#august d

overtime Yoongi × female reader

⊹ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : studio fluff, heavy domestic realism, light bickering, angry-to-horny transition, explicit tension, heavy making out

⊹ 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝘀 : workaholic producer yoongi, lap sitting, hidden physical desire, rough/possessive behavior, submissive reader x dominant yoongi tone

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🎙:･ﾟ 🎧 ･ﾟ: * 🎙:･ﾟ 🎧 ･ﾟ: * 🎙 :･ﾟ ​───

⊹ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit language, intense making out, grinding, heavy overstimulation, rough thigh grabbing, clothing manipulation, teasing, toxic levels of domestic attraction.

​─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ─── ───

▷ 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬

​The hallways of the entertainment agency are completely desolate at this hour. The sterile, fluorescent overhead lights hum with a dull, buzzing drone that echoes off the polished linoleum floors. Everyone else has gone home. The dancers, the managers, the security staff on the upper floors—all gone.

​Except for one person.

​You glare at the glowing blue digital lock of the heavy, soundproofed door at the very end of the corridor. The stark white letters stenciled across the matte black surface read exactly what you knew they would: "GENIUS LAB."

​It is officially 1:45 AM.

​Yoongi was supposed to be home over four hours ago. He had literally promised you—hand on his heart, looking you dead in the eyes before he left the apartment that morning—that he would be back on the couch by 9:00 PM at the absolute latest. You had planned a whole night. You bought the expensive ingredients for the spicy seafood stew he likes, picked out a documentary he’d been rambling about for weeks, and actually changed into a cute, soft matching lounge set.

​Instead, 9:00 PM came and went. Then 10:00 PM. By midnight, your phone calls went straight to his voicemail, meaning he had intentionally blocked out all external communication to lock himself into his hyper-focus cave. The stew sat cold and congealing on the stove, and your patience had completely evaporated into thin air.

​You punch your personal code into his digital lock with an unnecessary amount of force, your knuckles practically cracking against the keypad. The lock lets out a sharp, mechanical beep-click, and the heavy, thick door swings inward.

​Inside, the studio is pitch black, completely sealed off from the rest of the world. The only illumination comes from the blinding, multi-colored neon light displays of his three massive computer monitors and the soft, warm orange glow of a single brass desk lamp tucked into the corner.

​Min Yoongi is exactly where you knew he’d be.

​He’s slouched deeply into his ergonomic black leather chair, his long legs spread wide under the massive oak production desk. He’s wearing an oversized, washed-out black hoodie that swallows his frame, a pair of worn-out gray sweatpants, and a black snapback cap turned backward. The backward hat forces his messy, dark bangs up away from his forehead, exposing the sharp, pale line of his brow and the intense, laser-like focus in his dark eyes. A massive pair of professional studio headphones rests over his right ear, while the left cup is pushed back behind his head, letting him hear the ambient room sound.

​His long, pale, veiny fingers are typing furiously across a midi keyboard, clicking and dragging audio files across the editing software with a mechanical, lightning-fast precision. He looks devastatingly handsome, completely in his element, surrounded by millions of dollars of audio gear.

​And it makes you absolutely furious.

​You step into the room, the heavy door sealing shut behind you with a soft, airtight thud that completely cuts off the outside hallway. You cross your arms tightly over your chest, your weight shifting onto one hip as you glare at his profile.

​He doesn't even look up. He doesn't even flinch at the sound of the door closing. He just keeps clicking, his jaw shifting as he idly chews on the inside of his cheek—a telltale sign that he's deep in a mixing hole.

​"Five more minutes, sweetface," his voice cuts through the low thrum of the bass vibrating from the subwoofers. It’s incredibly raspy, thick with hours of disuse and an endless stream of black coffee. "Just fixing the transition on this second verse. The baseline is clipping."

​"You said five minutes four hours ago, Yoongi," you snap, your voice sharp, cracking slightly with the raw frustration that has been building up since ten o'clock.

​Yoongi’s fingers freeze mid-air over the keys.

​Slowly, the mechanical clicking stops. The studio falls into a heavy, tense silence, save for the rhythmic, low blinking of the audio levels on his screen. Yoongi lets out a long, slow, gravelly sigh that seems to drag from the very bottom of his lungs. He reaches up, pulling the heavy headphones completely down around his thick neck, letting them rest against his collarbone.

​He spins his leather chair around to face you.

​The movement is slow, deliberate. He tilts his head back against the headrest, his hooded, dark eyes heavy and rimmed with a faint pink tint from staring at the bright monitors for fourteen hours straight. He looks at you standing there in your matching lounge set, taking in your crossed arms, your glaring eyes, and the tight, angry line of your mouth.

​"The company pushed the deadline up," he says, his voice a low, rough baritone that sends an annoying, involuntary shiver straight down your spine. He reaches a hand up, running his long fingers down his face, rubbing at his eyes. "The chief producer called at seven. They want the final demo on the server by eight tomorrow morning. I didn't have a choice."

​"You always have a choice, Yoongi! You could have texted me!" You take a sharp step forward, the anger finally boiling over. "I sat on the kitchen floor waiting for you. I cooked the food you asked for. Your phone has been off for five hours. I didn't know if you were dead, or if you just completely forgot that I exist!"

​Yoongi’s brow twitches, his jaw tightening as he looks at you. He hates being interrupted when he’s working, but more than that, he hates seeing that he actually hurt you. Still, his pride is stubborn.

​"My phone died because I forgot the charger in my car," he rumbles, his tone getting a bit defensive, his satoric edge slipping through. "And I didn't forget you. I'm working. This is my job. Don't act like I'm out at a club or something. Don't be like that."

​"Don't be like what? Expecting my boyfriend to keep his word for once?" You let out a dry, sarcastic laugh, shaking your head as a stinging wave of tears threatens to blur your eyes. You refuse to let him see you cry over this. "You know what? Forget it. Stay here. Sleep in your stupid, expensive lab. Work until your fingers fall off. I’m going home."

​You turn on your heel, your heart hammering against your ribs as you bolt back toward the black door, your hand reaching out frantically to grab the metal handle.

​You don't even get to touch it.

​Before your fingers can close around the metal, a heavy, rough palm shoots out from behind you, slamming flat against the wood right next to your head. The force of it rattles the door frame. Before you can even gasp, Yoongi's other hand locks like an iron manacle around your wrist, his grip completely unyielding as he yanks your arm downward and backward.

​"Ah!" you gasp, your balance completely disappearing as he wrenches your body away from the exit.

​With one smooth, effortless display of upper-body strength, Yoongi drags you backward toward his chair. He drops heavily back into the leather seat, and with a sharp, downward pull, he hauls your entire frame straight down onto his wide thighs. The leather chair spins slightly under the sudden impact, stabilizing as he braces his heavy boots against the floorboards.

​"Let me go! I'm still mad at you, let me off!" you hiss, your face flushing bright red with heat as you instantly begin to wriggle and thrash against him, your palms pushing hard against his broad shoulders to try and slide your hips off his lap.

​But Yoongi isn't having any of it.

​His large, veiny hands—the same hands that are usually so precise and gentle on the piano keys—slide around your waist with a bruising, territorial force. He pulls your lower back flush against his stomach, locking his thick forearms over your hip bones like an unbreakable seatbelt, pinning you entirely down against his lap.

​"I said, stop wriggling," he growls directly into the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark octave that makes your throat go completely dry. The vibration of his throat rumbles right through your back. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, his chest heaving heavily against yours as his grip tightens until you can barely move. "You're not going anywhere. Quiet down."

​"Yoongi, seriously, I am not in the mood for your games—"

​He cuts you off by shifting his hand up to your jaw. His long fingers grip your chin, forcing your face around to the side, and before you can even draw another breath, he slams his lips hungrily against yours.

​The kiss is not gentle. It is rough, possessive, and thick with a pent-up, dark frustration that has been brewing inside him all night. Yoongi doesn't just kiss you; he takes your mouth over entirely. His plump, cat-like lips mold against yours with a desperate, heavy pressure, his teeth biting down sharply on your lower lip until you let out a soft, shocked whimper.

​The moment your lips part to complain, his thick tongue plunges deep into your mouth, claiming you with long, wet, bruising strokes. He tastes like the bitter, dark espresso he’s been drinking all night, mixed with the raw, untamed heat of his own desire.

​Your hands, which had been pressing flat against his chest to push him away, instantly lose all their strength. The sheer, intoxicating weight of his mouth on yours completely melts your resolve, turning your bones into absolute liquid. Your fingers curl helplessly into the soft black cotton of his hoodie, clutching the fabric for dear life as your head rolls back against his shoulder, letting him possess you completely.

​Yoongi lets out a low, satisfied groan into your throat when he feels your body go entirely slack against his. His hand slides down from your chin, his palm heavy and warm as it drags down your neck, over your collarbone, and down to the meat of your left thigh. His fingers dig into your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh through the lounge pants with a crushing intensity that has you moaning directly into his mouth.

​He shifts his hips beneath you, his hard, thick length pressing firmly against your bottom through his sweatpants, reminding you exactly how much power he has over you in this room.

​Slowly, agonizingly, Yoongi pulls his mouth back just a fraction of an inch. His lips are dark, swollen, and glistening under the neon blue light of the monitors. He keeps his forehead pressed against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps that fill the quiet space between your faces. A smug, lazy smirk slowly curls the corner of his lips as he tracks the half-lidded, completely dazed look in your eyes.

​"Still mad?" he murmurs, his raspy voice dripping with an annoying, arrogant confidence because he knows exactly what he just did to your brain. His thumb idly rubs a slow, soothing circle into your inner thigh, moving dangerously close to your core.

​"Yes," you pant, your chest heaving against his as you try to glare at him, though it loses all its effect with how flushed your face is. "You're an absolute jerk, Min Yoongi."

​"Mm, yeah. I'm a jerk," he hums agreement, completely unbothered by the insult. He leans right back in, his teeth catching your swollen lower lip once more, tugging on it playfully before his tongue licks over the skin, making you let out a shaky, desperate whine. "But you're still sitting on my lap. And you're not going back to that apartment without me."

​His hand slides underneath the hem of your soft shirt, his calloused, slightly cold palm making direct contact with the bare skin of your waist. The contrast of his cool skin makes you gasp, your stomach muscles contracting as his hand slides up your ribs, anchoring you firmly to his chest.

​"Yoongi, the demo..." you breathe out, your hands sliding up to cup his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hairs at the back of his snapback.

​"The demo can wait twenty minutes," he rasps against your lips, his fingers gripping your waist tighter as he pulls you flush against his growing heat, completely erasing the argument, the cold food, and the hours of waiting as the entire universe shrinks down to the heavy, breathless rhythm of his hands on your skin under the dark lights of the Genius Lab.

​─── ･ﾟ: * 🎙:･ﾟ 🎧 ･ﾟ: * 🎙:･ﾟ 🎧 ･ﾟ: * 🎙 :･ﾟ ​───

⊹ 𝐚/𝐧 : i would let Yoongi strip me of my rights, slam me onto that midi keyboard and let him mix that baseline right inside me likeeee i am losing my absolute marbles over this man smh somebody lock me up in the genius lab and throw away the key fr !!

─── 💀 :*･ﾟ 🎹 ───

Suga ♪ ↳ Permission to Dance on Stage [11/27/2021]

This is peak happiness for me

Tae is SO LOCKED IN. This is our verse hyung!

My 34 y/o knees:

It isn’t inherently a bad thing, at all. It connects humans in ways we need and that are natural. I just feel, sometimes, like there’s a thin layer separating care, love, appreciation for someone, from recognizing them in their pain and their pain only as if without it they’d be less valuable or worthy of esteem.

Yoongi has been one of the most vulnerable and opened members with us through his art in terms of pain. When solo activities started, his project did something to me, a feeling I had never had before. I was so emotional over it that it took me years to buy a physical copy I really wanted. It created a different level of connection to him, over a sense of closeness that was already there.

When I joined the fandom I also had to get rid of all the misconceptions about the members or the fake infos that were around, and one of those was that Yoongi was a cold person, reserved and closed. It felt like bullshit to me, immediately, because the first thing I had actually noticed was the way he curved his eyebrows and laughed when he teased a member or someone else teased him. It gave me the impression of an incredibly joyful guy, at least on surface.

Getting to really know everything he was going through in those same debut moments I watched to enjoy myself, or what he went through before and after, didn’t change that feeling. But it gave me perspective, and tested my ability to stay balanced between loving and appreciating someone, without only associating them to what they’ve suffered from.

Birthdays are special to me, so that’s why I always get pretty wordy on them, but I guess what I’m tryna say is that Yoongi is a member I am deeply, deeply emotionally attached to, and I selfishly dare to say that he taught me how important it is to push through life with a lightness and a sense of purpose that goes beyond any trauma.

Because it is something he has experienced. It is part of who he is. It is a story he wanted to be acknowledged. But it is also a piece of all the rest: of the way he healed, the way he was attacked by media and had to get back up against a system that was just waiting for him to fall. Of the way his members hug him, and tease him, and touch him when he doesn’t want to.

It is a part of the guy who runs fast on stage or has a gummy smile, who plays guitar heavenly and writes honestly, who brought to life the Min Yoongi Center, for children and adolescents with autism. A sign of generosity, of care for the others, that’s rare and tender.

Who loves food, and humanity, despite all the things that have tested his faith in it. Who’s witty, and a badass, and emotional, and has a cat. Which is, like, the ultimate goal in life, right?

Yoongi is my beloved. I wish he had the best birthday, celebrated with care, with laughter, with smiles. Hope he never comes across this annoying posts I write cuz I can hear him going “life’s not that serious!” with the grandpa posture and glasses on. It would be too hard to tell him how deeply he has affected my - and I genuinely believe our - hopes on how life goes on, anyway. On truly, really believing that “future’s gonna okay”.