what exactly brings that out of him. It’s not only a faster pace, because he’s moaned like this when you’ve been lazily on your sides and barely moving (case numbers: 7, 13, and 14). It’s also not a particular stroke; he sometimes moans like this when you’re just getting things started with a kiss. Plus, this position is brand new.

You close your eyes to focus on his moan.

Whatever you’re doing, you’re glad you’re doing it. His moans make your toes curl so hard they cramp. Make you forget who you are and where you are and allow you to ask for more, too. Like the way you fall forward and place your lips on his, whimpering each time they rest against each other.

He grunts a question at you. You nod. You think you’re guessing right, and his body tells you so as you start to feel himself leaking into you. 

That feeling. Yoongi leaking into you. Giving into you. Little by little. An ice cream cone melting all over your hand in the summer heat.

Your legs come alive. Like the bedsprings that are beginning to creak, they give you the leverage to ride him a bit harder, and faster, a healthy bounce to go with the jubilant smiles growing on your faces.

“Like that,” Yoongi mumbles, his words and spit getting tangled in his throat, “I really like that.”

Eyes still closed, you nod again, hoping he’s got the wherewithal to pay attention. Hoping that he’s noticed that you’ve taken in the information. That you’ll definitely remember to jot it down. That you’re starting to remember and enjoy him so much that you might not even really need the notebook soon. 

Your bodies meet in a new way, his left hip turning inward, and your legs widening to accommodate. You’ve never felt so full.

Your eyes flash open to find him gazing up at you. 

You stare at each other, mouths slightly open as you get hungrier for more air.

Mewling, you start to ride him faster, head dipping back and facing the ceiling. It gets slightly closer, then farther, with each bounce. Yoongi grunts on each impact, more and more forceful as your bodies tighten together, every hold that you have on each other locking into place. 

He whines, and you feel his hand run up your body. Up to your face. He threads his middle, ring, and pink fingers through your hair, your earlobe splitting his index finger and thumb away from them. He gently angles your face down to him. When your eyes land on his, he smiles, and he runs his thumb over your flushed cheek. 

You get that feeling again. Like you might be enjoying this too much.

But you let yourself anyway.

You let yourself enjoy the way you come apart on top of him, withering over him, just as he releases inside of you. You let the thrill of his idea, and his compliment, and his utter ecstasy wash over you. And you let yourself enjoy the thrill that you get from giving it to him.

You didn’t know you could do something like that for someone. Be something like that. Something lustful and wanted. You’re more familiar with the ordinary. 

But Yoongi doesn’t consider it to be ordinary. He looks at you with that fond smile when you’re just sitting there with him in the living room, or in the library, or in the lab, because he’s got himself a gorgeous secret hidden in plain sight. 

“God,” you sigh, rolling off of him and finally collapsing.

Yoongi rolls in the other direction, still panting as he reaches for the notebook and pen.

“Quick,” he whispers. “Before we forget.”

“You’re always so worried we’ll forget,” you laugh. Heavy with pleasure, your eyes close to revel in the fading waves of your orgasm. The corners of your mouth rise and rise as you replay it in your mind, the snapping of the rope jointly knotted, the breaking free of all that bliss.

When your breathing evens out, you realize that Yoongi is silent. You open one eye and look over at him. You see his knees together, and bent, his feet flat on his mattress, and the edge of the notebook resting on his thigh.

You roll onto your side to face him, watching him scribbling quickly. He’s squinting at the page. He needs his glasses.

Rolling onto your other side, you see that he’s left them on the nightstand closer to you. You grab them and then turn, holding them out to him.

“Thanks.”

He slips them on before getting right back to work.

You watch him scribble things. Nice things. How pretty you are. How amazing you feel. How it thrills him to watch you let go. How much of a compliment it is that you let him be the one to see you.

His moan replays in your mind.

“Your moan,” your mouth can’t help but echo.

Yoongi’s tongue is resting in the corner of his mouth as he writes. “Hmm?”

You tap your finger next to the line above. “You like watching me,” you say. “I like listening to you.”

He frowns. “Does that mean you don’t like watching me?”

Laughing, you try to explain with, “No, I like watching you! I just mean that…” You’re starting to feel giddy. “I dunno, I just like listening to you. And I really like the way you make this one sound.”

Yoongi snorts. “What sound?” He raises his eyebrows with nervous amusement at himself. “I make sounds?”

“Don’t you ever read my sections of the notebook?” you joke.

“What do I sound like?” Yoongi asks, beaming at you.

“OK,” you say, “it’s like…” You do your best to mimic the anticipatory breaths, steady, almost as if he’s trying to control them. Then, when he realizes he can’t, the tortured release, scratching and clawing its way up through his throat to float out of him.

He looks away from you, smile all gums. “Oh. That.”

The fact that he knows what you’re talking about. “Tell me what makes you do that!” you beg, giggling. “I really want to know!” 

He looks so embarrassed. And unsure.

“You’re purposely withholding data,” you point out. “Mr. Open Source himself, withholding data? Would you really want to do a fellow scientist like that?” 

“C’mon,” he protests, his nostrils flaring with the threat of a laugh. “I’m a scholar and a gentleman, and a gentleman knows how to keep a secret.”

“Hmph. Gentleman.” You curl into him and press your lips against the side of his pecs. Up into his armpit. 

Blowing a raspberry, and making him laugh like a child. 

“Please?” you ask, bright-eyed. 

Yoongi blushes. Relents. “Well…” His cheeks puff up at his smirk. His eyes turn into tiny lines. Slightly angled up. Like the emdashes he’s so prone to using in his sections in the notebook. Like he’s excited for what he’s about to say next. “I like when you roll your hips kinda forward. Sliding down my shaft, nice and tight. Clenching when you get to the tip. And then snapping back.” He licks his lips. “It kinda feels like… like you’re enjoying me. Like you’re having a lick off the tip of a scoop of ice cream, and each time, rushing your tongue back down to the cone because you want more.”

Smirking, you watch each other for a moment. You both tongue the inside of your mouths. As you run your tongue across your teeth, you imagine the rough edge of a sweet cone. As your tongue plays at the inside of your lips, you imagine the salty taste of Yoongi’s cock.

You smile with pride. “I’m glad that’s how it felt.” You see the same ice cream cone before you, his juices melting down your hand. That word again. “Because that’s how I felt, too.” Tell him. “It was…” 

It always comes up for a reason. 

Say it. 

“…Delicious.”

Yoongi lets that laugh out of his nostrils, despite how badly he didn’t want to give it to you.

CASE NUMBER 52

You snap the headphones onto Yoongi’s ears, making him jump, which actually makes it easier for you to make sure the headband sits snugly on the top of his head. 

You whirl him around in your desk chair, and he blinks rapidly at you.

You lean forward and give him a sloppy, yearning kiss, one that he returns near-immediately. Your hands start feeling around, exploring each other. You giggle when his thumbs run over your nipples through your shirt, and he gives a little grunt at the realization that you have no bra underneath.

Some of the music seeps out. Once that gorgeous vocal bridges the gap between the intro and the second half of the first verse, you pull away and let Yoongi bounce his head along to the snare hits that sit atop the intriguing melody, lifting an octave higher into a mezzo-soprano, boosted by those mellow, electronic, bass-supported chords. 

A smile means that Yoongi approves. And you know that something’s good when Yoongi approves.

After the faint beginning of the chorus, you reach into your pocket for your phone to stop the track.

“Well?” you ask.

He points a finger at your headphones, still in place on his head. “I’m so glad I talked you into buying these,” he replies. “That warm, crisp sound is so perfect for the kind of music you like to listen to.”

“Oh, fuck yeah, yes, everything sounds like an autumn sunset,” you agree. But before you indulge in listing all the follow-ups that you have in your head, you remember what you were planning on asking. “But that’s not what— I mean, I have a question. Well, an idea.”

“For?” Yoongi asks.

You bring from behind you the notebook, holding it proudly.

“Ooh!” Yoongi swivels around again and saves his data. And you know that Yoongi is invested when he stops what he’s doing.

“My roommates just left to see a movie, so I thought we could squeeze in a round or two,” you say, waving the notebook back and forth. “Maybe play some mood music.”

“Perfect,” Yoongi says. He slides the headphones off of his ears, letting the band hang around his neck. “But if they’re gone, why the headphones?” 

“I thought it might be interesting if we listened to different songs,” you say. 

A low murmur shoots up into a loud, surprised, higher-pitched-than-you-would’ve-expected laugh. “Huh?”

“We’ve listened to music together before.” A part of the song plays in your mind. You know the exact lyric at the moment you came. You’ve thought about it every time you’ve heard the song since. “I wanted to see how it might change. Is it the shared experience of the song that makes the whole situation sexy? Y’know, something about being attuned to each other and finding better synchronization? Or is it that a song makes you feel sexy, so you feel empowered to ask for and do what you really want?”

Yoongi stares at you blankly before tossing out an unbothered, “Sure. Why not.”

Your lips puff out. “Don’t you like my idea?”

“Not really,” he admits, making you laugh. “But let’s do it anyway.”

You cross your arms and tilt your head upward, shooting Yoongi the haughtiest of looks. You might almost look like him. “If you don’t like my idea, then why are you doing it?”

He looks at you quizzically. “Because I get to have sex with you.”

You let the laugh that you were letting sit in the chamber break through before letting your arms swing back down to your sides and sighing. “Fine,” you say with an amused roll of your eyes. You walk over to your bed. “Get your earbuds.”

Yoongi smirks as he reaches for them, and his phone. You sit on the edge of your mattress and drag your song’s bar back to the beginning as Yoongi joins you, placing the earpieces of your headphones on your temples, and one earbud in his left ear.

“You going with that same song?” Yoongi asks. 

“Yep,” you say brightly, setting the song to loop when it’s done, wiggling your hips with a bit of excitement at how things will feel when set to this music. 

“Cool. I liked that one. Send it to me. I wanna listen to it.”

You look at him pointedly. “No, you need to listen to something different,” you remind him. “Something that really gets you going.”

Yoongi scoffs as he places his earbuds inside his ears. “Jeez, I meant send it to me after.” He looks down at his phone to make his own selection before tossing his phone back towards your pillows and sharing a teasing smile with you.

“Alright,” you sigh, beginning the experiment by getting up and starting to remove your clothes. 

Yoongi laughs at the clinical, matter-of-fact way you’re doing it, too, still reminding him of the instructions to put the song on repeat, and tossing out your hypotheses for the experiment as you uncover your shimmering skin, free those gorgeous breasts, unveil that soft mound, showing him the most private and unique parts of you. Parts that as of yet, only he has seen. 

“Are you paying attention?” you ask, as he gazes at your body.

“Absolutely not,” he tells you, licking his lips at the sight of you.

“Yoongi,” you plead. “C’mon. I really wanna see what might happen.”

“OK, OK,” he laughs. “Let’s do it.”

He places the other earbud in his right ear, and you set the cushioned earpieces over your ears. After sharing a nod, you press the play button hidden just under the right earpiece, and he taps his left earbud. 

As the smooth intro of your song floats into your ears and wraps your body in silk, you lie back and watch as Yoongi quickly undresses and climbs on top of you. 

Sensing your passion and urgency, he not only kisses you, but immediately places his hands between your legs, rubbing your clit up and down. Slow, to start. But with just the right amount of pressure. You grin at how well it matches your song’s first enticing notes, warm and welcoming. Maybe even a little sinister.

As the first lyrics swim through you, so does Yoongi, kissing you deeply, soft when his lips land, pressing his face so close as his tongue parts them and dips into your mouth, dragging up, licking the inside of you, and then settling into quick follow-up kisses, all of it somehow in time with each beat.

You go from smiling through those perfect kisses to grunting through them, as Yoongi slips his finger into your entrance. You hold the yawning moan that’s building in your throat. Yoongi can even see it bubbling up. He kisses you at your neck, coaxing it out of you. 

You get the impulse to swallow it down.

You aren’t sure why you want to swallow it down. It’s not about Jin or your roommates. You aren’t necessarily scared of someone hearing you. Actually, you kind of like the idea of someone unseen somewhere, watching and listening to you. You swallow it down because you kind of feel like a dog wanting to bury its bone so that no one else will find it, or a bird using its own feathers to line its nest.

You’ve never told Yoongi that before.

You smile to yourself as you wonder what he might say about it.

A tap on his shoulder brings his eyes to yours. 

“Like this,” you unnecessarily say. Yoongi can’t read your lips, but you catch him licking his lips when you roll over and tighten for him.

You ride his hand to the beat, grooving along with the chorus. Insistent. Driving. Nearly pleading. The beat and the lyrics are your frame.

Your focus shifts to the second verse, excited when you feel the tip of his already hard cock pressing into your flesh. His movements are measured, each one stretching you out further and further. Working with him, you give him that roll that he likes, long hums starting to leak through your lips when he grabs your hips and pulls you toward him in the snap back.

You sink your face and chest further into your mattress, pushing your ass up, both of you bouncing against each other in double-time, at least to your song’s rhythm. He claps his hand on your ass again, grabbing your skin and pinching it tight. You let out a little growl as he grips tighter and tighter. And you bite your lip at the thought of your skin changing hues with each grab. Gold to red to burnt orange, an autumn sunset on your backside. Or the gorgeous irises and lilacs he kisses into your breasts and collarbone. When Yoongi fucks you, he doesn’t just send you to new, beautiful places. He paints them all over you. You are his landscape.

“Yoongi,” you moan quietly.

His song seems to pick up. Or maybe he’s feeling you start to clench. You were already so turned on as your roommates were heading out the door. If he keeps this pace up, you’re going to come, hard.

“Yoongi,” you moan, with a little more abandon, “ooooh…”

He grasps you even tighter. Fucks you deeper. Like he’s embedding himself into your skin. You wonder if you’ll bruise. You think of fingerpaints. Blues and greens with Yoongi’s prints, a lush meadow at your hips.

The singer hits those high notes exactly when you hoped they would, just as you were in the throes of it, starting to sing along with your own voice, a mix of groans, and chuckles, and gasps, and pants, that when all strung together, make one long, fragmented moan of Yoongi’s name.

You start to go limp, your body taking over. It stretches your arms out and makes your fingers grab your sheets for support. It lowers your ass out of exhaustion. It prepares you for sleep. And you will absolutely do just that the moment that these shaking chords of rapture finish resonating throughout each muscle fiber.

You feel Yoongi pump into you faster and faster, and you fight the earthquake in your body long enough to stay as tight as you are for him to come. He lets out a rumble, and some mumbled sentences, that you hear in the gaps of your song. “So good when you…” He falls to your body and kisses your back. “And then how you…” He licks up your spine and presses another kiss at the back of your neck. You hear him panting. You reach behind you and cradle the back of his head, fingers massaging him as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You turn your face toward him, and he pulls himself up, reaching his neck around to kiss you.

Once you’ve both caught your breath, you fumble with your headphones and earbuds and, exhausted, lay them somewhere to the side. You think you hear one of Yoongi’s earbuds fall to the floor.

You grab it after you get up, rummage around in your bookshelf for the notebook, and walk back to the bed. You drop the earbud in Yoongi’s belly button, which makes him laugh gently.

“Alright,” you sigh again, concluding the experiment. “Thoughts?”

Yoongi’s lying flat on your bed, diagonally, hogging most of the space, and limp. Much closer to sleep than you are. “Definitely want to do that again,” he says, his upper arm resting over his eyes, elbow hooked around his temple.

You nestle into the top corner of your bed, next to Yoongi’s other arm. “C’mon, notebook time.”

He sighs and uncovers his eyes, looking up at you.

“What’d you think of the experiment?” you ask again, pen poised at the ready.

“The sex was incredible,” he prefaces, before saying, “but the experiment was dumb.”

“Well, what song did you pick?” you ask. 

Yoongi just offers a smile. 

A mischievous one.

“Yoongi—”

You search around your pillows for his phone, happily finding it before he can keep it away from you.

“I said to listen to something different!” you cry out, slapping his hands.

“I did!” he protests, trying to reach for his phone anyway.

His passcode is Allen Iverson’s jersey numbers in chronological order. 3-3-1-3-3.

When you unlock his phone, you find that none of his various music apps were even playing.

“You weren’t even listening to anything??”

Yoongi meets your annoyed expression with one of his own.

“I was. I mean, I wasn’t listening to a song, but what good is it, making you moan my name like that if I don’t even get to hear it?” Yoongi points out, furrowing his brow.

You blush. “Fair point,” you reply. “I guess I didn’t think about that.” You flip through some of the pages of the notebook. “Have you told me that you liked hearing your name?” You speed-read through your notes, pausing every now and then when you hit a starred case number to find any trace of what Yoongi’s just brought to light.

He places a hand on the next page you flip to. You look up at him.

“You just always seemed so…” Yoongi looks at you hesitantly. “…shy to talk about it?” 

That hesitant look. It makes you take pause. You turn your shoulders toward him, and Yoongi matches you, both of you settling against the headboard, resting your temples on the padded fabric.

“Sometimes, I see you wanting to say something,” he replies. “And then I see you, like, kind of choke it down.”

You feel that yawning moan creep back into your throat, along with all the other things you’ve swallowed down.

“Maybe I do get shy about some stuff,” you say carefully. “Not so much being heard or seen, but more about… telling you,” you say. It’s clumsy, but you feel a bit of the weight in your chest and throat start to lift. The notebook used to be such a great tool to help you express yourself. But now, it kind of feels like a chore. And this information feels… different. Like it doesn’t belong quite in the same place.

“You always tell me how good I sound,” Yoongi says. He raises his hand gently and runs a finger over your bottom lip, his eyes following its curve. “You sound good, too,” he mumbles. “The way you moaned my name… fuck…” 

You smile bashfully, and Yoongi grins. “So, please. Don’t hold back,” he goes on. “Tell me those things.” He traces the top of your big smile with his finger, slowing as he outlines your Cupid’s bow. “However you want to tell me.” He takes your chin in his thumb and index finger, pulling you toward him, leaning forward to meet you, and giving you a soft kiss.

When he pulls away and looks expectantly at you, all you can respond with is a meek, “OK.”

“That headphones move at the start was really good, by the way,” Yoongi tells you, grinning again. “And paired with that kiss? Instantly turned me on.”

“Yeah?” you ask, flattered. 

“Oh, yeah.” As he thinks about that kiss, he makes room in his smile for his top teeth to bite his lip. And then he comes back to you. “So don’t forget to send me that song, OK? I’ll have to use that move on my next date.”

The muscles in your cheeks start to wither. Not because you’re no longer smiling. But because it’s taking so much energy to keep that smile frozen in place.

You wonder how long birds keep their nests.

CASE NUMBER 104 

“Trite, or consistent?” Jin challenges. 

He looks into each person’s eyes at the table. One of your old roommates. A few of his buddies from the marketing program. Friends you’ve collectively met in shared classes, or the student center, or, on one interesting evening, in the dorm laundry room, while they were wearing nothing but a tutu and a princess tiara. 

Regardless, none of them are buying what Jin’s saying.

“OK, fine, so what? So I have a reputation,” Jin acknowledges. “It’s a favorable one, no doubt.”

“People are calling it the Seokjin Grand Slam,” someone pipes up. “You get the four Ds: Drinks, Dinner, Dessert, and Dick.”

Through the cloud of laughter comes a questioning, “Dessert??” One of the girls blinks rapidly and shoots Jin a pointed look. “I didn’t get dessert when we went out!”

“Because you failed during the dinner,” Jin teases mercilessly. “Who orders an escargot appetizer on a first date?”

“I thought it’d appeal to that worldly charm you wanna be known for so badly,” the girl teases back, rolling her eyes. She places her hands on her hips and does her best impression. “Hi, I’m Jin. Nice to meet you. Let me spew a bunch of fucking nonsense about how I want to learn a regional dish from every country, but then proceed to make you old ramen in the morning.” 

“You still got the dick, which is what you seemed to want so badly,” Jin points out happily. He winks at the girl. “You’re welcome for that bonus ramen, by the way.”

She does her best to frown disapprovingly at first, but Jin’s charm makes it nearly impossible to even pretend to be mad. That charm bomb is the main explosion that forged this random group, happily spread out around in your living room and on your floor, full after the little dinner party that Jin had been dying to throw since he, Yoongi, and you moved in together. 

“You’re never gonna find a partner if you just keep Grand Slamming,” the girl sighs, turning to her smiling, snail-supportive boyfriend and snickering as she settles into him.

Jin smiles at the two of them, warmed at how sweet they look.

And then he turns to you and Yoongi in the loveseat across from him. Yes, just like the girl and her boyfriend, Yoongi’s head is resting on your shoulder, and his arms are around your waist, and your legs are intertwined. But you aren’t sure why Jin looks at you two as if that means anything.

“I don’t necessarily want a partner,” Jin goes on, eyes starting to roam the rest of his audience. “I’m just kinda looking for sparks.”

“Sparks.”

It comes out of your mouth with admiration. 

It comes out of Yoongi’s with disdain.

“I mean,” Jin says, smiling at you both. He gestures to you, holding out his palm and looking at everyone around the room. “Right?”

They all seem to nod knowingly.

“I don’t feel sparks,” Yoongi says matter-of-factly. 

It doesn’t surprise you, and it doesn’t surprise Jin. You’ve had long debates about how sparks are overrated. How romance is arbitrary. Fake, even. Completely made up to force people into a never-ending quest, constantly in search of resources to help them along the way. Jin always carries the torch of optimism, believing that there’s more to the sparks than just that initial luster. But you all agree that maybe your solid, brainy trio can put your heads together and work against the bastardization of whatever brings people together. You want to give people the proper tools that they need to find a real connection, however it ignites.

“What I feel is home,” Yoongi explains. “Comfort. Predictability.” He grins at Jin, and then he grins at you. “Consistency.”

“Sure, Yoongi,” Jin says, with a secretive little smile for you. “Consistency.”

You believe he’s giving it to you by mistake. Yoongi’s proven so with the sentence that’s just fallen off of his lips. But you can’t help enjoying that smile from Jin, just a teeny, tiny bit. You wonder if that smile exists because of other conversations that have been had. Conversations that only Jin has been privy to. Conversations, maybe, about how because of that comfort, and predictability, and consistency, Yoongi dares to feel a fondness. If not a spark, then at least a glow.

“And consistency doesn’t necessarily equate with triteness,” Yoongi adds. “It allows you to measure things. Compare them. Contrast them. Find out what else you might like. Find out what you might not have even considered.”

You start to feel a little antsy. You think of hours earlier, as Jin was finishing up the last of the dishes and greeting the first of the guests. How Yoongi pulled you into his room for a moment. How he whispered that he liked your top.

“Not now,” you had warned him, though the burning in your chest couldn’t be bridled by whatever words you’d try to toss at it. 

“I particularly like this part, right here,” Yoongi gestured, to the missing button at the top of the nicest shirt you owned, giving people a little peek at the top of your cleavage.

“People are starting to show up.”

“So?”

“Jin is excited,” you keep going. “He’s been looking forward to this, and he’s about to start yelling if we don’t go out there and help him.”

“All the more reason,” Yoongi counters.

You left that conversation in Yoongi’s room, with a smirk and a chastising shake of your head.

You also deflected the suggestive looks that Yoongi was shooting at you from across the dinner table. And you left unanswered Yoongi’s hidden touches on your shoulder or at your waist, placed surreptitiously when he would get up and refill everyone’s wine.

But you couldn’t help yourself, just moments before the group discussion of Seokjin’s Grand Slams, when the clatter of dishes being put in the sink, and echoes of now-drunken laughter, gave you enough cover for Yoongi to whisk you into the bathroom.

“Please?” he finally whispered into your ear, after he ran the sink for more white noise to cover up your secrets.

“What’s gotten into you?” you giggled, finally kissing him back, and sitting on the counter, making space for him between your legs.

“I don’t know…”

He nibbled just above that missing button so happily that you wonder if he took it and hid it on purpose. You did your best to choke down your moan.

“I like that we live together now…” His hands grabbed at the stomach of your shirt, untucking it from your jeans. “That we can…” He unbuttoned your pants and held you up as you got them over your hips. “Steal these little moments when the urge strikes…” He unbuckled his pants and stroked himself as he moved your panties to the side.

“We’re around each other all the time,” you pointed out. “We can always fuck when we want.”

“It’s just better this way, though, isn’t it?” Yoongi whispered, while hoisting you up in his arms and sliding into you. At that perfect burn, you went with a hiss instead of a moan. You thought it might sound more like the water running in the sink. “Just… more efficient?”

“How sexy,” you scoffed, leaning into the crook of his neck as he leaned into yours.

“It’s plenty sexy,” Yoongi whispered back, moving with that incredible, unmatched stroke, “the ability to have each other whenever we want, in the exact moment we want.”

You rocked against each other, bracing yourself with your arm, hands flat on the space on the adjacent wall next to the light switch, just in case that measly bathroom door lock cowardly succumbed to someone’s drunken, insistent knock. 

Though, there is some part of you that likes the idea of someone stumbling in. 

You’re sure someone heard you come. Maybe everybody did.

You think that’s probably why everyone’s still nodding so knowingly at you and Yoongi. Why Jin often has that secretive smile on his face whenever the two of you are anywhere near each other. After all, how could you and Yoongi still keep this experiment up and not have sparks? How could you and Yoongi have a quick fuck in the bathroom in the middle of a party that you were technically co-hosting and not have sparks? How could you and Yoongi be draped all over each other all night, like now, in a seat named for lovers, and not have sparks? 

But you have a secret, too. 

You have the secret of knowing how quickly Yoongi turned back off, like your bathroom light switch. How he kissed you, passionately, and very appreciatively, but then immediately reached for his phone. “Nice,” he told you, as he quickly typed. “Gotta add that to the notebook.”

“Add what?”

“What I just texted you. These are my notes for whatever session we’re on.”

He quickly cleaned himself up and flashed you a grin before giving you a squeeze and rejoining the party outside. You washed up, tucked your shirt back in, and fixed your hair before reaching for your phone, which had fallen out of your back pocket in the commotion and landed on the counter.

You put your phone in nearly exactly the same place every day.

But it looks so scary all of a sudden. Just sitting there. Holding the rest of Yoongi’s words.

You check his message.

Yoongi (8:42 PM): Sex in the new apartment, on top of the bathroom counter. Drove me crazy with that missing button. Helped me with the release I needed. Living with you is so convenient.

The night goes on.

You play some games. Finish another two bottles of wine. Yoongi falls asleep early and disappears into his room before the last guests leave.

And you and Jin are left to do the bulk of the washing up.

All the while, those words stick in your mind.

Consistent. Efficient. Convenient.

Sparks.

“Did you have fun?” Jin asks you, his face red and splotchy from the wine, but still accented by his movie star smile.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to him and grinning.

The dishwasher in this new place is small, so after you rinse each spoon, fork, glass, and plate, you hand it to Jin to dry with the first of a set of ten llama-patterned dish rags that he insisted on getting while you were in the checkout line of the home decor store the day before you moved in.

“Tell me, honestly,” Jin replies. “How badly did you want everyone to leave?”

You rinse one of the serving platters and shake it a little before handing it off to Jin. “Scale of 1 to 10?”

Jin chuckles. “Yes, give me the NPS rating.”

You tilt your head and pick up the next serving platter to rinse. “A solid 3.”

“I was expecting a detractor rating, but not as high as a 3!” Jin exclaims. He smiles happily and leans in a little too close. “Was it the food?” He narrows his eyes and smirks. “Tell me it was the food.”

“It was the food,” you giggle. You press a kiss onto his nose, his cheeks growing downright ruddy. “Thank you, Grand Slam-master.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jin laughs. 

He smiles at you with that secret smile again. It’s starting to unnerve you.

Annoyed, you grab the last of the washing, a bunch of cutlery, and hold their handles together, quickly rinsing them all as a group before handing them to Jin like a metal bouquet. 

Jin frowns, certain that he’s upset you, what with the way you’ve seemingly left him with the agonizing task of not just drying the last of the cutlery but also putting away literally all the dishes. But he brightens when he sees you reach for the second llama dish rag in his neatly folded stack. He rolls his eyes at himself, as if chastising himself for thinking you’d ever leave him in the lurch. 

You sigh and smile at Jin again, reminding yourself not to take out whatever feeling this is on him. Or on anyone. Especially when you aren’t sure exactly what it is.

“Sorry if I went too far there,” Jin murmurs.

“You didn’t,” you say, truthfully. You pick up a spoon to polish. You wonder if it was Yoongi’s. “But what did you mean by that?”

“By what?” Jin asks.

“I’m not a Grand Slam-master,” you reply.

“With that little show that you and Yoongi put on today?” Jin teases.

You dig each other’s shoulders into each other, side by side, pushing on each other and giggling.

“You heard us in the bathroom?” you ask.

“The entire building heard you in the bathroom,” Jin jokes. “I don’t know why you let the faucet run. It was just a waste of water, and if anything, it might’ve amplified everything.”

You know he isn’t lying when he mimics you both sound for sound, switching between Yoongi’s pleading groans, and your surrendering moans. 

You cover your face with llamas.

Jin throws his head back and cackles before reaching for the dish rag and finding you again. “But that isn’t what I was talking about,” he explains, through chuckles growing more serious.

You were afraid of this.

“It’s nice, living with you both,” Jin says. “It’s nice watching you. Not in a creepy way. But… it’s sweet. To see you together.”

“We’re not together,” you say.

You think of the bathroom again.

How convenient this little setup certainly seems to be. 

“Sure,” Jin says again, with that secret smile.

And you’re a little sad that your secret doesn’t come with a smile of your own.

CASE NUMBER 128 

“How were the coffees and pastries?” your waiter asks. “Especially that ube cake?”

You beam up at the waiter. You share a friendly smile because you’ve seen him around. The bookstore. The gym. The pizza place that everyone goes to for half-priced wings on Wednesdays. 

“It was perfect,” you sigh. “Reminded me of the ones I ate growing up.”

The waiter turns to Yoongi. “And that almond chocolate croissant?”

Yoongi mimes a chef’s kiss.

The waiter grins, satisfied with the job he’s done. “Can I get you both anything else? Refills?”

He’s so attractive that every place you’ve seen him in feels unreal as a result. As if he’s there to shoot a commercial for the bookstore, or the gym, or Wednesday Wingapalooza, or this cafe. You can’t remember his name. He’s most likely not a science major. You aren’t sure if he’s an undergrad or a grad student. You really wish you could remember his name.

But it doesn’t matter, anyway. 

“No thanks,” you tell him. You glance over at Yoong for confirmation before turning back to him. “I think we’re all good.”

“Great,” the waiter replies. “I’ll be back with your check. Just give me a minute to clear these for you.”

He takes the last of your plates, and you turn back to Yoongi’s phone in your hands, finishing the last of the questions that you’ve been told to answer. 

You hit a couple more buttons. Ruminate on a couple more thoughts. And then you look up and announce, “OK, I’m done with this stupid quiz.”

Yoongi holds his hand out, and you return his phone to him.

“Ooh, calculating results,” he says, watching the spinning circle on the screen.

“You do realize that this test and others like it aren’t psychometrically validated, right?” you say. “It’s just like the Myers-Briggs, and those aura tests. You might as well be playing MASH.” 

“Oooh!” Yoongi squeals suddenly, ignoring your rant and reading whatever results have been calculated.

You frown. “Hey!”

You reach for his phone, but thankfully, he moves into the seat next to you rather than staying in the seat across from you, twirling the chair around so that he can sit in it backwards, and rest his forearms along the chairback.

He hands you his phone so that you can read your results, but he tilts his chair toward you, resting his chin on the chair back and following along.

“Voyeurism?” you ask. “As my number one kink? That’s surprising.”

“Is it?” Yoongi wonders. He speaks carefully. “You’ve told me before that you… y’know… kinda… like… the idea of someone watching you?”

Your smile goes a little crooked. “I mean… I guess I do. But who would even want to watch us?”

Yoongi’s lips form a small grin as he watches you take in the rest of your results. “Well… What if it wasn’t… us?”

You take note of what list item you’re abandoning momentarily to look up at Yoongi for more clarification. His eyes, however, are somewhere else.

“Yoongi…” 

Whatever it is, Yoongi’s eyes are locked onto it. Tight.

You follow his gaze and see that he’s looking at your waiter, who is busy closing out your ticket and talking to another customer at the same time.

“You seem to know him,” Yoongi says.

“I’ve seen him here and there,” you say, turning back to Yoongi and shrugging. “Why?”

“Hmm.”

You stare at Yoongi for more. Any detail, any microexpression, any slight nuance that would tell you more about what’s going on in Yoongi’s head. You don’t realize that you’re ignoring the waiter, and how after he’s done with that customer, he glances over at you and smiles to himself, lowering his eyes to the ground before taking another quick peek at you as he waits for your receipt to print.

“I think he’s checking you out,” Yoongi says, chuckling.

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

“No, I mean it,” Yoongi tells you. “Every time he’s left the table, he’s looked back at you with interest, but also a bit of a, like, desperate, kinda sad, forlorn but cheesy expression.” He scrunches up his face. “He has a bit of a, y’know…” He waves his hand around aimlessly in the air. “You know like, you haven’t been on a date yet, but you like them, and you can’t stop thinking about them?”

“A crush?” you offer.

“Yes! Wow, thank you,” Yoongi laughs. “My mind went completely blank. Yes. Our waiter has a crush on you.”

You scoff. “If you think you’re getting out of paying today—”

“I’m not, and believe me, he has a crush on you,” Yoongi doubles-down.

“Whatever, you’re dodging my questions about this so-called test,” you reply. You lean back in your seat and fold your arms, careful not to press them too hard into your stomach because you’re so, so full of cake. “Why did you want me to take it?”

“The notebook is looking a little sparse,” Yoongi says. “Thought we could liven it up a bit.” And then he grins. “Plus, I’ve got a date on Saturday with that gymnast.” There’s an unanticipated level of excitement in his voice. “She mentioned something about being a little bit of a rope bunny.” And then, he lets out the real ask, the one that the kink quiz request was just a ruse for. “Wanted to see how that lined up with your results, and if you’d be down with me practicing with you.”

You haven’t thought about the notebook in a little while. You’re admittedly a little disappointed that this is how it comes back up after a long, parched absence.

“You don’t have to butter me up with pseudo-psychological assessments and fake crushes,” you say, somewhat annoyed. “You can just ask me if I want to do something.”

Yoongi nods. “Fair enough.” And then he grins. “But this saved me whatever long-ass diatribe you would’ve given me.” He taps the phone screen. “Can’t help but notice that rope bunny’s only fourth on your list, which means that you wouldn’t be into practicing rigging with me.”

You’re about to weigh in on your own sexuality being dictated to you when you hear the waiter behind let out a little, “Whoa.”

You turn back around to find the waiter blushing, smile crooked and eyes a little unfocused.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says. “Was just dropping off your check.”

“Oh, she’d be fine with it,” Yoongi says. “Voyeurism seems to be her top kink, so the eavesdropping might work in your favor.”

You glare at Yoongi, eyes bugging out of your head.

“Ask her out, man,” Yoongi says with a grin.

“Wha—” The waiter coughs. “What?”

“I saw how you were looking at her,” he explains. “We’re not together, but I’ve coded enough of her couples research videos to know what ‘interested’ looks like, and from the way your tongue has been hanging out of your mouth, you seem very interested, my dude.”

“Yoongi!” you hiss angrily.

The waiter laughs nervously. “Uh, well, anyway, it was a pleasure serving you both.” He can’t look at you as he sets the check down on the table, next to your elbow. He barely touches it with his finger. His speech comes out even faster, and even more muddled. “Come see us again and have a great day and thanks-so-much-seeyounexttime!”

The waiter scampers away.

You draw in a long breath. You hold it in your lungs. You watch Yoongi lean back in his seat, lift his cap, comb his fingers through his hair, and readjust his cap back on his head, letting your breath soak up the impulse to wrap your hands around Yoongi’s neck and squeeze until his smug smirk dies with him. 

You slowly exhale.

“A wingman play??” you ask, bewildered. “Even with our—” You stumble over the words. “Our, y’know. S-situation, experiment, thing?”

Yoongi rests his chin down on his arms. “We said we’d keep this open for a reason, right?” he asks.

You draw in a long breath. You hold it in your lungs. You let your breath soak up all the carbon dioxide of the words you’ve so often stuffed down, killing them and storing them until you can find some kind of release. You slowly exhale.

“Right,” you say.

Yoongi watches you with deepening curiosity. Like you’re a subject in one of the research videos he’s coded for you. He sees the rating scales in front of him, and he’s confused. Why are you turning down a prospect? Is it your confidence? You tend to let whatever petty, arbitrary, superficial insecurities that you have affect you, even though you shouldn’t, because most of them are imagined anyway. And whatever isn’t imagined is just human. A fear of failed expectations. A fear of rejection. But it doesn’t seem like either of those is at play here, especially because Yoongi sees the waiter furtively glancing at the back of your head as he closes out another ticket.

“How many people have you been with?” Yoongi asks.

You furrow your brow. “Oh. Uh…”

The words don’t come to you right away because you’re still stunned by Yoongi’s reflective question. Yes, you’d agreed to keep it open. Technically. But you haven’t quite opened yourself up just yet.

Yoongi reads as much in the way the worry lines squiggle across your face.

He reaches for the check. His fingertips graze your elbow.

You flinch. You pick up your elbow and pin the check to the table before Yoongi can escape.

“No, we agreed, you’ll get the next one,” Yoongi says with a confident look, his gaze tunneling so deeply into yours that you can almost feel him in your brain. “And not just because it’ll be your turn. But because you’re going to owe me.”

As Yoongi settles up, and after you share two shy glances with your waiter as he takes, and then returns, Yoongi’s card, you and Yoongi chat idly as you pass the grocery store, the nail salon, a few switched-off street lamps, and the busted fire hydrant that someone has inexplicably plastered with Hello Kitty stickers back to your apartment. 

“You really haven’t been with anyone else?” Yoongi asks, holding the cafe door open for you as you set off.

You shrug. “I guess I haven’t really found anyone else interesting.”

“You haven’t tried,” Yoongi replies. 

A tense pang in your gut tells you that this might be it. The conversation that you knew would come out somehow, at some point, and yet that you’re surprised has taken this long to finally erupt. 

“I know you’ve tried,” you say. 

Yoongi nods. But he doesn’t say anything else. For as much openness as he’s wanted to build into this, he hasn’t told you anything about his other jaunts. Even so, you’re pretty sure they are jaunts, because after he goes on one, Yoongi always wakes up or comes home with a gigantic grin on his face, muscles relaxed, tendons longer somehow. 

You’re not exactly sure if you want to know what’s on the other end of this question. “How do you find people?” 

“Find people,” Yoongi echoes with a chuckle. “You’re not recruiting for a study.”

“I might as well be. I mean, that’s what we have, isn’t it?” you ask, unable to hide the accompanying edge of bitterness.

Yoongi shoots you a look as you both bob and weave around, maneuvering in and out of patrons entering and exiting the grocery store.

Eventually, you find your stride again, side by side, in perfect step.

Yoongi says, “What we’re doing is one thing.” He looks at you. “What you want to do outside of that is another thing. It’s separate.” He crams his hands in his pockets. “Different.”

You walk like that for a while. Separate bodies, with separate limbs placed in separate spots. His hands in his pockets. Yours clutched around the strap of your cross-body purse. Legs taking you in the same direction, at the same time, but of your own, separate accords. Funny. Just hours ago, all of these limbs were intertwined so fiercely that you weren’t sure where yours ended and his began.

Separate. You stare at your feet as you walk. Different. You look back at Yoongi, who’s walking with his head tilted toward you. “Does it… does it feel different?”

You’re not the only one struggling with figuring out what to say, or how to say it, or the fact that anything could feel uncomfortable between you and Yoongi in the first place. 

“Yeah, well, I mean, of course it feels different,” Yoongi decides to say. “Whoever I’ve been with isn’t you, so.”

On your walk, you catch sight of a woman’s gorgeous powder blue manicure. She smiles to herself, admiring her nails. She looks up and enjoys the sun shining on her face for a moment, and then she happily walks to her car, her smile spreading from her lips to yours.

“What we have is good,” Yoongi says, crossing into your path to bump your shoulder with his. “I like it.” He grins when he sees you grinning. “And it makes the exploration even better.”

“Better?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi replies. “Like, because of what we have, I can go out there and have a terrible time with someone, or an incredible time with someone, and I can just enjoy that moment for what it is. Y’know. Completely lose myself.”

“Wouldn’t you be able to either way?” you ask.

Yoongi nods. “Sure. But isn’t it comforting to know that we can come home to each other and know that no matter what, it’s going to be good?” He smirks at you. “Like clockwork, right?”

As you continue ambling down the sidewalk, you look up at one of the street lamps, oddly blinking, struggling to stay on, even though it’s not needed in the daylight.

“Have you thought about what that looks like long-term?” you ask.

Yoongi lifts his cap and runs a hand through his hair, saying, “Long-term?” as he ruffles the roots and brushes through his strands.

“Yeah, like… what happens when we’re not living together?” you ask. “What happens when either of us want some kind of committed relationship.”

“I don’t want that, though,” he remarks. He looks over at you. “I thought we agreed sparks were overrated.”

“They are,” you say quickly. “But… I don’t know.” You shrug. “Just playing out the what-ifs.”

Yoongi’s eyes brighten with familiarity. As if you went somewhere, but you’re back again. “That’s the beauty of our whole thing,” he says. “There are no what-ifs. It’s just us, and this. That’s all.”

Yoongi gives the busted fire hydrant a kick as you pass by. The head of one of the Hello Kitty stickers rips off into his sneaker tread.

“So,” he continues. “We’ve gotta get you exploring more. And we’re starting with that waiter.”

“Please,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I barely know him.”

“So?”

“So… it’d be weird to jump into this with the goal of sexual exploration.” You stop yourself. “Wouldn’t it be?”

“Not if you’re upfront about things,” Yoongi points out.

You approach your apartment building, lazily climbing the steps, your desserts settling into your stomach, and your bodies finally relaxing after a morning of perfect, lazy, hours-long movements against each other, tongues dragging, and lips pressing, quiet moans rumbling and sweat staining, then drying, then staining again. 

As you place your key in the keyhole, Yoongi watches you and smiles. Before you turn the key, he puts his hands on your waist, turns you to him, and presses his body against yours. He kisses you. Unrushed. Unforced. Passionately. You take your hand off the key and grin into your kiss, both of you laughing softly as you stroke his arm. 

He pulls away. “Don’t be afraid of some exploration,” he tells you. “You’ll love it. And know that you will always be able to come home.” He looks down, and you follow his gaze to your keychain. He flicks it. And then you look back at each other, giggling. “Home,” he says softly. “To me.”

You walk through the door and find Jin sitting on the couch, eyes wide open, lips pursed, completely still except for his erratically moving fingers around his video game controller.

“And where the hell have you two been?” he asks loudly and quickly, once whatever danger has passed him.

Yoongi just grins and snickers at you while he walks into the kitchen for some water.

“Ugh, nevermind,” Jin groans, nose and cheeks scrunching with disgust. When paired with his eyes, still wide open, he looks absolutely horrified, and you laugh at him as you join him in the living room.

You take your purse off of your shoulders and set it next to you, watching the screen as you catch up with Jin.

“Slept in, then had some brunch,” you say simply, leaving out that between that, Yoongi’s soft, hazy dreamscape, replete with passion dripping from his fingers, tongue, and cock, made you come five times.

“Could’ve brought me something—”

You pull the apple strudel from your purse, the brown paper crinkling and tearing slightly as it catches on your zipper. 

Jin smiles and exchanges the strudel for his controller, and you pick up where he left off, helping him get through the next stage of bursting colored bubbles in a race against the clock.

Clockwork, you think, in Yoongi’s voice.

You clear your throat and try to refocus on the game, as Yoongi joins you in the living room, sipping from his glass of water.

Your phone rings. But you don’t move, lest you lose the game.

Yoongi rushes to gulp down his drink of water before crying out, “Answer it!”

“It’ll go to voicemail,” you say, hitting another huge line of orange bubbles, much to Jin’s unbridled excitement. 

“Answer it!” Yoongi exclaims again, when your phone rings for the second time.

“Ugh, stop distracting her!” Jin complains, “I keep getting stuck at this stage!”

“But it might be important!” Yoongi pushes.

You frown but keep your eyes on the screen. “On a Sunday?”

“Just keep playing, I’ll get it,” Jin offers, reaching into your purse and swiping to accept the call.

“No!” Yoongi exclaims, “Don’t you answer it—”

Jin chirps a straightforward hello and explains that you’re busy helping him finish the second-to-last level of his game, but that by the looks of things, and if you get a red bubble in the next three turns, you should be free in a moment, and if they would be willing to stay on the line, you’d be able to take the call.

Yoongi grips his glass a little too hard, annoyed at Jin’s dumb face.

You get a red bubble in the second turn, and you shoot it at the perfect angle to get all the bubbles down and start the last level.

“Yesssss!” Jin exclaims, “Thank you!”

You laugh and switch the controller for your phone, giggling when you say, “Hello?”

Yoongi beams at the sound, biting his lip as he watches you take the call.

The voice on the other end is familiar, but you haven’t heard it through the phone before. “Hey, uh, this is the waiter from the cafe.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Uh, the guy you were with, he wrote your number on the cafe’s copy of the receipt.”

“Oh,” you say, a little nervous. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the waiter laughs gently. “Um. The guy you were with also, uh, wrote something else.”

You narrow your eyes at Yoongi, who triumphantly does a little dance with his shoulders.

“He did now, did he?” you grumble. “And what exactly was that?”

“That I should call you in about 20 minutes and ask you out,” he says. He laughs quietly again, and you feel your ears rush with blood. It sounds so nice. Pleasant. And warm. “Technically, I could only wait 18 minutes. But I figured I’d try anyway.” He clears his throat suddenly. “Uh, but don’t let my inability to wait shape your assumptions about my stamina.”

You chuckle, and Yoongi smiles at you with all of his teeth, the room silent save for the cheery pops and chimes from Jin’s game.

“I won’t,” you say. “I’ll take it as a compliment instead.”

The waiter sighs, and then hums. “Would it feel too rushed if we went out tonight? I get off work at 6 and would love to see you, if you’re free. We could just, y’know. Hang out. Maybe check out that new paletta stand a couple of blocks from here?”

You look at Yoongi, who raises his eyebrows and his shoulders questioningly. Encouragingly.

“OK,” you say. “Sure.” You smile knowingly at Yoongi. “I’m up for a little bit of exploration.”

You now have approximately five hours to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to wear for a little bit of exploration. 

After a few more hours of lounging around and thinking aloud every now and then about a possible outfit, you finally make your way to the shower.

Once you’re done shampooing, conditioning, primping, and shaving, you walk into your bedroom to find Yoongi in your closet, laying out options of outfits for you on your bed.

“What the fuck?” you ask.

“I’d go with the tank top, personally,” Yoongi says, gesturing to it and your favorite pair of jeans. “You should show off more of your body.”

You roll your eyes. “Yoongi, get out.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to get dressed!”

Yoongi points down to the front right corner of your mattress. “I was literally fucking you right here, like, eight hours ago.”

You can’t help but laugh. And then relent. Like you always do with Yoongi.

“Fine,” you say, ignoring the happy way he sits on that corner and folds his hands together.

You remove the towel from around your body, and Yoongi grunts as the towel lands on the floor. You step over it to survey the options that Yoongi has picked out for you, as Yoongi opens his thighs to you, letting you lean on his shoulders as he runs his hands up and down your naked body.

“I do like the tank top,” you say.

Yoongi kisses your stomach, and then your ribs. “You’re gorgeous,” he tells you. “The world is missing out.”

You grin. You do like the confidence that this situation-experiment-thing with Yoongi has provided you. There are so many sensory experiences you hadn’t allowed yourself to have in a while, thinking that those experiences were for the younger or smoother or slimmer versions of you, and reserved now only for those younger, smoother, and slimmer than you. Sensations like the feeling of air on your navel. The warmth of the sun on your shoulders save for a thin, light strap of fabric. Or even lips on your stomach and ribs.

You don’t think your stomach and ribs are particularly attractive. Just regular. Maybe even less than average. But then, you wouldn’t really know, because you haven’t seen many stomachs or ribs up close. 

Not like Yoongi has.

You flinch and pull away from him a little. “It’s weird that you’re helping me get ready for a date,” you say.

“Why?” Yoongi asks. “You help me get ready for dates all the time.”

One word from you, and a shirt gets tossed, or shoes get switched out. Plenty of outfits have been vetoed. And Yoongi often finds that when you fall silent at the sight of him, his date does the same.

“So what’s in it for you, then?” you challenge.

Yoongi smirks. “Alright. Hear me out.”

“I knew it!” you give him a playful smack on the cheek and step out of his hold, picking up the towel and wrapping it around yourself again. You repeat versions of it. “There had to be something in it for you! Otherwise you wouldn’t be so pushy! God, I should’ve known!”

As you spin off into your whirlwind of complaints, the two of you laughing and circling around the room and each other, Yoongi tries to interject. “Look— Look! I, c’mon, listen to me, I was thinking about the test we took— Are you listening?”

You fold your arms and give him a pointed stare. 

“Voyeurism,” he says, with a smirk.

A suddenly and simultaneously exhausted and regretful breath huffs out through your nostrils.

“What if…” He smiles fully. Mischievously. Excited. Baring his teeth to the gums. “What if when you came home…” He nods over to your closet. “I was… sitting in there.” He looks at you so earnestly. “Just… Watching you.”

He widens that devilish smile even more.

You can’t deny that you’re intrigued by the suggestion, mostly because you’re blushing, but also because your pussy awakens at the thought of Yoongi’s curious eyes peering out at you as you’re in bed with the waiter’s lips traveling down your neck and that gentle voice filling the room.

Would Yoongi touch himself? 

Just watch? 

Take notes in the notebook?

Regardless, if you keep thinking about it, you’re going to need another shower.

“This all hinges upon whether or not he comes home with me,” you point out.

“So wear that tank top.” Yoongi stands and walks over to you, hovering over you, grunting a little, and making your lips part with just his gaze. He smiles again. “And use what you learn in your exploration to put on a good show.”

He smacks you on the ass, revenge for the slap that you’d given him earlier. 

And then he leaves you to get ready.

You’ve never put that tank top on faster.

Yoongi doesn’t see you again until hours later. He misses the looks on your face when you meet the waiter. He misses how surprised you are that the waiter actually changed and cleaned up, dressed in different clothes and smelling of tea tree and sandalwood instead of food. He misses how delighted you are at how good the family-owned paleta stand is, savoring the strawberry on your tongue while becoming more and more curious about the strength of the taste of mango on the waiter’s lips. He misses how brightly you laugh when the waiter tells you things that he’s noticed about you. 

Like how smart you look with your glasses perched at the end of your nose when you’re looking for a book. 

Or how focused you seem when you’re on the treadmill. 

Or how cute you are when there’s a bit of buffalo sauce on your cheek as you laugh and dig into your usual order of pizza and wings on Wednesday nights.

It’s not a major loss that Yoongi suffers, missing those looks. He’s usually right next to you anyway, armed with something to say.

Like a snarky comment about how being a woman of science shouldn’t mean that you have such poor spatial reasoning and such a penchant for romance novels.

Or an interesting finding from the articles he reads while lying on the bench next to your treadmill, waiting for you to finish.

Or a fondly chiding string of complaints as he rubs the first layer of your cheek’s skin off with a brown, rough napkin covered in so much buffalo sauce that you can only make out the “palooza” in Wednesday Wingapalooza.

But when you burst back into your bedroom, locked in the waiter’s hold and kiss, frantically clawing at each others’ clothes, Yoongi has the strange feeling of wondering what he’s missed. 

You wonder what you’ve missed, too. What has Yoongi been up to for these few hours? Was he watching TV with Jin before Jin went off to whatever adventure was waiting for him that night? Was he locked up in his room, studying? Sleeping? 

Was he just lying there, thinking of you?

All evening, the waiter had done a good job of coaxing you away from wondering. First, with his cut muscles, pecs popping out from under the simple but stylish t-shirt that he changed into. Next, with his kind acts, paying for your treats and thanking the older woman at the register with a sweet smile and generous tip. Then, with his surprising words, making you laugh unexpectedly, like when he tells you how deeply afraid he is of squirrels.

When he turned your laughter into moans with kisses succulent and tasty, strawberries and mangoes ripe for the picking, you’d almost stopped thinking about anybody else on the planet.

Until you see them.

Yoongi’s eyes. 

Wide, bedroom eyes. 

Lustful. 

Warm. 

Expectant. 

They peer out at you from the darkness of your closet, as you and the waiter free each of your clothes, and the waiter lays you down on your bed.

As the waiter’s lips, still sticky and sweet, travel down your neck, down your chest, further down, stamping note after note of that delicious mix of giddiness and growing attraction, you sigh heavily and turn your head toward your closet door.

Yoongi’s eyes glisten before narrowing slightly. When his amused brow arches, you feel some self-critical, nervous part of you, deep within you, start to relax. You find yourself smiling back at him, and your heart throbbing. And when the waiter returns from exploring your depths to give you a slow, dizzy kiss, you remember that you’re supposed to put on a good show.

You look up at the ceiling and bite your lip as the waiter travels back down. His tongue parts you, tasting and enjoying your syrup, unable to distinguish where his treat ends and your treat begins. You squirm, and his hands clasp your hips with a loud clap, making you grunt a little and raise your knees slightly in the air.

The waiter mumbles something and reaches for your knees, pushing them up to your chest. He parts your legs for a moment to kiss your breasts, and then he wraps your arms under your thighs, forearms resting in the backs of your knees, and pushes down gently, telling you to stay exactly like that.

Your legs part just a little as the waiter resumes his flirty, dirty kisses, sounds becoming more and more obscene, accented by slurps and groans and grunts, and laughs, when one of your legs starts to straighten up into the air at the heat and tension building at your entrance. The waiter’s tongue roves across every hill and valley, digging deep where he can, and tickling lightly too, tip dancing at the peaks of your inner lips, or the hood of your clit. 

You come quickly. Shallow, but not because of the depth of sensation. More like the sweet, cool breeze after finishing off your paletas. Exactly what you needed. Refreshing, and light. Knowing that there’s still room for so much more.

“You taste so good,” the waiter tells you. And the dark look in his eyes tells you that based on his broad and varied experience, he would definitely, definitely know.

“Let me taste you now,” you tell him in more of a stage whisper rather than a genuine whisper, somewhat surprised at your own confidence. You wouldn’t have even been able to get the words out if you hadn’t caught a glimpse of Yoongi’s smirk, just by the doorjamb.

You switch places with the waiter, letting him lie down, knees bending at the edge of the mattress. You kneel in front of him, and then you lick him the way you had been playfully licking your dessert. That solid, hard, sweet stick. The way you twirled it around in your mouth. Slowly eased it out, before eagerly slurping it back in again. Grunting softly when syrup started to drip off your lips, even onto your hand. 

The waiter groans, his pecs, and his abs, and his thighs, and his calves all straining and flexing at your touch. His arms fly up and back to land on your mattress, and nestle behind his head, as you stroke his shaft with your saliva-sodden hand, strung to your lips, and connecting where your lips start to kiss his balls. One ball, then the other, finds its way into your mouth, and his body arches the way your tongue does against those spheres. 

You aren’t sure when your free hand found its way to your pussy, but you know you’re going to come soon, what with how fast your fingers are massaging your dripping lips. 

And then you wonder about Yoongi again.

You wonder if he’s close to coming.

So you run your tongue up one side of the waiter’s cock, over his slit and around his gorgeous, thick crown, before running your tongue down the other side of his cock, affording you a direct gaze into the darkness of your closet.

There, you catch sight of the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. It disappears into the black. But then it appears again, covered now by Yoongi’s tongue.

You suck suddenly, and happily, at the sight.

And when the waiter groans with pleasure, Yoongi lets himself echo it, lest he lose his complete mind.

As you come to the sound of both of them enjoying you, you keep your lips and tongue working, moaning through the shivers and shakes that you give yourself, and are heightened by the feel of the waiter’s cock at the back of your throat.

“Shit,” the waiter sighs, backing away from you a little. “Use me however you want, and then let me fuck you.” He lifts your chin to look deeper into your eyes. “Pretty, sexy thing like you. I can’t last.”

You hoist yourself up, straightening your torso and leaning into his lap. You wiggle your ass side to side, into cute little figure eights. Your finger strokes his stiff, seeping cock. “What was that you said earlier,” you tease, “about not letting your eagerness shape my assumptions about your stamina?”

“Fuck what I said,” he mumbles, pulling you to him. “This is all your doing.”

He melts with you into another dizzying kiss, one that you can’t help but moan at with your entire body.

“What do you want?” the waiter whispers. “Let me give it to you. Do it for you. Be yours.”

You smile fiendishly as you get a glimpse of something that might drive you, and not just the two of you, but all of you, truly crazy.

You stand up, leaning down to kiss him again. You rest your palms on his thighs, and then you stroke them slowly, up and down. “Wanna ride you,” you whisper. 

The waiter chuckles as he reaches for your hips, but you wiggle your ass again and round the corner of your mattress.

“Lie across,” you tell him. 

You kneel on the bed, facing your closet, and Yoongi, head-on. 

“Like this,” you tell the waiter.

The waiter swings his legs over the other side of the mattress and lies back. His tall frame and long limbs means that instead of his feet being firmly planted on the floor, the heels of his feet, and maybe even the tendon in back, will sink into your plush carpet, and his head and neck will hang off the other edge of the bed. 

Small prices to pay for the way that you straddle and then begin to ride him, gently at first, hips winding, body bending, knees spread completely apart as you balance on your toes and hold yourself up with one hand while running your other hand through your sweaty hair. 

You really start to bounce, your tits moving in matching circles. The waiter starts to groan again, his head hanging off the edge, but his eyes shut so tightly with the amount of focus he’s putting into not coming at your warmth, and your tightness. 

You smile with pride.

But then you look over to the closet and see Yoongi’s chin. Too much of Yoongi’s chin. Because his bottom lip is sucked completely into his mouth.

You start to take more of Yoongi in. The wet flesh that belongs to neither of you on the bed. The grunts that come out of neither of your mouths. The quick hisses and slurps of desperation when it gets really, really good.

You moan and plant your knees on the mattress, riding harder and faster, skin on fire wherever the waiter’s hands start to grope and feel. Up your ass and waist, grabbing as he goes. Palming your breasts and pinching your tight nipples. Squeezing your thighs to make you rock forward and kiss him. Even spanking you a little, as you giggle and squeal.

At this, you catch Yoongi’s brow furrowing. Spanks are his favorite things. Which is more the reason why you giggle and squeal.

You falter back and catch yourself with both your hands, arms locking and propping you up, as the waiter drills up and into you, ass sinking deep into your mattress and launching himself up and deep into your folds. 

It feels good. It feels so good that you come again. Another one of those slight shivers in the breeze, your moan more of a polite sigh when contrasted with the all-consuming orgasm you hope will happen when he really fucks you. Your body is just so pent up; the sights and sounds are sending you into a tizzy, and those glances and glimpses of Yoongi are shooting you into the heavens, but there’s still something just slightly off about the feel. Maybe it’s that you keep one of your hands on your pussy at all times, rubbing softly, or sternly, to help get yourself off. 

You’re just not used to that when you’re with Yoongi.

And Yoongi knows. He watches you move together. It’s quite a thing for him to want to kneel next to that waiter’s gorgeous mouth and stick his dick in. But it’s quite another thing entirely for him to want to jump out of your closet to tell him that he’s doing it all wrong. That he was closer when he was jumbling up your legs and arms in the beginning. That you need to be held nearly uncomfortably close, right up until the moment you’re about to come. That you’ll get a jolt rather than a breeze if he’d just do it right.

Yoongi hadn’t anticipated this. All he can do is watch as you sigh softly, offering a kind hum as the waiter crawls out from beneath you and stands at the foot of your bed, angles you toward him, and fucks you from behind. Long and deep thrusts that start to make your insides heat up and tangle into bunches and knots that Yoongi knows you’ll need his help to untangle later.

You and the waiter topple over and into your mattress, both writhing with pleasure, though not the kind you’d gotten used to.

He comes differently. You don’t know what you were expecting, but with that gentle, warm voice, you thought it might sound like Yoongi, all purrs and moans at the bottom of his register. 

“Fuck, that was fun,” the waiter sighs, from the top of his. He laughs a little as he grabs and jiggles your thighs fondly, eyes roving over the sumptuous muscle with amusement. “I love your body.”

“Thanks,” you say shyly, that nervous part of you returning, and already starting the cringeworthy process of disavowing any kind of compliments flung your way. You try to redirect them. “But god, your body…” You push the words through your teeth before you chicken out. “It’s perfect.”

You allow yourself another look. Chances are you won’t get another one. Especially given that the waiter is rolling off of your bed and reaching for his clothes.

It surprises you, but doesn’t, when the waiter kisses you and says, “We should definitely do this again.” It surprises you that anybody other than Yoongi might want more of you. But with your senses returning, and the waiter’s body getting more and more distant as it travels through your bedroom door, into the living room, and out your front door, you realize he probably says that all the time, to everyone.

You sigh and rest a moment, rolling onto your back and letting your limbs slide across your sheets, wet in some places, still dry in others. 

You wonder if you and Yoongi have ever left a bedspread dry.

“Well done.”

Having crept up against the edges of sleep, you startle at the sudden sound of Yoongi’s voice. You open your eyes to find him standing over you, head bent and angled left, eyes inspecting your body after having been touched by another, tongue in the corner of his mouth, and hand roving over his chest. 

His shirt gathers in clumps between his fingers. You lick your lips.

“How do you feel?” he asks, in that signature purr.

“Good,” you say, smiling warmly. “Really good.”

“Mm.” 

It’s his turn to lick his lips, as his hand travels down his stomach and across the front of his sweats, small patches wet with his arousal, fabric tenting where his cock has grown.

You push your lips out and wonder if Yoongi will taste more like mango or strawberry.

You turn onto your side and gaze up at him.

He places his free hand on your hip and runs it down your thigh. “You seemed to have a good time,” Yoongi rasps, palming the head of his cock as he touches you.

You nod.

“His body,” he jokes, even mimicking the way your throat clipped with anxiety. “It was perfect.”

You shiver and buck your hips into Yoongi’s hand when it presses into your still-wet folds. Fuck, it feels so, so good, somehow even better than just moments ago, when someone was inside of you.

“It was?” you question.

“Your words.”

You groan again when Yoongi starts to fondle you with more intent, slipping into the lazy circles that never fail to get you going.

“Maybe I should call him back?” Yoongi teases.

But you know what lies beneath the teasing. What was lying underneath this entire situation. The true seed that planted and took root before growing into this interesting proposal. 

“I want you,” you moan. “Just you.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen slightly when you say it. 

And then, he’s on top of you, writhing with you, your collective juices staining his favorite pair of sweatpants.

“You looked incredible,” he whispers in awe. 

He strokes your hair. Fists it. Pulls it back so that you can give him a full kiss, and then back further, so that he can suck on your neck. You’re panting, breaths made even shallower when Yoongi’s fingers pick up the pace at your pussy.

“The way you rode him,” Yoongi mumbles. “Never seen you like that before.”

He stretches out and reaches both his hands out to grasp yours, intertwining his fingers into yours, pressing his palms into yours, pushing the backs of your hands deeper and deeper into the mattress.

“Your tits bouncing around like that. Fuck. The way his cock fit into your body. Your mouth.” He snarls. “How you played with yourself.”

He rocks his hips against yours, pressing his bulge into your folds, making you keen.

“And you?” you whisper. “What’d you do in there? In my closet, in the dark? Did you play with yourself?”

He rocks his hips against yours again, his bulge feeling more and more rigid. He lets his head loll forward. All he can manage is a few slow, sublime, surrendering nods.

You hum and reach down for him, grasping the solid rod sheathed in fuzzy cotton, and rubbing up and down, pulling him towards you so that he can kiss you, and then pushing him back so that he can finally get his clothes off.

Seeing him consumed in lust for you, not just watching from the shadows but letting that fixed gaze beam at you full force, makes your pussy twitch painfully, reminding you of the need that never quite got satisfied.

“Fuck me, Yoongi, please,” you whine. “Do it right.”

“Need to clean you out first,” Yoongi mumbles.

He rests against the mattress, his lower half hanging off the bed as he spreads your legs and kisses your inner thighs. 

You shiver as Yoongi’s expert lips begin their work.

“Clean me o-out?” you whisper.

His lips stop moving.

Yoongi climbs back up for a moment, and you taste your sweat on his lips. He rests his chin against your cheek. 

“You let him fuck you raw,” Yoongi grumbles, his lips right next to your ear.

You wonder. Is he angry? Jealous? Why do you want him to be?

“So I need to know,” he finishes cryptically, before he slinks back down your body.

“Need to know wha—” 

Yoongi’s tongue is not a stranger. You welcome him with open arms every time you get a chance. But tonight, something has gotten into him. Tonight, Yoongi’s tongue starts to make those patented waves that need their own name. Gentle, to start, tongue tip exploring much like the waiter’s had. Then, with more pressure. And then, the base of his tongue lends more muscle, right up against the base of your clit, moving in waves that ripple through to his tongue tip, and only get amplified as they echo throughout your body. 

When he sucks. Oh, god, when he sucks, and his lips rip from your skin at the power, that sharp hiss that erupts each time you pop from his mouth, like tires screeching against the road. You nearly scream, it’s so good. And when fingers enter you, picking up the pace they had left off at, you think of Yoongi’s fingers, growing more and more desperate to get them in your mouth.

Gulp after gulp in his deep, warm voice, and soon, you’re shaking uncontrollably, needing to bite down on your arm to keep yourself sane.

Yoongi noses your chin, and when you release your arm, he gives you a sloppy, wetter than usual kiss. He empties what was left of the waiter into your mouth, cream making you slide against each other, cream also making you stick together, your skin at your jaws and necks growing gummy and hot, his working hand still draining you, and his free hand starting to lather it into you.

“Tastes sweet,” Yoongi observes, before hurrying to drink more of you up again. 

You reach out to cup his cheek, forcing him to look at you. To really receive the information you’re giving him. “But not as good as you,” you say.

He smiles sheepishly. 

“That move,” you gasp, only now starting to settle after coming so damn hard, “that’s… that’s officially The Move.”

You feel Yoongi smile against your inner thighs, and he presses more kisses against your lips and clit before starting to ease his fingers out of you.

Case numbers fly through your mind, but, “Never had it so good,” comes out of your honest mouth.

Yoongi takes a deep breath in his last kiss on your left inner thigh. “Learned some things while I was watching,” he tells you. “How you went really crazy when he was right up against you. Couldn’t see that before.”

“You collect any other data in this field study?” you joke.

“About to put it to the test,” Yoongi replies with a smirk.

He lines his cock up with you, and you’re already moaning at the feel of his tip outlining your lips. He slips inside of you, making you go limp, your chest fighting to stay up, but your entire body eventually melting into your now drenched sheets smelling of cum and sweat.

He knows to hold you close. To let his frame rest fully and completely on you. To essentially bind your body. To choke you a little. To squeeze and grab and clench. To keep his legs locked around yours until you just have to spread them out. To hold tight with fingers, and when that isn’t enough, hands, and when that isn’t enough, lips, and when even that isn’t enough, teeth.

You press your mouth against Yoongi’s cheek, your arms squeezed around his head, your hands in his hair and stroking his back, your chest strapped to him and your legs around him like a belt as he piston pumps into you.

You come with every muscle in your body. With every hair on your head. Even your eyelashes tingle, zapped with the kind of energy that only someone as daring as Yoongi could give.

And when Yoongi comes, body resting on top of yours, his moans tickle both of your throats as he releases them into your kisses, those yummy, juicy bottom notes of his register nearly setting you off again.

Kissing. Necking. Nosing. Tracing. Giggling.

And then Yoongi rolls off of you, pulling out, and letting his cum drip down and out of you. Perhaps staining the last dry parts of your bed.

You gaze at each other, just grinning.

“Did you feel like he left in kind of a hurry?” you ask, feeling a little self-conscious.

“No,” Yoongi says. “Besides. Sometimes it can be like that, and that’s OK.” He smirks. “Why? Do you miss him already?”

“Not particularly,” you realize.

“He was a waiter boy. He said see ‘ya later boy.” Yoongi softly chuckles to himself. “What’d you two talk about?”

You stretch and yawn a little. “Nothing, really.”

“Damn. Got right down to the business? Didn’t get to know each other or anything?”

You smile. “He’s really afraid of squirrels.”

Giggles turn into cackles.

“Squirrels?!”

“He just kept saying, ‘They’re rodents! Like rats!’”

Your laughter dies down into chuckles. “He’s a fucking idiot,” Yoongi remarks with disdain. Another trademark of his.

He turns to you. Instead of reaching for his clothes, he’s nestling into your sheets. Yawning a little. Letting the tip of his nose rest against yours. Smiling with such satisfaction.

“I liked this, with you,” Yoongi sighs.

You beam. “Me too.”

Yoongi kisses your cheek before burrowing deeper into the bed. “So now that it’s your turn to pick, choose well,” he purrs. “Someone better. So that I can put on a good show for you.”

You lie back. Look at the ceiling. Close your eyes as he talks. He thinks you’re falling asleep. But really, you’re just lying there. You don’t speak. It’s not that you’re spent. You’re just trying not to let them slip. 

All the thoughts. 

All at once. 

You’re thinking of how few people you know, and how quickly your circle is becoming just Yoongi. You’re thinking about rats and squirrels and rodents and rope bunnies. You’re thinking of how much your knees might ache, kneeling in the closet like Yoongi had for all those hours. You’re thinking of how much your heart might ache, seeing Yoongi deep in rapture at someone else’s touch. 

And you’re thinking of how much your brain might ache, wondering whether Yoongi found someone better than you.

CASE NUMBER 269

“Hey, check it out, it’s case number two-hundred and—” Yoongi wiggles his eyebrows at you. “Sixty-nine,” he finishes, with a suggestive grin.

You kick his leg under the table, and he bounces up in his seat.

He mimes a groan as he lifts his leg and animatedly rubs his shin.

You watch him from across the table through your periphery, keeping your pupils glued to your next line of syntax. You find where the missing semicolon broke your code. “Why do you have to say it like that?” you chuckle, as you continue your edits.

“Because we’ve always sixty-nined when we’ve hit a sixty-nine,” he whispers.

A flash of fire sears across your hips, heating your flesh and making you start to sweat. You’ve lost track of the numbers long ago. The only reason Yoongi would know the case number is if he’s actually looking at the notebook.

A weight lands in the pit of your stomach when you look up and see your old friend holding an old friend.

“You found it?” you whisper. You look around nervously. “And you brought it to the lab??”

“You said to bring my reading, so I did,” he replies nonchalantly, flipping through the pages.

Flustered, you scramble forward for the notebook, but Yoongi pulls away before your fingers can grasp the cracked, black spine.

You look around again. There are only two other people here, and neither of them are paying any attention. You’re not sure why your neck is so hot.

“I thought you were actually reading real studies,” you say, turning back to a smug Yoongi and sitting back down in your uncomfortable chair. 

He cocks an eyebrow. He holds up the notebook and flips to some random page, turning it around to show you. “Are these not real studies?” he posits. “Are these not the realest studies that could ever be?”

A glimpse of the word “tongue” in his handwriting makes you lower your eyes immediately. “You know what I mean.” 

You huff and look back down at your laptop screen. Crazy how one scrawled word has completely derailed your train of thought. 

The table shifts forward, jutting into your stomach a bit.

You look back up at Yoongi, who’s teetering back in his seat, the sole of his foot planted on his edge of the table, pushing it forward into your stomach, and pushing him back on the hind legs of his chair, his elbows propped up on the armrest, the inside spine of the notebook pulled in nearly to his nose and shielding his entire head from view.

“Um, excuse me.”

The voice of one of the undergrads startles you, but seemingly, not Yoongi, who continues to teeter back and forth. 

“Just wanted to let you know that Hyun-woo and I are heading out,” they say. “Um, but would it be OK if we keep the 3D printer on? We have a big job for tomorrow, and it kinda takes forever to warm up in the morning.”

“No problem,” you say. “We’ll check to make sure it’s still on before we leave.”

Yoongi just throws a thumbs up from behind the notebook.

You hear a sheepish “thanks”. Hyun-woo zipping up his jacket. Ambient, sleepy chatting. Beeps. And then the door locking.

Yoongi gives you two or three minutes of peaceful silence.

Until he lets out a thoughtful, and loud, “Hmmm! Interesting!”

You sigh and get up again to snatch the book from the top this time, but Yoongi shuts the notebook and puts it in his lap while flashing you a shit-eating grin.

You lean on the desk, fingers curling over the sides and gripping for dear life. You need to be heard, but the growing desire to find out what case 269 might bring you is a hard thing to fight.

“Can you just put it away?” you ask. 

“Threatened?” Yoongi teases.

“Distracted,” you admit, furrowing your brow. But then you relax. “Can we just come back to it later, when we’re done?”

“But I’m so tired. I can’t think.” 

“Drink some coffee.” You notice the untouched sandwich next to him. “Or maybe you’re hungry. Eat your sandwich.”

He huffs. “All of my work seems so boring right now.”

“You just don’t want to do any work,” you complain.

He smiles. “Maybe I just want a bit of a distraction,” he suggests. 

Every muscle in your face contorts. “Yoongi.”

“Hi.”

“Our dissertation defenses are in a week.”

“Yes.”

“So we have a lot to do.”

“Yes, and we have a week to do it.”

If you smile now, you’re definitely getting nothing done tonight. But a part of you knew that from the moment Yoongi read out the number “sixty-nine”.

“Fine,” you say, annoyed at yourself. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Yoongi says. 

He takes his foot off the desk and sets it on the ground with a muffled thump!, while the front legs of his chair land with a louder clomp!

“I don’t wanna go,” he replies.

You scoff. “What?”

“Jin’s at home,” he reminds you.

“It’s so late,” you say. “He’s probably fast asleep. C’mon, let’s just—”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me.” Yoongi smiles. “I. Don’t. Wanna. Go.”

After hours, the lights in the lab are triggered by movement. If a certain amount of time passes without people crossing one of the sensors, they turn off and engulf you in the kind of darkness that makes you sensitive to even the smallest light source, like the light from the building sign just above your lab’s windows. 

Yoongi’s expression may be bathed in a soft, amber light, but its form is still brazenly smug.

“Here?!” you whisper.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” he charges.

You wonder if the amber light is doing anything to counterbalance the red surfacing to your cheeks. It’s an unnerving feeling, all your blood rushing to your head. It drains you. The rest of your body shrinks in embarrassment. 

“Please, I’ve definitely thought about it,” he says. “Especially ever since voyeurism came up on your kinks list.”

“Using my own kinks against me?” you laugh. “Everyone else just left.”

“So why didn’t you want to get started before they did?” Yoongi questions.

You shake your head, laughing, but not really able to figure out what to say. And then you fall silent as Yoongi looks at you. 

With purpose.

He places all of his things, including that notebook, in a neat stack. He stands and places that stack in the seat of his chair. And then he rounds the table, over to you. 

He reaches for your hand, and you take it, letting him coax you out of your chair. He places his hands on your hips and sets you down on the table, leaning you on the edge, palms resting behind you and propping you up, knees aimed toward each other, feet apart and toes resting on the floor.

He places his hands on your shoulders and lets out a sigh as they run down your arms, to your hands. He pulls at your wrists for you to pick them up. You sit more upright as you do, and he takes your hands to bring your arms around his neck. You giggle softly with each other as he kisses you, and lays you down.

“Honestly, I can’t believe it took us 269 sessions to get to sex in the lab,” you admit, running your hands through his hair and losing yourself a little as Yoongi brings his scrumptious kisses to your neck.

“I doubt this is actually case number 269,” Yoongi says in a low rumble.

You smirk. He’s most likely right. With the decade you’ve kept this experiment up, you’ve easily cleared the 300s. At least. This certainly isn’t the first time you’ve lost the notebook. And the last time you lost the notebook definitely wasn’t the last time you’d had sex.

As he kisses you, he shuts your laptop. As he pulls down your blouse to your stomach and reveals your bra, he places kisses on your neck, and he picks your laptop up from the table. As he drags the fabric of your blouse down your body, kissing down your chest, he hovers your laptop above your chair. He bends a little, giving you a peek at his ass as he sets one corner of your laptop gently in the seat of your chair. But the move you find sexiest is when he mutters, “Wait, you saved your data, right?”

You chuckle softly and smile at his ruffled hair, raised eyebrows, earnest eyes, and slightly open mouth, lips plump from your kiss. 

“Yes, Yoongi. I saved my data.”

He grins at you, and after the laptop is safely in your seat, he finally retracts his hand. It finds its way to your calf and travels up, his other hand mirroring it on your other leg, until he reaches your knees. He stands again as he hooks his hands under your knees and lifts them up. 

You happily take the cue to scoot back to be able to place your feet flat on the table.

He helps you wiggle out of your jeans before he kneels, finding himself chin-level with the table.

“Hmm,” he chuckles. “Perfect.”

You scoff. 

“No, seriously,” he goes on. “What are the odds?”

“This table’s height is adjustable.”

“Still.” He gently taps your ankle, and you slowly pull your knees apart. Yoongi kisses the inside of your thigh. “Environmental conditions were perfect.”

You laugh, a mix of being tickled by Yoongi’s lips, and being tickled by Yoongi’s audacity. “You gonna add that to the notebook?”

“Yep. I’ll even get the tape measure out. Log the height.”

You start laughing, but as Yoongi’s lips find your flesh, you gasp and choke out a moan. 

You try to stamp it out before you let it go too long.

“Wait, are there cameras in here?” you whisper. You suddenly tighten, eyes rolling back at the feeling of Yoongi’s tongue dragging up your slit. You fight to get your words out. “Yoongi. Cameras? Mics?”

“No, not back here,” he tells you. He licks you again, that tongue splitting you, making you shiver. “But even if they were, weren't voyeurism and exhibitionism number 1 and 2?”

You smile and bite your lip, grabbing a tuft of his hair and making him chuckle. It doesn’t distract him. It might even help him. He curls his tongue and does what quickly became his patented move, waves engulfing you in the warm unrest of an ocean of pleasure. 

“F-fuck,” you groan, desperate not to come apart too quickly.

Yoongi laughs at your pitiful, ultimately fruitless attempt. “I knew all that teasing would rile you up.” He licks you again, moaning a little this time when he does. Like when he gets a taste of a really good whiskey that he hasn’t had in a while. 

Whining and squirming, you start to grind your pussy into Yoongi’s face, slow and rolling like he likes at first, but quickly fast and straightforward, as you chase the high that Yoongi has kept dangling in front of you. He moans as he offers you his tongue, there for you to do whatever you want. You keep bouncing and grinding, until he feels you starting to shiver. 

God, when you shiver. The way your skin changes. Grows cooler. The way he reads your goosebumps like braille. How they always tell him that he’s doing exactly what he needs to. Exactly what you want. Even if you didn’t know you wanted it.

When you start to shiver, he re-latches onto your clit, starting to suck. He’s barely latched on when you’re already coming. He grunts and laughs when your feet kick straight up in the air, and your heels land on his back. He stays planted there, tongue polishing you off as you twist through each wave that his mouth has given you. As you start to come back down, he pulls you closer to him, standing and taking your hips along for the ride.

He wraps your legs around his waist, and then he reaches for the chest of his hoodie. He raises it up to wipe his face on the inside, and then he drags the rest of his hoodie up and over before tossing it aside.

His hips eagerly start to line up with yours.

“Hang on,” you whisper-laugh, trying to bring your knees together, and making Yoongi laugh in your game of keepaway. 

“C’mon. Open up.”

He tickles you until you’re splayed out before him. And then he smiles that fond smile at you, now bathed in amber.

“I thought you were excited about a particular number,” you say softly.

“Not necessarily,” he replies. “I was just excited about you.”

He leans down, crawling forward and resting on top of you, planking on his elbows. He places his hands on both sides of your face and strokes your hairline with his thumbs. And then he kisses you, his smile infectious.

You reach down and help guide him into you. He only breaks your kiss when you surround him, warm, and raw, and hungry.

His neck goes limp, and his forehead rests against your cheek. “No one feels like you do,” he tells you. It just kind of slips out of him. “No one feels as good.”

As he rocks into you, full and slow, you pick his head up and pull him into a kiss, the kind of kiss that tries to tell Yoongi that you don’t know if anybody feels as good as him either, and that you’re starting to learn that you don’t care if you ever find out.

He pulls away from you and looks at you oddly. As if he got the message.

He bites his lip and moves faster, each pump hurtling you closer and closer to the breaking point.

You watch each other as you come. He smiles right at the moment you flutter and tighten. You memorize what it feels like. Not just the orgasm, which is spine-curling. But the way Yoongi looks when he gives it to you. His expectant grin. The way his hips move. Not like usual, in response to his clever instincts. More like he’s flipping a switch, or adjusting a dial. Those narrow eyes, focused, and present, but in a new way. A different way.

“You were so sure I was going to enjoy this,” you observe, trying to catch your breath. It’s a hard thing, trying to catch your breath while also trying to keep some of it in. “Have you tried it with anyone else?” As soon as you ask it, you hate that you couldn’t help yourself.

“Who else would I fuck in the lab?” Yoongi jokes.

You laugh along. “Right.” 

You run your hand over your chest. As if that will protect you.

“I mean, right. But no, I guess I meant… like… public sex.”

You don’t have to take note of the silence. It’s one of what will eventually be nine total uneasy silences that you and Yoongi will end up sharing throughout your lifetimes.

“Sure,” Yoongi fumbles. “But I’ve only done it once or twice. So far, I mean.”

You laugh softly. A little sadly. “Right.”

Even though you’re bathed in amber, just the outline of you now visible in the dark, Yoongi still sees it. The lump forming in your throat.

When the bulk of it finally dislodges, you clear your throat of the remnants. “Well, hurry up,” you chirp. “Get the notebook.”

Yoongi laughs, relieved. “Can’t believe we’re officially at 270,” he adds, rolling over and sighing happily.

But as you lie there, listening to Yoongi excitedly rummaging in the dark as you stare up at the ceiling, you can’t help wondering. 

It’s jarring, the first time you find yourself wondering about a new question. You’d never wondered about it before, so the dot at the bottom of the question mark feels sharper somehow. A metallic glint that you think is a gum wrapper but turns out to be a razor blade. 

You wonder.

"I mean, it's been months," you backtrack, in an attempt to retroactively preface, "and dinner is always great, believe me, I'm not complaining by any means, I just..."

The kitchen faucet turns on. A gentle trickle. Subdued. Still cleansing, but not above your voice. Background noise rather than signal.

You smile to yourself, feeling safe to keep your eyes on his back while you continue with, "I know these evenings mean something to you. Believe me. In my line of work. I know this is a band-aid, or an escape, or a playground. All three, more often than not. I'm just... Like, if you're looking for someone to talk about it with..." Your eyes latch on as his elbows start to move, fingers working a soapy sponge into nooks and crannies. "I dunno, I guess I'm saying that---" Your eyebrows flick up. "I'm here to listen--- Hey, are you sure I can't help with the dishes or something?"

Loyal customers are surprisingly routined, even with their fetishes. Especially so. When you started your career, you assumed that so much of your work would be propelled by happenstance, fleeting moments that overwhelmed someone enough to be in search of you. Now, you know that for many of your clients, it takes forethought. There are systems in place. Languages to learn. And, in some ways, it becomes easier to indulge in those fantasies when you find someone who will help you figure out exactly where and when and how you will get to. When you feel safe.

So it doesn't surprise you when his ear turns at the sound of you scraping your chair back, body lifting with every intention of joining him at the sink. And it doesn't surprise you when he counters with a pleasant but firm, "No, I'm alright here. Thank you."

It doesn't even register anymore. With no more than that to go off every week, you realize that curiosity has evolved into charm has evolved into concern. You realize that you're not actually asking him why. You're asking if he feels safe.

He glances over his shoulder at you. A quick peek. A flashed smile. "How about you try that dessert?"

It's not a hard thing for you to do, you happily think, as you sit back down and reaquaint yourself with the banana bread pudding. You grin as you take a spoonful, crowning it with the caramel ice cream on the side. But you keep your eyes on his back as you do.

Once the dishes from the main course are clean, he takes a deep and satisfied breath, places his hands on his hips, arches back, cricks his neck, and shakes his head as he removes his rubber gloves.

He turns around and is thrilled to see that nearly half of the banana bread pudding is gone.

Feeling slightly guilty, you keep your spoon in your mouth.

"It's for you!" he laughs, walking back over to the table and taking his seat, "Please. Have as much as you like. There's more in the fridge."

You look down at the other, still-clean spoon in the bowl. And then you look back up at him.

"Alright, alright," he says, smiling slightly, as he leans forward for the spoon.

You take another dollop, and he gently scrapes along the sides.

You still want to know why.

Why weekly dinners. Why just dinner. Why just dinner when you know you could be doing so much more for him.

Is it you?

And does he even want more than this from you?

Maybe if you break down the "why"s. Like---

"Why banana bread pudding?" you ask.

He blinks. "Huh?"

"What made you think to make banana bread pudding?" You shrug and reach for your glass of water. "Or anything? Why did you decide on seaweed salad and spicy pork belly and banana bread pudding?"

His smile goes a little funny. "Uh," he laughs, "I dunno... I was craving seaweed salad, and when I was at the store, I saw the pork belly cuts, and I thought of this really great spice blend I had here at home..."

His eyes go a little foggy. "And then I thought it might be nice to have something sweeter for dessert to balance that out... But it's also still a little cool outside, so I wanted something warm..."

His lips widen a little more freely. "Then I looked up and realized I had somehow made it over to the produce section, and the bananas on display were overripe." 

You gawk at him. And as you dig into the pudding again, you mutter, "Ugh. That's so cool."

He smiles. He tilts his head. He goes in for more caramel ice cream. "It is?"

"I don't know the first thing about cooking," you say, treats pushed into your left cheek. "Anyone who can do it is a magician. And you---" Your eyes meet his. "You might be a god, y'know, just---" You wave your spoon around in the air. "---divining a menu like that!"

He licks his spoon clean. "Well. When you put it that way."

You switch sides, and he follows your lead, building bigger and bigger bites of banana bread and taller and taller tiaras of ice cream.

Your spoon clinks against the bowl when you ask, "Why do you wash the dishes before we finish dessert?" you ask. 

He takes a moment to swallow his spoonful. He licks his lips, more nooks and crannies to clean. And then he seems to decide something. His shoulders ease. His eyes widen with newfound clarity. His entire aura softens.

"Dessert is a treat," he says. "It's a good note to end on."

"Wait, so you leave the dishes for the next day?" you clarify.

"Who wants to do dishes after having dessert?" he asks.

You find yourself laughing. "That's so true!"

He chuckles along with you, setting his spoon face down on the lip of the bowl, the end of the handle balancing on the tabletop. 

"...That’s something that she used to say a lot."

His face shows no sharp angles. No shadows. No walls.

So you ask. 

"Why do you invite me over for... dinner?"

When he hesitates, you try to hold onto the in that you think you've found. "I'm so happy that you invite me. I'm just wondering if I can make the experience better for you. Help you ease into things. I’m open."

"Ah," he says with a knowing smile. "No need. It's actually not about sex at all."

You'd better pay attention. You have so much to learn.

"I was married," he says. He looks a little paler all of a sudden. "She, uh, died... about a year ago..."

You nod softly, your breaths a little jagged.

"She was sick. Lots of stuff. All these meds and..." He stares at the end of his spoon, still balancing on the tabletop. And then he smiles. "Y'know, even after she couldn't eat solid foods anymore, she still insisted I make her a plate."

He lifts his eyes to meet your teary ones.

"I was actually really excited to bust out those spices," he says, making you laugh.

Both of you relish a little in the warm whisky of the Edison bulb glow.

"What should I make next week?" he asks, sitting up a little. 

"Oh, no, don't ask me," you say, dabbing your eyes with the back of one hand while sticking your spoon in the ice cream and waving him off with the other. "Not getting in the way of whatever mystical thing you do."

He laughs and says, "OK, well, tell me something that might guide me. You have any taste preferences? Craving anything in particular?"

You have an idea. You don't know if it'd be pushing too far. But now that you understand more of the why, you're getting a better picture of the whats and hows.

"How about you make something that's tied to a happy memory?" you ask. "You can tell me more about her."

He brightens. Maybe not like dawn breaking. More like light creeping, sun returning after a thunderstorm.

He lets you help him place the last few dishes in the sink. And then he walks you to the door with a grateful smile.

You reach out for your customary handshake.

He takes your palm in his.

"Goodnight, Yoongi," you say.

When you give his hand a warm squeeze, he squeezes back.