#brot7

You curse your pockets for being too small to fit your phone as the vibrations give Jimin pause for a second time tonight. It’s only a moment before he smiles and returns to your bosom. Immediately the drone of a text alert goes off again. He blinks a few times and stares up at you. Again and again the notification buzz has you patting your chest, trying to desperately stop it.

What the fuck! Come on!

He peels himself back, taking a deep breath. Your body is weeping at the loss of his warmth against you. He fans himself with a goofy smile, and even in the dim light you can see the sweat beading along his forehead. “You should see who wants to talk to you. I need to get some more air anyway.”

His fingers trace a line across your jaw and he rests a thumb on your lip. “Join me when you’re ready?”

With that, he playfully boops you on the nose and disappears in the crowd before you can ask if he would rather just get out of here. Taking your phone out of the pocket between your bra and tit, you swipe at the screen to see messages from Hoseok and Namjoon. Your brows furrow as you try to navigate away from the dance floor while concentrating on the screen. You decide to open Hoseok’s first, as your mind is annoyed with Joonie, though you can’t quite remember why.

Hobi 😛: i see you Hobi 😛: dirty Hobi 😛: girl!!!! Hobi 😛: 😧 Hobi 😛: are you really going to fuck jimin right here 🙊🙈 Hobi 😛: WHERE I CAN SEE???? 🤤 i hope so

As dark and loud as the dance floor is, you become keenly aware of the bodies around you, your skin blazing. Before you can think of response that will save face, arms are snaking around you from behind. Large, slender fingers fold across your waist.

His voice is already at your ear, causing your eyelashes to flutter and heat to pool between your legs all over again. “If you wanted to fuck while dancing, you should have just asked me... Dirty girl.”

You smack him on the arm and he concedes with a giggle, letting you squirm from his grasp and face him. “Oh my god will you please stop saying that?”

The wide grin on his face threatens to spread a sheepish one to yours, despite fighting to remain stoic. It seems as though Hoseok has a penchant for ruminating on humiliation, especially yours-- and you don’t want to give the satisfaction of letting him know exactly how mortified you feel in this moment.

His hands grip your cheeks tightly. “I just can’t believe you’re about to get laid! I’m so proud!”

“Hobi please. It’s not like that,” you begin, trying to hopelessly hide the shameful way your legs cling together.

It’s not like that. Not the first time he’s heard that one tonight. Hoseok knows for damn sure if you and Namjoon are using the same defensive phrases, things are one hundred percent like that. He rolls his eyes, roaming his hands over your hips and rocking them back and forth. Just like that he has control, making you feel compelled to move yours in time with his.

“If it’s not like that then stay with me. I’ll show you a good time.” His husky voice has you hypnotized, swallowing hard as you clutch the phone in your hand. “No Jimin, no Tinder. Just you and me, sweetheart.”

“H-Hobi...” your voice is pitiful and weak as it escapes.

Things are tense only for a moment and you’re sweating as you realize he may very well go in for the kill, the same way Jimin did. But the moment passes and he laughs, pulling away from you. “You’re so easy, Y/N. How can it be so hard for you to hook up? If it doesn’t happen soon, then you call me and I will help you out, no strings attached.”

You’re not sure if you should feel flattered or pissed off as he winks and begins circling you, as if to let you consider the offer. The alcohol swimming through your head is making it hard for you to be sure about anything, so you choose to ignore the way he just suggested pimping himself out to you as a thing your brain made up rather than words that were actually uttered by the gorgeous Jung Hoseok. Making out with Park Jimin had already maxed out your suspension of belief. Hobi was just joking. He had to be, right? Maybe you would just wake up sweating in another minute. Then again, if this was a dream, maybe you could press your luck and have a threesome? Could alcohol ever make you that bold? You chuckle at the thought. No fucking way.

Hoseok starts to casually stroll away, before he turns back, a brief pained expression striking his features.“Oh, before I forget! Namjoon was looking for you earlier.” He makes a lewd jacking-off motion as he smiles big once more. “Maybe talk to him before you get your rocks off with Jimin?” Before you can respond, he spins back towards the crowd, rolling his body to the music and internally applauding his performance as master cockblock. You shake your head as he goes, the irritation of being called easy paling in comparison to the sexual frustration lingering deep in your belly. With a grumble, you pull out your phone to glance at Namjoon’s text, noting the timestamp was much earlier in the night.

Joonie 😬: Remember. 🔥🧱

The fire and brick emojis immediately brought a pang of guilt through your heart. He had tried to remind you of exactly what you had asked. It was a little late now and you couldn’t help but feel like you may have ruined a friendship that you swore you would never interfere with. You struggle to not topple over, taking a moment to stand in place and try to fix what you feel in your gut is absolutely broken. Each text you attempt to compose only gets worse and you contend with the words forming on screen whilst getting elbowed by the dancers surrounding you.

You decide it’s too hard to accomplish in your current environment and make a beeline for the bathroom. There’s nothing that a good long pee and a hard look in the mirror can’t help you fix on a drunken night. You take a moment to survey the bathroom, noting each stall is occupied and a pack of women line the wall, waiting for their turn. You stumble over to the mirror to address your swollen racoon eyes, wiping excess mascara and eyeliner from your face and taking a deep breath. Making your way back out to the main floor, your eyes scour the room for alternatives and realize there’s another tier hardly anyone uses unless they’re in need of some privacy. As long as you keep your head down and avoid eye contact, you feel confident you can just chill in the restroom upstairs and think.

On your way up you immediately disregard the rules you just set, letting your eyes wander to a pair of bright red heels, finding legs partially agape. Next to those are sneakers --the wide spread of legs indicating a man, and finally a single black heel on the floor with the woman’s other leg stretched out over the man’s lap. Your eyes quickly travel up the owners’ legs and find the man’s hands planted underneath both women’s dresses. Black-heels has her panties thoroughly exposed, bush out. You watch in awe, jaw dropping as you take in the sight of the deft fingers sliding in and out of her dripping cunt.

Every fiber of your being screams to avert your gaze. But the shock of what you’re seeing has you paralyzed, leaning against the railing for support as your mouth hangs stupidly agape. Her hips greedily chase his palm each time it leaves the comfort of her clit, fucking his fingers further inside. She’s got her eyes closed; no doubt lost in the feeling, completely forgetting her surroundings as she squeaks out the kind of long, high-pitched moans you’ve only ever heard in pornos. The other woman is much quieter, more reserved as he rams his fingers into her, and seeks refuge in the crook of his neck.

Again you try to will the movement of your legs, but it seems more and more futile the longer you gawk, especially after you recognize the glint of faded green hair.

Oh fuck.

Now you’re desperate to keep moving, but your legs are still concrete. You’re drinking in the sight him finger-fucking not one, but two women in a public setting-- all while whispering something to the one who’s obviously embarrassed but doing nothing but parting her legs further. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her after watching the skillful way he slid into black-heels’ cunt while rubbing her clit with his thumb.

Is he really doing that to red-heels, too? Fuck. Me.

Yoongi ticks his jaw, an action you had seen him do many times in annoyance; now keenly aware of the audience. A heavy-lidded side-eye in your direction has your heart pounding. You’re using the same tactic that had failed on Hoseok: remain perfectly still to blend with the surroundings, praying again that the rules have changed and all hot guys now have movement-based vision.

Shitshitshitshit. Homer Simpson meme this shit. Come on, legs! Do something! Oh fuck. Jesus Christ. If there is such a thing as a merciful god, please let me die right now.

Slowly his head turns towards you, an expression on his face both deliciously sinful and wildly intimidating. You’re left stranded, trembling as his sinister gaze falls on you, furrowed brow challenging you to keep watching the show. His movements begin to slow on black-heels and he drags his digits at a leisurely pace, sure to spread her lips in a way that gives you a clearer view of his fingers disappearing inside her. 

He surveys your face, the faintest hint of a smirk knotting at the corners of his mouth. You can’t help the bug-eyed response, resolve completely crumpling beneath his ruthless scrutiny. Your legs are wobbling beneath you, threatening to toss your ass down the stairs if you don’t do something.

But here you stand, quaking at the sight before you. Yoongi’s perverse eyes roam your face, drinking in every last detail in your expression. But black-heels has had enough of the teasing, lingering strokes. She claws along his shirt in desperation, begging him to pick up the pace and stealing his attention.

She trails long fingernails down toward his chest and along his sweatpants, blindly grasping for the bulge she knows is hidden there. His eyelids flutter for a millisecond and you make a clumsy point to peer at the length. You swallow, throat incredibly dry as you watch the lewd display of Yoongi inserting a third finger into the woman and increasing the speed of his thrusts. She keens, throwing her head back against the couch.

His eyes fix themselves on you again, dark and full of power. You get the sense that the longer you stay, the more interest he gains in making you his next objective. His fingers glide in and out of her slick at a vigorous pace, making her arch her back above the couch. Meanwhile he’s looking as though he wants to devour you, as though making this girl cum is simply an obstacle to achieving that goal. You’re struggling to hinge your jaw shut, realizing now that you’re bobbing your head lightly along with the thrusts. Or maybe you’re just shaking that much; it’s hard to tell.

“Do you like it?” He asks loud enough to be heard over black-heels, knowing full well the question is aimed at you.

She responds with an exaggerated moan that vaguely sounds like a yes and rolls her head forward. In that moment she finds your slack-jawed, fucked-out stare. Finally your mouth snaps shut, guilty eyes darting away from the scene. You manage to purse your lips, heat flaring in your cheeks.

Instead of hiding and letting embarrassment consume her, she smiles wickedly, recognizing the envy and desire on your face. She thrusts her hips harder onto his dripping fingers, telling you it’s still her turn, but she wouldn’t mind if you wanted to join too. Yoongi cracks a smile, leaning in to bite her bottom lip and give you a chance to see what you’re missing. You shake your head and shriek out an apology before covering your peripheral with a hand and finally finding the strength to leave.

___

You’ve been sitting in the empty bathroom for what seems like an eternity, head resting against the toilet paper roll as you glare at the blinking cursor on your phone. You’re trying to forget the way Yoongi had stared you down as he pumped his fingers in and out of those girls and you pray they won’t make their way in here while you attempt to string together an apologetic text message to Namjoon. ‘I’m sorry I kissed your friend after I said I wouldn’t’ seemed like an incredibly shitty thing to text. But the fact that you were thinking so hard about it probably meant you weren’t as drunk as you thought, right? Your body counters that thought with a hiccup that makes you queasy.

Your stomach swirls, heat gathering in your cheeks as sweat beads off your forehead. You roll your head to the side, fighting back the nausea in your gut as you type. The tremble of thighs against your elbows has increased the difficulty of composing a message, but you find that you can’t make them stop and you’re too tired to lift your arms up further. How do you even start?

You: Joon ifucked up

Ah yes, very finely crafted. Send.

A minute passes as you wait for the dots to come that indicate a response. Nothing. You roll your head against the stall, feeling like you just need a second to collect yourself, if only the room would stop moving. The pop of unfastened metal echoes throughout the stall as the cheap toilet paper dispenser springs open against the pressure of your head. Grumbling, you adjust the roll of toilet paper currently acting as your pillow and smack the side of the dispenser shut.

Regret hits you immediately as you feel the unmistakable snag of your hair caught in the metal. You try to push the metal back open but you find it stalwart and unyielding.

Are you fucking kidding me.

You do your best to calm yourself and card your fingers through bits of knotted hair, carefully attempting to yank it free. When it doesn’t work and you can’t stomach the pain of pulling out a giant tuft, panic sets in and you sink to your knees, twisting your body to try and get a better look at where it’s caught. Suddenly you’re very grateful that you had already relieved yourself because this would be ten times worse if your pants were around your ankles.

BUZZ. BUZZ.

Fuck. Of course it would be now. You open the message, staving off another wave of nausea from being so close to the toilet.

Joonie: Ok what did you do? You: i kissed iruined evrtyghin Joonie: Who we talking about here?

You can’t bring yourself to type any more and resume working out the knots in your hair. This is the worst place to be having this conversation. The buzz goes off again and you’re compelled to look, getting more and more frustrated with your current predicament. You give up and sit there with your head stuck to the dispenser.

Joonie: Hellooooooooo Joonie: You still there Geeksquad You: I BORK FIREWALL

Immediately Namjoon sends a picture of a silly dog with a comic sans caption “bork bork bork.” You can’t stop the laugh bubbling in your throat.

You: GDI JOON HTIS IS SRS >:\ You: ikissed mjinni like hot and sweat Joonie: WHO? How drunk are you rn? You: 🍆 You: ALSO FUCK YOU Joonie: Ah… So did you suck his dick? You: STOP Joonie: Please tell me you’re not in the bathroom throwing up on his dick You: 😭😭 Joonie: Please tell me you’re not in the bathroom CRYING on his dick You: HE’S 🍆 U LIED JOON if elt it Joonie: What. The. Fuck. 

You sigh, head aching as you try to pull it back again. You know he would help you if you only asked, but goddamn this was such a shitty, embarrassing place to be. The breath hitches in your throat as you analyze the situation; would it be better to sleep like this and let a janitor find you and assume you’re dead, or let Namjoon tease the shit out of you? It was a close call at the moment and you weren’t sure which you actually preferred. Wasn’t there someone else you could text?

You think about Jen, the only real friend you have outside of Joon’s circle. You’d shared more than a few classes during your college years: she was a Graphic Design major and you were a programming/IT major so a lot of the core requirements were similar. When you couldn’t afford to scrounge enough change for coffee, you’d bribe her to buy you drinks in exchange for tutoring lessons in web programming. She’d been your friend for several years now, but she was out of town visiting her parents. Maybe if you ask nicely she’d drive two hours just to get you out of this mess? You frantically swipe your fingers across the screen, trying not to sound like anything is wrong. Hard to do when you’re drunk.

You: wheb areu coming back

There’s a long pause before you see the dots appear.

Jennie: Why did Joon let u keep your phone if he knew u were gonna get shitfaced again You: bicyh hes not my boss Jennie: I’m back next week... Kinda flattered u miss me this much but please let me sleep Jennie: Unless you need something??? Are u safe????

You glance at the time in the upper corner of your phone. 2:13am. Welp. Now’s definitely not the time to ask for a favor. Better play up the drunk card as long as your texting abilities are still shitty.

You: 😭NO I MISS OU IS ALL You: im sorry imok You: dgnight beb Jennie: GO TO BED DRUNKIE

You close the app and sigh. A thought sparks in the back of your mind and you mentally slap yourself for not thinking about it until now.

“Hello?” you call out, realizing there’s bound to be other girls in here. There’s no way a women’s bathroom is entirely empty for this long. “Is anyone there? I’m in the first stall... I need some help.”

Silence. How is this bathroom empty but the one downstairs is packed?

Then it occurs to you that anyone coming up the stairs would have to pass by gatekeeper Yoongi and the duo-heel guardians. Anyone with any common sense would go right back downstairs, pretending they didn’t see anything --or they’d be too preoccupied coming up here to do some nasty shit exactly like what Yoongi was. Your common sense had dried up with your last brain cell two drinks ago and you definitely weren’t waiting for a horny couple to barge in and be forced to listen to them bang while you were stuck like this. So unless you wanted to call loud enough to bring the menage trois to you, you were most likely shit outta luck.

Your fingers tap the screen again just as a new message from Namjoon appears.

Joonie: So you fuckin him in the bathroom or…? You: pls come get me Joonie: What do you mean come get you? Joonie: Where you at? You: bathroom Joonie: Are you fucking serious right now You: im surck Joonie: Excuse me? You: I,M FUCKING STUCK Joonie: Please tell me you’re not STUCK on his dick after throwing up and crying You: KIM NAMJOON COME FCUKING HEKLP ME >:(!!!!!

Seconds pass before your phone rings. You fumble with the buttons, tears stinging your eyes. Everything is frustrating and hard. Why are you such a mess?

“Geeksquad, which bathroom are you in: first or second floor?” The music is muffled and you’re glad to be able to hear Namjoon’s deep voice on the other end.

“S-second. Don’t worry there’s no one in here,” you choke out, defeated tone causing him to hamper the cheeky comment on the tip of his tongue.

“Hey, are you okay?” His concerned tone makes you feel ashamed and guilty.

The sobs start coming and you spend a fair amount of time weeping against the receiver before delivering the grossest sound that’s a cross between gargling and whimpering. All the words you mean to say get lost on the way to your lips.

“I’m on my way.”

The soft beep of the disconnect is the only thing you can focus on, your eyelids heavy from crying and the need for sleep. You don’t even realize you’re nodding off until you hear the main door creak open.

“Yo Geek Squad you in here?”

“First stall,” you call out, hardly recognizing your own voice with how small it sounds. You reach to unlatch the stall with a grunt, straining as best you can to reach.

“Do I even wanna know what’s going on over there?” he asks, the shuffle of his sneakers indicating he’s moving closer.

“I’m trying to get the door,” you sneer, feeling the latch finally unhook. “Got it. Dick.”

He pushes the door in a bit and you shift, trying in vain to avoid getting hit as it swings towards you.

He sighs, rubbing his face as he steps in. “What the hell did you do?”

“Please don’t. I really don’t need your smart ass comments. I can’t get it open… Please, Joon.”

The crushed tone your voice takes on causes him to soften his own. “Aight let me see.”

He crouches down beside you, joining you in the cramped space to inspect the tangled mess caught in the metal, briefly stealing a few glimpses at your tear-stricken face. You flinch as he brings his hands across your head, one above and one below, feeling around the apparatus beside you.

“You could have warned me about Yoongi,” he mumbles, carefully combing a few strands of hair out of view with slender fingers.

You feel the heat in your cheeks flare as you remember the show you had gotten on your way up the stairs. You offer a sheepish grin. “Oh, is he still out there? He uh… was a little busy last I checked.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I can see why you didn’t just text him to come help instead. Imagine those sticky, pruney fingers all up in here. Bet you’d love that.”

You wince as he tussles your hair and skims his fingers along your chin. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not making it worse,” you say, trying to separate the tangled mess he’s made from yours.

He brushes what he can from your face with an amused smirk. “Sorry. Let’s see here…”

He leans back in, arm cradled around your back to resume the task of freeing you. You can’t help but breathe in his scent as his face hovers so closely next to yours. He was never big on cologne, so you’re surprised he doesn’t smell terrible, despite the moisture glistening on his skin.

You hate to admit it, but you actually like his aroma; it’s a natural light scent that reminds you of a forest mixed with a bit of sweat. Then again, you remind yourself that could just be the deodorant fighting off his stench. Either way your nose is weirdly into it, and the more you breathe in, the more agitated you become with your body’s overwhelmingly positive reaction to his pheromones. What the fuck has tonight’s rollercoaster of teasing done to you?

This is why you needed to get laid. You’re wound so tight that even Namjoon is setting off your sexytime radar; you’re just about ready to grab that man by the collar and lap up every inch of his sweaty body. You scold yourself for being so fucking gross. But damn if he doesn’t smell like heaven to your senses right now. Maybe it’s the toilet bowl to your left that’s making him look so good. You smile at the thought, a fine attempt at putting your hormones at ease. However, you find it does nothing to quell the butterflies swirling in your stomach and chest.

You try to pinpoint what it is exactly that’s making you crazy enough to consider throwing yourself at him --especially when you’re this much of a mess. You note the heat radiating from his face as he focuses on the task of freeing you. His profile is soft, gaze concentrated on the task at hand, large pillowy lips slightly parted. Every gentle contact of his fingers against your scalp has you craving to lean into his touch and your fail to realize you’re subconsciously drifting towards him until the snag in your hair tugs you back to reality. You curse loudly, praying he didn’t notice what you were doing.

“Stop moving,” he chides, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “You’re such a hot mess. How did you even do this?”

“I’m a hot mess,” you parrot back, thankful he missed your drunken attempt at kissing. “Isn’t there a release bar?”

“I’m looking for it, but there’s a big ass head in the way.” He sticks his tongue out at you briefly before rising up a bit to get a better view. “You’d think there’d be more sense in here with how much space there is.”

“Har, har, har.” You roll your eyes and look away, trying to focus on anything but how good he smells as his firm chest presses against your cheek. Your arm instinctively comes up to steady his back as he wobbles forward for a second, muttering a quick apology. Clearly you weren’t the only one drinking heavily tonight. You both fall silent as he fiddles with the metal, leaving you to quietly bask in his scent.

Before long, the metal springs open and you breathe a sigh of relief as you yank your head forward. The sudden force causes him to fall back onto his ass, elbows hitting against the tile.

“Thanks Joonie.” You rub your head, feeling for any bald spots before tying your hair back up to avoid any more mishaps.

“Yeah, no problem,” he mutters as he sits up, crossing his arms and rubbing circles around his sore elbows. Timid eyes drop to your face, searching for an answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. He had seen how much you enjoyed yourself; there was no need to ask. And yet... His eyes dart away.

“What?” You swallow hard.

“So...” he begins softly, finding the resolve to meet your gaze. He raises his eyebrows, doing his best to feign confidence. “How was it?”

“How was….?” Your eyes widen in realization and your voice raises a few octaves. “What, the kissing?”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “No, the handjob in the back room.”

“I didn’t--!” You catch the sarcasm a bit late and puff your cheeks out before deflating. “It… was good but…” You’re scanning his face apologetically. “...not worth ruining a friendship over.”

Your suck your lip through your teeth and hold your breath. You bow deeply, letting your forehead to meet the cold tile. “Please forgive me, Joonie…”

His stare is blank as he’s trying to process what you’re doing. “Ah….! Pfft.” He raises a hand to his mouth, covering his laughter before scrambling over to you. “Don’t apologize. I already told you if it’s what you wanna do I’m cool with it. ”

Liar; the word echoes in his mind over and over.

“So is he,” he continues, wedging his fingers between your face and the floor. He cups your cheeks and forces you to look at him, his face twisting into a doleful smile at the sight of the tears welling up in your eyes. God, he was so soft when it came to you. You made him stupid. You made him a liar. You turned him into instant putty, absolutely malleable and vulnerable in your hands. He wanted to tell you anything --do anything-- to make it alright. “Don’t apologize, Y/N. It’s okay. You guys play so much chicken, it was a matter of time, really.”

“But I made things weird!” you sob, letting your heavy head rest entirely on his grip.

“No you didn’t,” he insists, rocking you gently back and forth. “You’re fine. Jimin is a really cool guy. The only one who thinks it’s weird is you. And honestly? The slut you know is better than the one you don’t, AKA nasty Tinder boys.”

The statement makes your lips curl into a tired smile, the motion causing tears to drop from your eyes. Namjoon whisks them away with his thumbs. He wants to stop there, knowing it’s enough to have pulled a smile from you, but he can’t. “Yeah, my friendship with Jimin is important and yeah I never want that to be in jeopardy. But my friendship with you is just as important. We’re all adults and we can handle what hardships come our way together. I know it. So please don’t ask me to stop you or make you feel bad about pursuing anything with him, or with anyone in the group. Honestly, I just want to see you happy and I will be there for you no matter what. We’re all friends so just follow your heart and I’ll be there, wherever it leads you. Okay?”

Your heart swells with admiration. How could he go from being the shithead Namjoon --the one who teases you and eats whole cherry stems--- to the sweet, compassionate, understanding Namjoon before you? Despite being drunk you know that regardless of what he says, you don’t think you could handle causing any sort of rift in the group. It’s one thing to insinuate mindless flirting, kissing, or sex --something you had never been good with anyway. But it was a whole new dynamic when you introduced meaningful feelings that could rock the boat. Sure it could go very well and enhance your lives, but it could also go very, very poorly and affect more than just two people at the end of the day. Even hammered you knew that much.

“No relationships in the group,” you maintain, shaking your head weakly in his palms.

A heavy sigh crosses his lips. He doesn’t know whether it’s relief or disappointment flooding his lungs; maybe it’s both. “Whatever you say.”

“I just don’t want to make things more difficult for you,” you admit, tiredly rubbing the remaining wetness from your eyes. “For anyone.”

He drops his hands and sits back on his knees. If only you knew. You didn’t have to try so hard to skirt the difficult part; it was unavoidable. He struggled any time he was alone with you. It was so hard being so close without ever really having you. Not in the way he longed for. He had come to terms with that fact that eventually you were going to fall for someone else. He accepted that life would never be easy as long as he carried these affections, but it was better than not having you in his life at all.

You’d find someone and he’d find someone of his own to numb the ache, maybe many ‘someones,’ and eventually it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Eventually these feelings would pass. How different is it in the grand scheme of things to lose you to a friend than to lose you to a stranger?

Regardless, you’re still not snuggling up to him at the end of the day. You’re not reaching for his hand when you’re feeling anxious or sad. You’re not searching for his lips when you seek intimacy. You’re not waking up in his arms, in his bed with your stupid tangled hair and raspy morning voice. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

No matter whom you seek, it doesn’t stop Namjoon from waking up to thoughts of you, thoughts that sometimes make his heart race, fingers that itch to hold yours, legs that twist around pillows for comfort. Sometimes they make his stomach dance, indulging in the concept that you might feel the same. Sometimes they wake him with a throbbing cock, making his lungs burn with need, mind racing with shameful desires that he would never dare admit. Every last bit of him was aching to have you, but could he ever express it? Out loud? To your face?

The fact of the matter is that you make his life impossibly difficult no matter what. As much as he hated to admit it to his friends, he couldn’t hide from himself. How could he ever possibly explain that to you without making a complete fool of himself? There aren’t words he can piece together; nothing feels good enough, and maybe nothing ever will.

“You’re always making things so complicated,” he sighs, rising to his feet. “You’ll be back to playing chicken again in no time.”

You cross your arms and pout, knowing he’s probably right. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Aight well I’ve had enough for one night. I’m going home. You wanna catch a lyft with me or you just gonna ride Jimin’s dick home?” Teasing you is the only coping mechanism he has right now. He swears he’ll be fine the more he jokes, the more he reiterates the notion that you’re going to hook up with someone who cares for you as much as he does.

He begins to saunter away, hands in his pockets. He’s got a hand gripped on the handle when he looks back at you still sitting on the floor and giving him a heavy-lidded pout. He throws his head back and releases a heavy puff of air, scoffing at you. “What?”

“I don’t feel good,” you whine, voice small and deflated.

“I told you not to drink so much. I told you to drink water. But do you listen to me? Noooooo. What does Namjoon know? I told you to slow down and you just had to keep up with Jimin. Jimin... who literally guzzles bottles of champagne like water,” he chides, though there’s no bite to the words. He can’t fight a certain tenderness spilling out in his tone; he’s far too tired. “You know you don’t have a good tolerance. You know you’re a lightweight and yet--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. You told me so. I’m drunk. Blah, blah, blah. Are you done lecturing me? Can you help me up now?” You stretch your arms up, grabbing at the air with your hands, to which he rolls his eyes.

“I should leave you here,” he grumbles, even though he’s already on his way over to you. “Maybe you’d learn your lesson this time.”

“Joonie, please,” you groan back, voice cracking with fatigue. You sound pathetic, even to your own ears.

There he is again. Putty boy. Soft. Squishy. Stupidly wrapped around your fingers. Best of all, he will thank you for squeezing the shit out of him until he breaks apart and still comes back for more. Why can’t he make you deal with your own problems for once? After all, you did this to yourself. God, he hated himself for wanting to take care of you, but in some fucked up way he loved that it made him feel like you wanted him, like you needed him for something.

“I gotcha,” he murmurs, hooking his arms underneath your armpits and helping you clumsily to your feet.

You stumble towards him, letting him support a good amount of your weight as you try to keep the world from spinning around you. For a second you’re just leaning into one another, arms slung across each other in what would be a rather tender embrace under different circumstances. You blink a few times, legs wobbling as you tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

A particularly long strand of hair falls across his face as he attempts to help steady you, glasses tipping down to the edge of his nose. Your hand moves unconsciously to correct the frames, pushing them back up for him. You comb back his unruly hair by carding your fingers through it slowly. He can’t help but close his eyes, trying to commit your touch to memory. You drift your fingers across the back of his head, grazing his ear before resting the heel of your palm along his jaw. Your index finger extends, toying with the longer strands that had been styled back for most of the evening.

“You really need to cut this,” you mumble, your words slurring together.

“Mmm-hmm,” he hums. It’s all he can manage as he tries to keep himself from completely melting into your touch. He bites the inside of his cheek, absorbing the desire for more contact with you.

You blink a few times, expecting a rebuttal but receiving nothing. You playfully smack his cheek a few times. “You must be tired if you ain’t even arguing.”

“I’m exhausted,” he admits, letting go of the breath he had unwittingly been holding. “Think you can handle the stairs?”

“If I say no, will you carry me?” you ask, only half joking.

He snorts. “I’d have to get Jungkook to help me and you know he’d be pissed to lose to Tae.”

You reach for the door, one arm draped around him for support. You can feel his fingers grip your waist, setting your nerves on fire. You do your best to ignore them. “Still going at it? What’s the score?”

“4 to 3 last I checked; Tae’s winning anyway.”

You snickered, knowing how competitive Jungkook was and how badly he must be trying to even the score. You kind of wish you could stick around and see how it ends.

As you’re rounding the corner, you both fall silent. Your legs are stone once more and you feel Namjoon stop as well, registering what lays ahead. Black-heels is nowhere to be found, but red-heels is on her knees, head bobbing over Yoongi’s lap. He sits with his head thrown back against the couch, eyes closed in complete bliss and you’re thankful that he can’t pin you down this time with that dark scowl.

Namjoon spares an awkward glance in your direction, but you’re enthralled once again, your teeth clamping around your bottom lip to try and sate your hunger for the scene before you. He clears his throat loud enough for only you to hear. Your bugged-out eyes snap to him, realizing he has the most arrogant grin you’ve seen from him tonight, and it causes shame to burn through your lungs. In an instant your lip releases, slightly swollen and red from the pressure.

“Come on, creeper,” he teases into your ear, practically dragging you as quickly as he can past the duo.

Yoongi peeks out from underneath one eyelid, watching your descent with Namjoon with a satisfied grin.

_____________________________________

The car was already waiting when you finally emerged from the club with Namjoon. It felt like an eternity as he pulled you through the sweaty dancers; honestly the fact that you didn’t have the best coordination right now didn’t help matters. You had apologized to Jimin on the way, claiming you didn’t feel well and needed to go home. He seemed understanding enough and you were anxious that he might hate you for leaving him after getting him all riled up earlier.

Of course you didn’t know Namjoon had already talked to him, requesting a take-back on the endorsement he’d given earlier that night. The boys had their own off-limits agreement regarding you, mostly because there was a general consensus that Namjoon was hopelessly smitten, regardless of his frequent denial. But after seeing your profile and how unsuccessful you were, of course he wanted you to have something good in your life, someone who made you feel wanted and was actually good at sex. Jimin and Hoseok didn’t hesitate to agree, both volunteering for the job --much to his chagrin. He convinced himself, at least for a little while, that it would be for the best if you were with someone he knew was safe.

But after seeing you with Jimin, getting hot and heavy out in the open, he knew it was a mistake to say he was fine with it. It hurt so much to think about, nevermind actually seeing it unfold. Thankfully they had the type of friendship where all he had to do was ask and they backed off, but not before Hobi gave him an ultimatum, which Jimin fully supported after getting blueballed for the umpteenth time. They had seen him flip-flop too much on this to keep doing nothing about it; it was time for some action. They would all help you with your profile and make you as successful as possible on Tinder. You’d go on dates with strangers, possibly even go home with someone; Joon could either nut up or shut up before that happened. And if it didn’t?

You close your eyes, resting your head on Namjoon’s shoulder, causing him to stiffen. “Wake me up when we get there?”

If she’s still single after a month, you have to tell her. Or I will. Hoseok’s words echo in his head as he sits with his hands on his knees, reliving the conversation like a movie reel on repeat. You slip your fingers over his, searching for comfort. He flips his hand around to lace his fingers with yours, sighing softly. “Mmm-hmm.”

Why couldn’t he just come out and say it? Why did it scare the hell out of him so much? Is it that it’s awkward and uncomfortable to talk about? Is it because he’s built you up so much in his head, he’s worried you won’t measure up to his fantasies? Or is it because he feels he won’t measure up to your needs and expectations?

He gives your hand a light squeeze and is surprised when you return the gesture with a squeeze of your own.

Is it because he’s afraid you won’t reciprocate? Or is it because he’s not sure what will happen if you do?

______________________________

The lights flicker for a good ten seconds before remaining on. He sighs again, closing the door and locking it. You couldn’t even get out of the car on your own; three flights of stairs would be impossible in your current state. Besides, he had grabbed your keys from Tae’s couch. Didn’t he say he wasn’t babysitting you this time? Yet here he was in your apartment, dead tired and panting from practically carrying your sloppy ass up the steps. It wouldn’t be the first time he crashed on your small, uncomfortable loveseat. His neck was aching just looking at the thing. He was pretty sure you grabbed it off the side of the road, even though you always insisted you got it for a great price at a discount furniture store. He could always wait until Hobi or Yoongi came home. It also wouldn’t be the first time he’d crashed on their couch down the hall instead.

You feel along the walls as you make your way to the bathroom, vaguely hearing Namjoon ask if you need help. You mumble a quick “no” before shutting the door and peeling the sticky jeans from your legs.

“Where are your night clothes?” he calls through the door.

“Night clothes? What are you, a 17th century peasant? They’re fucking pajamas,” you wait for a smartass response, but it doesn’t come. “In the drawer by the bed.”

“Very helpful,” he grumbles sarcastically while surveying the room.

There are multiple drawers. Of course there are. Choosing a drawer a random yields the surprise of a long, pink, bulbous shape carelessly discarded above several pairs of frilly lingerie. He steals a glance at the closed bathroom door before focusing back on the item. His lips purse into a thin line and his fingers trace along the smooth, velvety surface. He turns it over in his hands, taking a second to measure it against his palm. He smiles wickedly, admiring the way his fingers extend past the edge; it’s such a little thing. Could it really feel that good for you?

His body grows ever more attentive to its contour as he tries to imagine what kind of expression paints your face as it plunges into you. Are you the type to ball your fists up in the sheets and let the sweet notes of your pleasure carry through the walls, or are you quiet, deliciously panting and groaning against pillows to muffle the sounds that escape while you’re coming undone?

His long fingers curl around the shape, noting the flexibility and ridges detailed into the silicone. He exhales a shaky breath, trying to subvert the erection currently tenting his pants. Suddenly there’s a light streaming out the bottom and a steady buzz reverberating off his hand. His eyes widen in panic as he shifts his attention from the vibrator to the bathroom door, praying you can’t hear it over the fan in there. He frantically tries to find the power button, but to no avail. He squeezes and pulls, twists and turns, trying every motion he can think of like it’s a goddamn “bop-it.” After a few seconds it whirs down, light on the bottom extinguishing itself.

Oh, thank god.

He tosses it back in the drawer, closing it as quickly as possible. Shuffling through your other drawers, he picks some clothes out at random before knocking on the door.

“You okay in there, Geeksquad?” he asks, leaning against the wall and listening for a response over the sound of the vent above his head.

You swing the door open and his eyes widen, sweeping over your exposed thighs. He anxiously thrusts the clothes into your arms and turns heel. “Can you please not be walking around in your underwear while I’m still here?”

You scoff, closing the door before tossing your panties on top of the pants. “I don’t know why you’re so mad. I only took off my jeans. Do you know what it’s like trying to squeeze back into wet jeans? Not fun. Sweaty. Gross. Too tight.”

“Sounds horrible,” he remarks, voice distant.

You’re glad he brought you shorts that are made from loose, breathable fabric. It’s too damn hot for anything more. You work to free your tits and quickly slip on the roomy t-shirt he selected, eager lay down so the world won’t spin anymore. You emerge from the restroom again, this time looking like an amorphous blob with legs and arms.

Namjoon extends a glass of water toward you. “Drink.” He quirks an eyebrow at the discarded clothes scattered behind you, but doesn’t care enough to comment beyond the assertive order.

You’re irritated by his demand, a scowl on your face as you bring the glass to your lips. You want me to drink? Fine, bitch. I’ll drink. You guzzle the entire thing for him in one go.

“Happy?” You blink a few times and give him a sour smile.

“Don’t be a brat when I’m taking care of you. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Are you sure? Will I? Will I really?”

“You’d better thank me after I went into the ladies bathroom,” he snorts, “and saved you from the toilet paper trap.” He ruffles your hair and takes the glass, disappearing from view. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

“If you tell anybody about that I swear to god our friendship is over.” You shuffle your way towards the bedroom, using the wall as your guide. You practically fall onto the mattress, immediately curling your knees into your chest. You’re nowhere near the comfort of your pillows, but all you care about is getting the room to stop moving. If you can just lay still, you know you’ll be fine in a few minutes. Why does it feel like everything is still going? You’re down, aren’t you? You can’t even lift your head to make sure. It’s too much.

“God, you’re so drunk.” Namjoon sets down a full glass of water on your nightstand. “Remember when I said you got a big head you don’t use? This is exactly what I mean. You make yourself sick when you do this. You’re never gonna learn, huh?”

“Joon…” You weakly open your eyes, offering a pout. “It’s not nice to lecture someone who doesn’t feel good.”

“It’s not nice making other people take care of you when you make yourself sick, but you seem to be fine with that,” he shoots back, followed by a heavy sigh. “Is it fun being this fucked up? Why do you do this?”

“It makes me feel less empty,” you mumble, rolling your head towards the soft blankets. “If I’m drunk and having fun, then I can’t focus on how lonely I am.”

“Y/N… Do you really feel that way?” He sits on the edge of the bed, placing a warm hand on your shoulder.

You shiver at the contact with your skin and you can feel goosebumps already forming along your arms. “Yes,” you reply, your voice small and apologetic for the way you’re starting to tear up. How pathetic you must seem to him, falling apart like this over your nothingness.

He gently moves his palm across your shoulder a couple times before giving it a light squeeze. He wants to tell you that you’re not alone, that he’s always going to be here for you, but the words catch in his throat and he can’t muster enough force to get them out.

“Pfft listen to me being sad. That’s not like me, is it?” You peek back up at him through watery lids, cracking your best smile while trying not to let him see you cry. His knotted brow and pressed lips tell you he’s not buying it. “Don’t look at me like that, Joon. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Hey, I didn’t throw up this time so I must not be THAT fucked up.”

He hums softly, amused by your last statement. “That’s true, Y/N…” He pauses to lightly rub his hands across your shoulders; it soothes you and he knows it. While it isn’t his first time taking care of you, his touch is still delicate and reserved. His fingers feel uncertain as they connect with your form, gingerly kneading the skin through your shirt with his thumbs. You find yourself melting beneath the contact of his thumbs, exhaling a breathy moan that makes him tense ever so slightly.

“Everyone gets lonely. You gotta find the coping mechanisms that work for you. Healthy ones. Alcohol ain’t a good one. That’s why I worry about you.”

You manage to roll onto your back, looking up at him from what you’re sure is your most unflattering angle ever. “You worry about me?”

He floats a hand over your face, brushing the hair from your forehead. “A lot, actually.”

You can’t help but lean into his touch, eyelids fluttering closed for longer than you like with the question burning on your lips. “Why?”

“Because,” he begins with a heavy sigh, “you’re dumb smart, except when you’re not.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you lay there blinking at him, waiting for him to stop with his deep-talk and get to the point. He must notice because he rolls his eyes. “I mean, you take apart computers all day right?”

“Mmm, sometimes at night too, but yeah.” He looks like he’s about to say something when you start back up. “Sometimes I build them and sometimes I’m just repairing them.” You hesitate a moment, thinking about it. He opens his mouth when you mindlessly interrupt again. “Sometimes I’m just sifting through parts of our recovery programs, honestly.”

“...Can I finish with my point or you wanna keep going with that?” he teases, raising his eyebrows at you, a small smile playing on his lips.

You blush, wishing you could turn off the ramble function in your brain.

“You fix things, you wire complex shit all day. If you don’t know how to do something, you figure it out. You’re smart. But when it comes to people, you’re dumb,” he stops to correct himself. “Dumb isn’t the right word. You’re just... I don’t know the word I’m looking for. Desperate? No, sorry. Not it. Naive? Eh, I don’t think that’s the word either.”

“If this is supposed to be a pep talk, I’m not feeling it.”

He ignores you, continuing his train of thought, “You’re so open. You may not notice it, but you have this glow, this... energy around you. You smile and the room smiles back. There are people out there who will try to take advantage of someone like you, who will use up all your kindness and love and try to turn you into this dark little raincloud.”

“Am I a sun in this metaphor? You’re losing me here.”

“Nah not a sun. Well, maybe a sunset. More like… a rainbow I guess. You make people feel good, so good they stop and think, wow I love... looking at you, being around you.” He catches himself, knowing it’s time to crash. He’s spouting nonsense that’s too close for comfort. “You just need to be more careful. I won’t always be around to babysit your ass.”

Your eyelids flutter in displeasure. “So you’ve said. Where is this font of knowledge stemming from anyway? Where are these people who love looking at me? I wanna meet them.”

“You’re too drunk for metaphors, got it. Come on, let’s get you on the pillows at least. One, two, three,” he takes a deep breath on the third count and drags you towards the soft, fluffy pillows at the head of the bed. “There we go.”

You offer a soft groan, annoyed by the quick movement. “Joonie…”

But he ignores the sounds of your discontent, rolling you onto your side so he can pull the blankets down, but they catch underneath your body. You raise your leg to try and help, but the fabric to your shorts rides up, exposing the flesh where your thighs meet your ass. It’s then Namjoon realizes just how skimpy and thin the shorts are, eyes frantically searching for the missing layer beneath them.

Realizing the trap he’s about to fall into, he averts his gaze and quickly pivots you back towards him to further work the blankets down. You grunt disapprovingly at the rocking motion and rub your temple, unaware of how he’s clumsily grasping at the sheet to cover you as quickly as possible.

“No it’s too hot,” you complain, hooking your leg and trapping it between your thighs.

Namjoon swallows hard as his eyes settle on your bare asscheek. “You’re going to get cold.”

You disregard his comment and nuzzle your face deep into the pillow, trying to get comfortable.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Whatever. I need to get some sleep. So if you don’t need anything else, I’m gonna go crash on the couch.” He gestures toward the door and waits a moment for you to respond. When you don’t, he begins to walk away.

“Wait,” you call in a small voice, peeking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Your arms outstretch, beckoning him to come back.

He turns back towards you, lifting his glasses to briefly rub his eyes. “Yeah?”

“When you said everyone gets lonely, do you...” your words falter, not knowing if it’s the alcohol, your hormones, or the loneliness that’s been haunting you, but you have to ask. “Do you feel lonely?”

The hum catches in his throat and he smiles softly, resting his tall frame against the doorway. He’s quiet for a moment, carefully contemplating his answer. “Sometimes. I try to let my friends know so that I don’t get lost in it. It helps.” You get the feeling he’s trying to offer advice and you open your mouth to refute the point, but close it when he continues. “But sometimes, it’s not as simple as having someone to talk to. Sometimes… I just want to find someone to be close to. To hold. To touch. And no amount of talking satisfies that feeling.”

His eyes trail off with his words and you can’t help but ache at the vacuum they leave behind. He gets it. Of course he does; he’s only human. How does he combat that loneliness?

“What do you do when you feel like that?” you ask, melancholy expression mirroring his.

He crosses his arms and thinks a moment. “I try to think about things that make me happy. I try to think about things that I’m grateful for. My job. My apartment. My friends.” He pauses and spares a glance at you, finding your blown out pupils scanning his face. He attributes it to the dim light, though for a second he almost swears there’s a hint of something dark and hungry hiding just beneath the surface and it makes sweat bead along the back of his neck. “...I… think about all that and try to reflect on the good, rather than the bad feelings.”

“Do you ever try to find company instead?” You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes as you twine your fingers between the sheets and tap them against one another. You’re considering the option through beer goggles, thinking about how his hands steadied you at the bar and the surge of electricity it sent through your spine. He’s always been super chill. Would it really be so bad to ask him to climb into bed beside you? Slowly, you move your other leg outside of the sheet, letting the fabric twist around to cover your torso. Your face is absolutely burning as you watch him take the bait.

“Sometimes,” he admits, face growing hot as his eyes crawl across the expanse of your thighs. You can’t help but relish in the shaky exhale he tries in vain to hide.

You stretch your arms across the bed and awkwardly tap at the mattress with your fingertips, lifting your head. “What about right now?”

His gaze locks onto yours, unblinking. His mouth falls open, in heavy need of clarification. “Huh?”

Before he can ask you to repeat it, the next question falls through your lips. “Do you feel lonely now?”

He blinks a few times, unsure if he’s hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. You find yourself growing agitated and increasingly embarrassed at the need to spell it out for him; the fact that you’re even considering this is downright insane, but your body is so touch starved that you have to say it. The hormones racing through you demand some kind of resolve for all the heavy grinding, Jimin’s lips all over your skin, Hobi’s hips at your back, Namjoon’s fingers swirling circles into your shoulders. Would it really be so bad? Is he going to judge you for insinuating such a thing? Is he going to get weird about it? Maybe it’s not such a great idea. Racing thoughts have you internally backpedaling while he draws out his response.

“I might be,” he answers quietly, taking a few slow paces towards the bed. You’ve got hope that Namjoon is also willing to entertain the idea but you have to confirm it.

You can barely hear yourself over the sound of blood rushing in your ears. “Maybe we could be lonely together?” You lick your dry lips and swallow hard, tapping the mattress with your fingers again. You see the pity in his face as he gets closer and suddenly you feel like a moron. Your head drops back against the pillow. “Ah, shit. Ne-Nevermind!”

But he continues to walk over to your bedside and chuckles softly. Soft fingertips brush along your forehead and whisk stray hairs from your forehead. His face floats into your field of vision, the sad smile making you want to crawl under the covers. Pathetic as you are, you lean into his palm as he rests it against your cheek.

“I’m not going to take advantage of the fact that you’re drunk and horny,” he says in a low, soft voice. “You really think I’m about to tap that and have you wake up with a million regrets in the morning?”

Your face twists into a scowl, and then an embarrassed pout. “I’m not saying we bang. I mean, even if I were insinuating that --which I’m not, you don’t have to act like it’d be so gross to fuck me. Sheesh.”

He holds back a laugh as your hands clumsily grip and fiddle with his fingers, pulling them away from your face. Boy, you took that terribly. Did it really bruise your ego so much because he turned you down? “Look, I never said it would be gross. I just mean that you’re not in any position to consent. I’m not about that life.”

He bites his lip, unable to explain further that if you asked on a sober day, he’d take you in a heartbeat. But he knows that will never happen and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up with drunk promises you don’t mean or will never remember.

On some level you know he’s right, but the sting of rejection doesn’t make it easy to accept. So you squash the one shred of pride you have left. “Could you… Do you think you could just hold me? Would that be okay?”

If his heart could pound out of his chest, it certainly felt like now was the time it would happen. He swallows, throat dry as he gives your fingers a small squeeze. “I can do that.”

You flick the light off as he scoots next to you, resting his back against the pillows. He’s incredibly rigid, awkwardly extending an arm over your head and waiting for you to settle in. You can’t help the uncertainty bubbling in your stomach. You slowly rest your head across the expanse of his chest and you can feel him expel the breath he had been holding. Goddamn it Joon. Stop being weird.

“You’re stiff,” you murmur, nuzzling your head into the fabric of his shirt, trying in vain to get comfortable at a ninety degree angle. “Can you like… lay down instead?”

He sighs and repositions, wiggling down beside you. His massive hand cups your head close to his chest as he does so. His head falls against the pillow and he nudges the side of your face with his knuckles. “Better?”

Your face angles upwards and you can just barely make out the mocking flick of his tongue in the moonlight that slips through the blinds. You bury your face, humming a note of approval over his collarbone. You’re quick to splay an arm across his torso and uncurl your fingers against his chest. Heavy fingers climb on yours, trapping your hand between his and the heartbeat beneath your palm. His other hand lands on your shoulder and you shiver when he starts to trace lazy lines up and down your skin.

He’s joked about sleeping 20 hours at a time or wanting to be born as a rock in his next life so he doesn’t have to move, and there are those who hear that and think he’s lazy. That he isn’t awake until the wee hours of the morning many nights working on his music or practicing their dance moves in the studio until he can barely string together two coherent thoughts. So what if he likes to sleep? He knows when and how to work when it counts. How else would he have gotten where he is today?

And yet… and yet. There are always the voices. Voices that spit vitriol, disdain, jealousy from every direction. That dare to say they don’t know what it’s like to struggle. Got handed a cushy job on a silver platter just because of his pretty face. Your daemon shows you for what you really are, you two-faced snake. Your success is just a fluke. Lazy, inadequate, sellout, traitor, fake fake fake.

He’s learned to ignore them, for the most part. He’s had to, or else he would have long ago caved under the constant scrutiny, the pressure, the expectations of the fans and critics alike. Instead, he takes the poison directed at him, takes the fear and pain and the rage it elicits, and works with them instead of letting them overtake him, converting them into fuel so that he can work harder, work better, prove them all fucking wrong.

They don’t know what it’s like to struggle. They don’t know…

-

The house is quiet. The house is dark. The house is empty. His parents are away and won’t be back for hours. He hides in the bathroom, back pressed against the cold glass of the shower door, Namhae coiled on the tile in front of him, staring back at him silently as dark thoughts swirl around in his head and overflow into hers.

They could do it. Right here, right now. Make the pain, the fear, the stress, the shame, the overwhelming emptiness, make it all just go away. Forever. They don’t even need a gun, a rope, pill, just two little pinpricks of pain, and it would all be over in a matter of minutes. The thought doesn’t even terrify him anymore. He’s eighteen years old and he’s so tired. Anything would be better than this. He just wants it all to stop.

Namhae suddenly lunges forward and latches onto his arm, her fangs pressing just enough to barely break the skin. The pain makes him jolt instinctively in shock, but she holds on, never taking her slitted golden eyes off him for a moment.

Is this what you want? his soul asks soundlessly, the barest tinges of red beginning to bubble up around her fangs. Is it really? To leave Mom and Dad like this without answers, without an explanation? To never play the piano again? To never find out if it gets better?

What if it never gets better? He tastes his own blood on her tongue and what resolve he had begins to waver.

What if it does? What if it does, and we miss out on something amazing before it even starts? What then? And he hates to admit it, but she’s right. Something inside him cracks, fragments, shatters, and Namhae gently releases him, the shallow wounds left by her fangs brimming with dark crimson. He gathers her into his arms, wetting her scales with silent tears as she rubs up against his cheek comfortingly.

We need help, she says, finally giving voice to the thought he’s been too afraid to acknowledge before now. Shame wells up within him, and she winds her tail around his wrist, squeezing tightly. We need help, Yoongi. We can’t go on like this. But we can’t get out of this by ourselves. I don’t know how and neither do you. He breathes a shallow, shuddering sigh and gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

They stay like that, all wrapped up in each other, trying to keep the darkness at bay, until his mother gets home, and it takes only a few minutes of worried questioning and hesitant, stilted, whispered answers before she’s running for the telephone.

The bite marks scab over and fade completely in a matter of days, not even a faint scar remaining. It doesn’t stop him from recalling the incident every time he sets foot inside the doctor’s office, though, and if Namhae’s grip becomes a little tighter around his chest, or if he tangles his hands in her coils and holds on as if she’ll disappear into thin air and stays that way for the entire session, well. If the doctor doesn’t bring it up, neither will they.

-

The darkness that plagued his mind for so long has faded now. But he worries sometimes, in the privacy of his own head where only Namhae has access to, if the poison running through his thoughts and in her veins might still wind up being their downfall one day. But those thoughts never last for too long anymore, because-

“Hey, Suga-hyung, Jin-hyung says it’s almost time for dinner.” Yoongi looks up from his phone to see Jimin poke his head in to his room, Inabi clinging tightly to the sleeve of his sweater, her red, bushy tail twitching sporadically. The rapper nods wordlessly and hauls himself off the bed, Namhae wrapped around his shoulders like a scarf. As he and Jimin walk down to the kitchen, he can hear Hoseok’s loud, unrestrained laughter echoing down the hall, accompanied as always by Eunbyol’s high-pitched whickering, and it’s so infectious that Yoongi often can’t help but smile slightly.

The smells of Jin’s cooking grow stronger as they get closer to the kitchen, and then Jungkook and Taehyung suddenly come barreling full speed down the hallway, laughing and shouting unintelligibly at each other as Aja bounds effortlessly beside them, tongue lolling happily out of her mouth while Bomi clings for dear life with her raccoon-like paws to the soft white fur on the dog daemon’s back. Outraged shouting soon follows as Seokjin skids around the corner and nearly crashes into the wall before he catches himself, apron askew and one half of his face covered and dripping with something dark and viscous. Riga follows not a second later, smoothly tobogganing along the slick floor on her belly much more gracefully than her human before she rights herself and the two continue their chase after the two youngest members, the little penguin daemon unable to go as fast as Seokjin with her short legs but making a valiant effort regardless.

Yoongi and Jimin exchange bemused glances and then peel themselves off the wall they’d pressed themselves against to avoid getting flattened by the small stampede. “I better go make sure he doesn’t kill them,” Jimin murmurs as loud, indignant scolding filters through the walls, punctuated by the occasional irate squawk. The rapper and dancer part ways and Yoongi continues his trek to the kitchen. As he steps through the door, he sees that Hoseok is currently draped over Eunbyol’s wide back for support, wheezing helplessly, and Namjoon has buried his face in his arms at the table, shoulders shaking violently as Maeumu flutters from the table to his shoulders to his head and back again.

“Um…” Yoongi starts, quirking one eyebrow quizzically. The younger two rappers simultaneously glance at him with teary eyes, then look over at the stove before collapsing into hysterics again. Yoongi follows their line of sight and sees an overturned bowl on the floor, surrounded by splatters of dark sauce, a couple of Taehyung’s toy cars scattered nearby. A smirk starts to spread over his face as the pieces fall together, the sound of Namhae’s soft, sibilant giggles echoing in his ear.

As Jin drags Jungkook and Taehyung back into the kitchen by the collars, Riga herds Aja and Bomi ahead of her with the occasional sharp peck to the leg, and Jimin brings up the rear hiding a huge grin behind his sleeve, Yoongi feels Namhae brush gentle certainty against his thoughts. This… this is why the darkness will never win against him. Because no matter what the rest of the world or even he himself may believe, there are six people he will always be good enough for, who will love and support him no matter what, even on his bad days. Yoongi’s members, his brothers, they are home; home in a way that nowhere else has ever been and likely never will be. And just as normal water moccasins will travel miles upon miles each year to get to their favorite hibernating spot where they will sleep the winter away with dozens, sometimes hundreds of other snakes in a great big cuddle pile, no matter where he goes, how far he may roam, Yoongi will always come back to them.

So let the critics and the world say what they will and think what they want. Min Yoongi may look soft and delicate, but he is far from helpless, with his brothers at his side and venom of his own. Lyrics pour rapidfire from his mouth like acid, caustic and capable of cutting right down to bone, passionate, angry, raw, and true, capable not only of tearing down and destroying but also of changing and shaping the world around him into something better and more beautiful than it was before. After all, snakes may have a bad reputation in most cultures, but they’re a vital part of the planet’s ecosystem, and an earth without them would not be capable of sustaining itself for very long.

As he steps out onto stage the next day, bathed in the bright spotlight of the stadium, seeing thousands of ARMY bombs twinkle from the stands like stars, Namhae briefly tightens her coils across his chest in a snaky hug, just as she always does before the start of another concert. This is who we are, she says, and he can feel her joy, her pride, her love, for the fans, for their brothers, for him, for all they’ve accomplished and who they’ve become. Yoongi smiles.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world, he replies. 

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A/N:

~ Min “Suga” Yoongi – water moccasin – Namhae: means “deep blue ocean” in Korean. ~ Park Jimin – Eurasian red squirrel – Inabi: means “clever butterfly” in Korean. ~ Jung “J Hope” Hoseok – Arabian horse – Eunbyol: means “silver star” in Korean. ~ Jeon Jungkook – Afghan hound – Aja: means “elegant child” in Korean. ~ Kim “V” Taehyung – white-nosed coati – Bomi: means “beautiful treasure” in Korean.  ~ Kim “Jin” Seokjin – Adélie penguin – Riga:  means “delightful profit” in Korean.  ~ Kim “Rap Monster” Namjoon – western jackdaw – Maeumu: means “excellent mind” in Korean.