Bbsantc - Montse :)

🛐

불타오르네

Harry Styles | Coachella 2022

the absolute serge in andrew garfield peter parker fics is giving me life right now

Beautiful beautiful beautiful💘💘💘💘💘💘

A Boy Like You | Yoongi

→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff → warnings: an overabundance of shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to squish his cheeks; kinda ooc but it is what it is → words: 11.5K → a/n: whaddup kids it’s ya girl… back from the dead after months of not writing shit, and what’s this owo… it’s a fluff fic?? miracles do happen… anyway i wrote this bc i just thot “man, wouldn’t it be super epic if i wrote a super self-indulgent fic where yoongi fulfills every single one of my deepest desires?” well… here is THIS!! pls feel free to scream into a pillow bc i certainly did!! enjoy!!

There is a boy you know who likes to show his kindness quietly. It would go something like this:

The air is thick with static; your hair stands up on end: a warning. The scent of raindrops hitting hot pavement graces your nostrils as a waterfall drops from the sky. You see the sea of heads begin to disappear under a canopy of multi-colored umbrellas. You, the lone ranger, rush back into the building from whence you came, dragging puddles and annoyance with you.

You should have anticipated it, should have thought to check the weather app before scrolling through dull social media posts when you left your house that morning. Instead, your fingers are left cold and umbrella-less.

You tilt your head upwards, watching as gallon upon gallon fell from the sky in an endless cycle. The watch on your wrist reads 5 PM, but the sky says it is 9 PM. The dark, swirling mass of clouds above you will continue on its thunderous parade, pausing for no one, especially not for you.

Your work bag is practically weightless, devoid of anything that might protect you from the onslaught of rain. The only thing inside is a small wallet that holds nothing more than dust and a loose promise of a paycheck. There is no way you can call a taxi like this, and the nearest bus stop is at least two blocks away. You are starting to think that your childhood dreams of becoming a mermaid hadn’t been so ridiculous after all.

Then comes the hand of God. It touches your shoulder gently, hesitantly. You turn around to face a stranger, a boy with shaggy black hair and pale moonlight skin. It is not God, but he comes close.

In his other hand is your salvation wrapped in Kumamon print nylon. It is proffered to you with a silent nod, his gaze fixed somewhere behind you as he waits for you to take it. The tips of his ears begin to redden the longer it takes for you to respond. Eventually, your brain connects with your muscles as you robotically pluck the umbrella from his grasp, a stuttered “thanks” leaving your lips.

He nods stiffly once more, removing his palm from your shoulder as though he had been burned. He shuffles for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words to say. You wait, patience never waning for the strange boy that you have come to know as your salvation.

He doesn’t find the words after all. You aren’t too offended by his silence, but he appears to be mortified. And so, he leaves just as quickly as he had appeared, like a whirlwind dressed in an oversized blazer flapping behind him like wings. He runs through the rain without another thought, an arm raised above his head in a futile attempt to avoid getting wet.

You try calling out to him, wanting to thank him once more and maybe to ask how you can return his umbrella, but he is long gone. A speck of black dashing through the gray.

You clutch the umbrella closer to you, a feeling of something new growing inside of you. It is too small to call anything, but it is warm.

Keep reading

normalize being out of the loop...... like what is even going on lol

😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

Literally made my day🤩

Trip No Further | Chapter 14

Summary: When your valiant attempt to get your best friend laid not only backfires, but results in one mind-boggling discovery—that the world-famous idol Min Yoongi of BTS is your soulmate—you’re forced to confront your new reality. Soon, you will need each other’s touch to survive. Too bad Suga, despite his sweet name, is proving to be something of an acquired taste…

Pairing: idol!Yoongi x Reader Genre: soulmate!au, idol!au, slow burn, heavy humor, eventual smut, idiots/nemeses/enemies to biases/lovers (iykyk) Word Count: ~10.4k 😭 Rating: 18+ Warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking/partying, sluttay revelations,,, Links: AO3, Masterlist

A/N: I said a Trip-hop, the Trippie, the Trippies To the Trip, Trip-hop and you don't stop the rockin'!

HOWDY, MY BELOVED TRIP-HOPPERS! In typical Matchy fashion, I completely lost control of my *checks notes* everything, and when I realized this chapter was already over 10k (uh,,,,bitch? u good?!??!), I made the executive decision to split the heaux in two. As such, Chapter 15 is already almost finished, and will now come out two days early on August 23 for TNF's three-month birthday 🥺💜 This also means that any-to-all spoilers I told you about this chapter were big thicc juicy lies, lmfao. Alas(s). BAD MATCHY! Please look forward to them showing up next week's update!

ANYWHO, please consider re-blogging with feedback or sliding into my ask box (anonymously or otherwise!) to let me know what you thought of the chapter. The support is very, very appreciated, and engaging with you all is SO CHAOTIC AND WONDERFUL, PLS. It's honestly what I live for.

See you next week!

Chapter Fourteen: Don’t Wanna Be F(.)(.)L, Wanna Be C(.)(.)L

You’re going to be in California for eight days, during which time the boys are set to perform three concerts in Los Angeles, followed by one in Oakland. After that, you have a three day buffer before the team heads down to Texas.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Hana asks you. It’s just after noon California time—four in the morning for Hana. On days like today, you thank your chosen higher power, DTRJ, for Hana’s bartending gig. Despite the massive time difference between the two of you, she’s still wide awake, having just gotten off of her shift.

“The plan is to head to the venue at four to charge up and coach the members in some English phrases,” you say. “Then tonight, I’m finally going to see them in concert.”

While BTS’s crew has to begin work bright and early to prep the venue, the boys’ schedules are typically clear on performance days until the early afternoon, when they’re due for soundcheck—which meant that you and Yoongi were able to sleep in this morning.

“Nice,” Hana says. Then: “You look happy.”

“I… yeah. I’m really wired right now,” you say, flushing as you think about your morning—you’d awoken to discover that overnight, you’d managed to maneuver your way out of Yoongi’s embrace and flip positions with him—had you rolled over him? Had he rolled over you?—to the opposite side of the bed. Not only that, but you’d latched yourself onto Yoongi’s back like some sort of hornt-up goblin—or, if you’re feeling generous, perhaps a rocket-pack—with your leg thrown over his hip and both of your hands up his shirt.

So, uh, yeah. Now you know for certain what those dark hairs trailing a vertical line from his bellybutton down, down, down, feel like under your fingers. They’re softer than you’d imagined, actually!

Which like, cool. Whatever. It’s fine. You’re fine. Seriously. You don’t even care! All that matters is that you’d woken up before him this time, so you’d been able to extract your roaming claws from his person before he yawned awake.

What matters, you think, is riding the energy-wave while it lasts. Yoongi had grumbled his way through his morning routine, telling you about the many things he plans to accomplish over the next eight months. For someone who has made no secret of his desire to be able to sit in an ever sittier way when he’s already sitting, the man sure keeps it moving. Not only does he intend to work on his individual musical projects while touring—which you expected—but he’s already booked vocal coaching sessions, pilates lessons, keyboard classes, and has hired a remote  tutor for Japanese (which he plans to learn on top of the English you’re contractually obliged to help him with, now) too.

So, yeah. He’s booked and busy, hunnie! Yoongi’s a girlboss. He’s a king.

However, you suspect that all these activities are bound to get him out of bed quite early; pair that with the late concert nights and V-lives he’s expected to do, fitting in time to charge might prove difficult soon.

But that’s a problem for YN-of-tomorrow to worry about! The YN-of-today is cruising, baby. She’s thriving. Her crops are watered and her ass is phat. This morning, you sent your parents a long e-mail checking up; you had a productive call with your supervisor, Pavica; and you finally finished up your feature on Michelle Zauner for review. Considering her memoir focuses so heavily on Korean foods and the memories they evoke for her—which you find harder to relate to in the immediate sense, now that you’re no longer eating—you’re proud of how you managed to weave in a shout-out to your old bodega sandwich and the thrill you used to get while visiting its flat-faced city kitty, Norman.

“Sick ass,” Hana says. Busan is still dark on her end of the screen, but you can see some convenience stores lighting up behind her—their days beginning as Hana’s comes to an end. “And when are you gonna jump your soulmate’s bones?”

As always, you open your mouth to shut down that suggestion—and then… 

Well. And then you don’t.

“What’s that face, baby?” Hana says suspiciously. You’d updated her on all the Ga-young tea you’d learned in the wake of your Eomma’s interrogation, and Hana had put on no airs about what she thought you should do with that newfound knowledge: namely, splay yourself out on the hotel bed in nothing but your corn underpants, singing Mariah’s “Touch My Body!”—which she knows is way out of your vocal register, but it’s the thot that counts, you suppose—to Meeyooee.

“This is the part where you say, but I’m not ready, Hana! and tell me you’re perfectly fine with where your relationship is at now.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Uh, that.”

“YN,” Hana says sharply. “Are you happy with where your relationship is now?”

You find you can’t look at Hana’s face as you chew over her question, choosing instead to stare pensively out the hotel window. In truth, you and Yoongi are getting along better than you ever have. While you still want to discuss the Susu Gaga saga with him—you no longer suspect that he has feelings for Ga-young, but you reckon there’s more to unpack there—things have felt… lighter between you two since your Eomma’s visit.

Except… have they? Sure, you’d managed to set fire to some of the emotional baggage you’d been lugging around behind you.

But… but…

But what about the curls of heat that spiral deep within your belly any time Meeyooee wanders within six feet of your person?! What about the way you reflexively press your thighs together when you catch so much as a whiff of his dark, citrusy scent? You got turned on the other day by watching Namjoon toss a tangerine peel into the garbage the other day! Turned on! By the peel! And that’s not to mention the insane craving you have to run your finger down the column of Yoongi’s neck—you want to physically map out the ridges of his throat with your thumb; you want to press your lips to the skin there and feel how it vibrates when he speaks to you, so gravely and low.

Your mind is a carousel of forbidden images: Yoongi’s long, black hair, streaked with sweat as he traces a hand idly up the curve of your waist after your Eomma had gone; that look of pleasure so pure it almost looked like pain on his face when you held his hand in the shuttle; his eyes, always dark, almost completely black when he’d stroked your cheek outside of the elevator that night at the dorms.

Just think of that as a means to an end.

“Maybe not,” you hear yourself admitting. You meet Hana’s gaze. For the first time, your dissatisfaction in your relationship doesn’t stem primarily from a place of feeling unsettled—because the truth is, you’re past the point of trying to get your bearings when it comes to Yoongi. So much has happened, so much has changed, since you two made First Contact. In the past almost three months, you’ve moved countries. You’ve met the band. You’ve quit one job and gained a new one, gave up food and adjusted to your new normal. No longer do you feel like the floor’s about to cave out beneath you. Even though you’re on tour, you feel stable.

So, yeah. You can finally admit it to yourself. You and Yoongi have advanced past the awkward first stage of adjusting to each other, which means that at this point, you’ve progressed your relationship with Yoongi as far as you can without actually confessing anything to him.

“We’re ‘friends’ now,” you say, workshopping your thoughts aloud to Hana. “He teases me. Not in a cruel way. And he doesn’t seem to mind when I get up to my usual bullshit or say something bonkeroons. I’m no longer just… floundering to get my bearings. That part of our journey is over. That part was… challenging.”

“Right,” Hana says. “Now you two are sort of on equal ground—as much as you two can be in your situation, anyway.”

You see what she means. You’re still the one who has to abide by the idol industry’s rules; still the one who’s given up any semblance of geographical constancy. But aside from those two factors—and granted, they are two big factors—you feel… free. In some ways, meeting Yoongi was like a catalyst. You’d spent a big chunk of your last few months in New York dreading what the future had in store for you. Daehyun had been about to move on. You’d limited your job-search to options that were in-office, figuring you’d get a low-tier job at a publishing house and grind your way up the corporate ladder. You’d never even thought to broaden the scope of your search to include remote positions—had never considered that doing so might put you in direct and immediate contact with some of your literary heroes; had never considered that you were competent and capable enough to seize interesting opportunities now. You didn’t have to wait; didn’t have to waste your days away filling out tip-sheets at Penguin Random House, hoping that some crusty white man in a suit might one day reward your hours of labor with… what? A paltry raise? The opportunity to shake an author’s hand after a Barnes & Noble reading?

It’s strange how meeting your soulmate—which at first had struck you as an event so definitive and defining and constrictive, that you’d felt like you couldn’t breathe—had ultimately proved to be one of the most liberating events of your life.

“So now that you’ve established a baseline with Yoongi,” Hana says, “I guess that leaves you with a choice.”

“Does it?”

“Of course. You can either stall out here and allow things to remain the way they are between you—comfortable, secure, and friendly—for the next eight months…” she trails off.

There’s a pit in your stomach at the suggestion, but you force yourself to nod. It’s not a bad option. There’s nothing wrong with stability, per se.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I could do that.”

“Or…” Hana says suggestively.

“ORRRRRRR,” you say, eagerly glomming right the fuck on to that nifty little conjunction. Subtlety be damned. The world or suggests another option! Or gives you permission to choose another path. And you are, you realize, looking for permission. To dance. With Meeyooee. Horizontally. In your shared hotel bed.

Nekked.

“Or,” Hana smiles knowingly, “you can take matters into your own hands, baby. Take a leap of faith, and… I don’t know, shove his face into your tatas and ask him to mo-mo-motorboat you gently down the stream.”

“Just because that’s worked with men in the past doesn’t mean it’ll work now!” you scold Hana, but inwardly, you’re thrilling at the mental image of Yoongi’s lips anywhere near the gorls. Merrily, merrily, merrily, indeed!

“So this is it, then? You’re ready to make a move and take things to the next level?” Hana confirms.

You pause. “Do people ever really feel ready when it comes to stuff like this?” you say uncertainly.

Hana thinks for a minute.

“Nah.”

“You right,” you say. You’re sitting at the hotel desk, but your heart is galloping as if you’ve just finished a race. “I… I just… I don’t wanna be fool, Hana. I wanna be cool, you know?”

“You are cool, YN,” she assures you. “Besides, I’ve seen the way that man looks at you. It’s like he wants to eat you alive. I thought he might actually clock Jungkook for allowing you to peel that perilla for as long as you did. Do you honestly think he wouldn’t go for it?”

You may be an idiot, but you’re not stupid. Yoongi’s a man. He’s hot-blooded. He’s not utterly repulsed by you. You totally think he’d go for it if you flashed him a lil nip nip… just as a treat. Besides, it’s not like he can just cut and run if your bedroom performance disappoints him in some unanticipated way—which you don’t think he’d do even if he didn’t need your touch to survive. He just… isn’t the type of guy who’d make a partner feel bad about that kind of stuff. Not your Meeyooee. He’s more like the kind of guy who’d probably take a bedroom fumble as an opportunity to teach you about what he liked… the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind taking matters into his own, long, strong hands, and…

No. NOPE. You shake your head of your rapidly degenerating thoughts. This is very important business! Why are you thinking of his fingers at a time like this? You’ve lost sight of the point. The point! The point is, what’s holding you back?

You’re tired of holding yourself back.

“Do you trust him?” Hana prods gently.

You take a deep breath in through your nostrils, and exhale out through your mouth. Looks like sincerity’s back on the menu, boys! It’s real talk time, now.

“I think…” You lower your voice, even though you’re alone in the room. “I think I’m a bit nervous that I like him more than he likes me, you know?”

Hana’s eyes are unbearably soft on the other side of the screen.

“I get it,” she says. “You don’t want him to stick his dingaling up your punani-wani until you feel emotionally safe with him.”

Your mouth pops open.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

Hana settles into her armchair-expert role. “You’re reluctant to allow him to put his dinky winky anywhere near your bajingo ringo until—”

“Okay,” you fold up a silencing finger, “before you go on, let’s get one thing right. I hardly think his winky will be dinky—”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” she says, laughter garbling her words. “As long as he knows how to find the clot.”

“THE WHAT?”

“Sorry, I choked on my own spit there for a second. The clit. Just get him to lick your clit a little.”

You stare.

“Or a lottle.”

“Hana.”

She nods sagely. “Tell Meeyooee to lottle your clottle!”

You can do nothing but splutter at her for a full ten seconds before she takes mercy on you, and pushes the conversation forward.

“Look, I get it. You want to be seen by him with the same consideration and admiration as you see him,” Hana says. “That’s fair. But you’re not going to feel emotionally safe with him if you don’t take a chance and show some vulnerability. You can initiate that conversation with your words or with your body. It doesn’t matter which.”

You think about that.

“It’s just… hard,” you admit. “When I first met Yoongi, I thought he hated me. It’s difficult to forget that. The media would have you believe most soulmates just fall in love straight away, you know? They’re immediately obsessed with each other.”

“Right,” Hana says. “Which… you were.”

“Huh,” you say. That… well, that’s a revelation right there. In retrospect, you suppose you were immediately obsessed with Yoongi. Cranky and overwhelmed and defensive, to be sure, but you remember what it was like, tripping into him at that Knicks game. You’d never experienced anything like it—such an instant, blissful sense of belonging. Of surety. And then you’d felt it again in that Ritz-Carlton hotel room—that magnetic, propulsive draw.

But also, he’d been such a grade-A peen. He had. He had!

“I don’t think I’m just in my head when I say he had reservations about me in the beginning,” you say slowly. You recall how Yoongi didn’t say more than a few words to you in that first meeting; how he’d been so confident and snide and honestly, mean-spirited when he’d asked if you’d been expecting a kiss that night at the dorms, after he’d shown up so late; how he’d kept insinuating that he’d already had you under his thumb…

How perplexed he’d acted when he realized he hadn’t. How he’d stared at you, eyes dark and searching, when you’d spoken to Namjoon about poetry; when you’d had your interview; when you ditched the boys to hang out with Hana; when you’d ditched the concert to meet Michelle. 

“I think he was skeptical of me in the beginning. I think he expected me to fall all over him, and to immediately try to… to get something out of him. Out of the arrangement.”

Hana narrows her eyes. “Do you think he still thinks that?”

I think we’re both stubborn people—perhaps to a fault, his old words come back to you. And I think we’ve both had to prove other peoples’ assumptions about us wrong. Many times…

“No.” You say it, and realize in doing so that you believe it, too. “No, I don’t.”

You’re still scared. You still have questions for Yoongi, still have Kitae’s warning words ringing in your ears, still worry that maybe you’re reading into things far more than you should… but Hana’s right. If you want him to want you, then you gotta shine up your old brown shoes! You gotta put on a brand new shirt! You gotta push on the heavy door of Min Yoongi’s heart and see if he’s willing to swing it open for you. You hang up with Hana a few minutes later full of determination—determination that begins to wane as it nears four o’clock. You’re due at the venue soon.

By the time you’re climbing into the shuttle to head to the concert hall, you’re positively shvitzing. You chug a bottle of water, hoping to drown out the butterflies that might as well be dancing the fucking Kazotsky in your stomach. Then, your phone vibrates in your pocket.

[15:56]   Ha-na, na, na, na-na. Gettin’ jiggy wit’ it   You’re not gonna be f(.)(.)l. You’re gonna be c(.)(.)l, baby 😉

Her message is followed up immediately by a veritable flood of us-sies the two of you have taken over the years—only Hana’s done the lord’s work and cropped your faces, along with most of her body, out of them. Now, the photos are just of your tatas, in all their (questionable) glory.

[15:56]   Ha-na, na, na, na-na. Gettin’ jiggy wit’ it   Before you say anything, boobies are boobies. When the time comes to unleash them, you’ll know.

[15:57]   Ha-na, na, na, na-na. Gettin’ jiggy wit’ it   And he’ll like them.

[15:57]   Ha-na, na, na, na-na. Gettin’ jiggy wit’ it   Namely because they’re attached to you ♥️

Well. When she’s right, she’s right! you think, your conviction returning. Vendi vidi tiddie, as the saying goes. You send Hana a thumb’s up, wiping a tear from your eye as you do so, because honestly? She is such a good friend.

You stroll confidently into the venue with your Hybe ID on full display, resolved to boldly go where no woman has gone before—into the men’s private bathroom on the second floor to pee, because you drank too much water on the ride over, and both the women’s and gender neutral’s lines are absurd. Once that’s over with, you check your email and follow the tour manager Yuna’s directions backstage to what looks like a lounge area for the staff and crew. There are some large couches, a television, what looks like a craft services spread of various chips, fruits, and sad looking pastries, and—

Chung Ga-young, lounging in a pair of sweats alone on one of the couches, scrolling lazily through something on her phone. 

Well. If that doesn’t rock your shit right the fuck up! You stumble over yourself, feeling as though you’re being hunted. Distantly, you grow aware of Yoongi, Jimin, and Jungkook over in the far corner by the food. They’re dressed in their concert attire already, and seem to have already had their hair and make-up done. One of Diane’s girls—you recognize her from that cocktail party—is recording them with a video camera, probably for a Bangtan Bomb. Maybe you should go over there and interrupt the filming? After working hard all morning, you really could go for a charge—and that’s what you’re here for! To help the boys go over their English while you and Yoongi top-off your energy resources. You’re just about to stroll forward when Ga-young looks up, straight at you, and says in English:

“Oh, are you the new translator?”

You freeze. It makes no sense for your first instinct to be to flee the fucking country at being addressed by Ga-young—and yet. And yet! Mentally, you’re halfway to Majorca before you manage to take a grounding breath.

Snap out of it, you think to yourself. You know this heaux ain’t shit to Yoongi. You haven’t even seen her in person since that brief moment at Hybe all those weeks ago, and her eyes surely weren’t on you when you’d passed her in the hall!

“Uh,” you respond articulately. Due to Yoongi’s reassurance—and how hectic your past week has been—you haven’t really kept up with the Susu Gaga discourse online. Ga-young doesn’t look any worse for the wear, though—she’s just as glossy and fresh-faced as always—so maybe the netizens have moved on. Maybe some new, more substantive gossip has dropped, and the attention has shifted away from her and Yoongi. That’s probably it!

Hitching a smile onto your face that you hope doesn’t look strained, you make a private vow to yourself to be kind to poor Ga-youngie. If what Yoongi said was true—and you have no reason to doubt him—then the girl could really use a compassionate unnie. She’s misguided, right? That’s all. That’s forgivable!

But then Ga-young’s eyes narrow when she sees your gaze flit over to the boys and back again. She clears her throat.

“I wouldn’t bother if I was you.”

“Hm?” you say distractedly, watching with a little half-smile as Jimin and Jungkook try to goad Yoongi into doing one of his undulating-wiggle dances for the camera. Nerds.

Ga-young crooks her finger beckoningly to you. You lean in, ignoring the sick feeling blooming in your gut at her Cheshire-cat smile.

“Oppa is the hit em and quit em kind of man,” she whispers, shooting you a knowing look.

Oppa. You’re a 96-liner, and if you had to guess, Ga-young is probably around your age, if not a bit younger. Each member of BTS could presumably be her oppa—she could be talking about any of them.

But she isn’t. You know who she’s talking about. It was just all over the news!

You can feel your hackles rising as her sly eyes comb over your face. Your muscles tense, your heartbeat accelerating as a slow tide of panic rises within you—

But then Jungkook notices you.

“Noona!” he calls. “YN-noona, over here!”

You jerk back from Ga-young, pivoting to bow to both the boys and to the girl behind the camera in greeting. When you straighten, you make brief eye contact with Yoongi—his gaze flits between Ga-young on the couch and you, but reveals nothing.

“Ah, Yoongi-hyung has to go take English lessons, now,” Jimin says—for the camera’s benefit, you assume. Of course, your face will be blurred out anyway if this footage makes it to YouTube, but the statement makes it easy for Yoongi to nod in confirmation; for him to beckon you with a low “follow me” and lead you out of the common area. He doesn’t address you as you walk down wide corridor, past another busy room where you can make out Seokjin and Hoseok getting their makeup done while coordis steam clothing, down another side hall, and at last to… what looks, honestly, like a glorified coat closet. After looking swiftly over his shoulder, he bodies you inside.

“Yoongi?” you say questioningly. It’s a cramped space, and smells strongly of mothballs. When the door closes behind him, you’re bathed in a sickly lime glow from the single lightbulb hanging down from a cord, almost low enough to bash your head against. “I have a hard time believing this is the best tutoring space Sejin could secure for—oh!”

Yoongi interrupts you by grabbing hold of your arm. In one swift, decisive motion, he tugs into his hold, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder. You freeze for a moment, evaluating the situation; his breathing is not labored, exactly, but based on the slump of his shoulders and silence alone, you get the feeling that he’s tired. Very tired.

“Did you… are you okay?” you whisper.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your shoulder. You can feel his lips moving through the fabric of your shirt. “We filmed a V-Live and Hopeah—ah, he wasn’t thinking. He was reading some comments we got on V-live aloud, and one of them wondered why I hadn’t had any of the food prepared.”

You wince.

“This has happened too much already,” you say, frowning. “You haven’t even fully been off food for a month yet, Meeyooee.” No wonder he’s so needy. No wonder you’re in a closet. This is all wrong. 

“I’ll speak to Sejin,” he groans into your shoulder. “We’ll be more careful. It’s… the effects are not pleasant.”

“Hm.” You tighten your grip around his torso, stepping even closer. “We’re not supposed to be in here, are we?”

“Just ten minutes,” he whispers into your neck. “The other space we have set up isn’t private. I didn’t expect to need this charge.”

“Okay,” you say. You understand what he’s saying. You’re charging on borrowed time. This has to be efficient.

“In the future, you know you could text me,” you say. “Or tell someone if it’s that bad, so they can get in contact with me if you’re too busy. I’m not ever going to be too far.”

“I’ll talk to Sejin,” he repeats.

“Yeah, but—”

“Who are you, Jimin?” he mumbles, his tone taking on an almost warning-edge. “This won’t happen again. Okay? Trust me.”

“Yoongi, I’m just saying—”

“You don’t have to worry about it.”

Even through his exhaustion—even though he punctuates his statement by gripping you even tighter—you understand that he’s fed up with the conversation. Though you bristle a bit at the snub, you let him have this—it’s not like you’re going to get anywhere trying to push the point when he’s this tired and acting like a grumpy pisswizard. Instead, you channel your energy into trying not to shiver when, a minute later, he runs his hands—subconsciously, you tell yourself—up the back of your shirt.

“Is this okay?” he says, his voice almost a growl in your ear. It’s all you can do to jerk your head in the approximation of a nod, holding your breath as he spreads his fingers, as though trying to cover the largest surface area of your skin as possible while keeping his hands in frustratingly neutral territory—they don’t wander low enough to be suggestive. They don’t even drift to the side, which would put them in a position to wrap around the swell of your hips, and—

And nothing, you lecture yourself. After a few more minutes, Yoongi heaves a deep sigh, and releases you.

“Okay,” he says, skin glowing like the moon under the sodium light. “Let’s go learn English.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll exit first. Wait for me to knock before leaving too, just in case…”

You nod. “I understand.”

The knock comes immediately after he steps out—the hallway must be clear—and Yoongi leads you back the way you came, through the prior room (where Hoseok is just now finishing with his makeup) and into an adjoining chamber. Your eyes alight on crates of water bottles and towels stacked underneath a large, round table.

You follow his lead to the other side of the room, understanding why when he pulls out a chair for you and then promptly tangles his legs with yours once he sits down—to anyone walking in, you’re sitting a respectable distance from each other; they won’t be able to see your legs through the supplies underneath the table.

Once settled, you hesitate for a second, recalling your conversation with Hana—but the fire of conviction that had burned on your way to the venue has ebbed in the wake of Yoongi’s distress. You want so badly to relay what Ga-young had told you—but now’s not the time. Not when he has a mere half-hour to memorize saying “Is this really reality or is this a dream?” properly in English! You think he’s got it down by the time Taehyung traipses in, and requests to learn how to invite all the non-binary Army to make some noise, after he calls for cheers from the ladies and gentlemen.

Yoongi doesn’t leave the room or untangle himself from you while you shift your attention to Tae, but you feel the sudden, jarring loss of warmth like a punch to the gut when the door flies open and Adaline storms in, followed by two makeup unnies.

“Look alive, people! Benny’s here,” Adaline announces, striding right over to Yoongi and immediately fussing with his collar. He stands, keeping obediently still as she rakes a professional eye over his attire, then gives him an approving nod. The makeup unnies descend on him like hawks.

“Taehyung, get up, let’s see the damage,” Adaline commands. “You have twenty minutes for photos, and then we need you ready to go.”

You inch your way back into the main room, trying your best to avoid getting in anyone’s way. Yoongi had told you about how this kind of thing sometimes happened—celebrities dropping in backstage for photo-ops, sometimes with incredibly short notice. The name Benny rings a bell, though. You’re pretty sure the vocal line just dropped a collab with Snoop and a Benny—Benny Bronco? Benny Bongo? Either way, the man is like the embodiment of what a Slim Jim meat stick from a run-down gas station would look like if it became animate and put on a big, floofy wig.

A chorus of greetings erupts through the room, and then in strolls the meat stick man himself: Benny Blanco, you remember just in time. Yes, he looks like he smells like a plastic-encased tube of beef “product”, but hey! Nobody’s perfect! He’s gotta work it! From what Jimin’s said in passing, Benny’s talented, he’s friendly, he’s a fan of the boys—

—And then he’s standing right in front of you, far less greasy up-close than you imagined, and smelling nothing like cured gas station meats. Color you Jungshook!

“Hello,” he says. “Namjoon says you’re the translator?”

“Yup. I’m YN.” You introduce yourself, perplexed. Yoongi and Taehyung were still getting final touches done to their makeup, but the rest of the boys are filing into the room now, looking picture-perfect. Surely he should have greeted them before coming up to you? Did he not know annyeonghaseyo?

“Great,” Benny says, smiling widely at you. “Could you let V know it’s nice to finally meet him in person? And tell Suga I’m a huge fan.”

Dutifully, you translate Benny’s message to the members (and then pass on their returning gratitude for his support). Not knowing quite where to stand, you watch awkwardly as Benny waves goodbye, and Diane begins snapping photos of him and the band. The concert is going to begin sooner rather than later, but you realize you never actually asked Sejin where to go and where you’re supposed to sit. 

On cue, Benny approaches again.

“Namjoon says you’re watching the concert tonight, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? You look around, but Benny Boliviano’s eyes are trained on you.

“Yop.”

“Me too,” he says. “Come on, let’s go.”

You steal one last look at the boys as Benny confidently strides from the room—though the coordis and makeup artists are flocking around the members, Yoongi’s eyes still manage to find you through the chaos. He looks more alert than he did one hour ago, you note with relief.

“Good luck,” you call, prompting Jimin and Hoseok to shout out their thanks—but Yoongi’s expression remains unreadable as you follow Benny into the hall. You’re accompanied by someone who’s either Hybe staff or with Benny—you don’t know—but the man seems to know where he’s going as he escorts you into the stadium.

It’s packed. You’d been able to hear the noise backstage—and you’d known the concert was being held at a stadium in a major U.S. city—but even so, you’re unprepared for just how many people have actually shown up for BTS. You stumble for a moment, goggling at the sea of Army before you—and then Benny slides up right beside you, letting out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Holy sugartits,” he says. “You know, the boys invited me to perform Bad Decisions with them on-stage tomorrow night? I’m shitting balls right now.”

You can’t blame ol’ Benny Beluga. The atmosphere is lit. Now, when you imagine your Eomma at the concert with Daehyun and Soomin, you feel a tremble of pride. Had it been like this in Seoul, too? You’re hardly paying attention to Benny, who continues to chirp happily at you regardless of your silence. And then—the stadium goes dark and the screens light up and holy Benny-looks-like-he-smells-like-baloney. It’s starting. Wahooee! Here comes Meeyooee!

It’s hard to articulate the feelings that rocket through you when Yoongi first appears, the epitome of cool confidence as he smirks at the crowd. All you know is that you’re suddenly incredibly grateful that you didn’t end up attending the show in Seoul, because you’re not sure you would have been able to hold yourself back—you might have just thrown in the towel and taken a one way trip to the bone zone, without even waiting to hear Meeyooee’s take on the whole Susu Gaga conundrum.

Ah. Speaking of. Benny’s been drinking like a fish all night. The person who escorted you shows up to hand him a new solo cup of beer every twenty minutes like clockwork. Each time, Benny asks you whether you’d like a drink; each time, you’ve declined… until Ga-young shows up on stage and suddenly a beer doesn’t sound so bad.

And then another.

At Benny’s raised eyebrow, you smash your solo cup to the ground like Thor, before promptly picking it up because littering? As if!

“ANOTHER!”

And another. And then, after you’ve finished your fourth drink, Yoongi does this incredibly offensive hip swiveling thing during Telepathy that makes you want to flip over a table. And that’s followed by a smirk so confident it should be outlawed when he raps in your general direction.

It’s bad for your health.

Turning around to see the entire stadium awash in Army-bomb purple ain’t exactly great for it either. Nor is the realization that the only thing louder than the music is the sound of thousands of people chanting your soulmate’s name. The television screens pan over the crowd to show you dozens of women who’ve arrived at the stadium with signs that read YOONGI MARRY ME. Seconds later, your light in the dark, Hobi-wan, actually laughs and screams, “YOONGI MARRY ME!” when the members gather to give speeches. Like it’s some big, private joke everyone in the world is in on except you. Well, look who’s laughing now, girls? Ha. Ha HA!

“Fuck,” you mumble into your drink, brooding too hard to remember to be proud of Taehyung when his English speech goes off without a hitch. By this point, you are thinking to yourself one thing and one thing only, which is: what the heckie. One more drink on top of the other four you’ve guzzled back couldn’t hurt! You’re young, you’re relatively charged up, and you’re standing next to the Benny Beefalo. This is la vida loca, baybee! Hello world, it’s the youth you were told so much about! Who cares that Ga-young is twerking in booty-shorts and called Yoongi oppa and said he’s a hitter-and-quitter? Who gives a Bulgarian split squat that you’re surrounded by a horde of feral fans who would eat you alive if they knew you existed? Not you, that’s for dang certain!

Needless to say, you’re not in the soberest of mindsets by the time the concert concludes. Luckily, Benny manages to successfully escort you backstage again, where you are greeted with utter pandemonium. Different crew members sprint around with cords, hand-towels, water bottles, and clothing—the members are piled together on the couch you’d found Ga-young on earlier, speaking with Yuna, while the cheers and chatter of the crowd leaving the stadium rings in your ears, even back here.

Ah, corn nuts. Yoongi’s hair is all sweaty. The members look elated, the post-show adrenaline surely still thrumming through their veins, and you are staring at Yoongi, you’re staring, and then the man turns to look at you and he doesn’t even look away! No. No, instead he just smirks at you. Smirks—as if that’s allowed! Surely it isn’t. He can’t keep getting away with it. He so clearly gives less than zero fucks about what his behavior does to your palpitating heart.

Benny kisses your cheek and murmurs some sort of goodbye before beelining to Jimin, and then you are left standing alone, prepared to personally solve the California drought with the way Yoongi is still just looking at you, when Yuna takes pity on your poor, skanky soul.

“Did our translator get a bit sloshed?” she teases in high spirits, clearly pleased with how well the concert went. “Follow me, you can ride back to the hotel in my shuttle.”

You stumble after her, listening faithfully on the ride back as she speaks happily about how the crew’s hard work paid off, and how Taehyung’s ending ment is already trending on Twitter. She even congratulates you on a job well done for helping him with his speech. 

Somehow, you make your way back into your hotel room without incident, and manage to strip, shower, and slip into your nightclothes.

Then you’re left to wait. Left to think of what Ga-young said; to remember the energy of the crowd; to recall how utterly in his element Yoongi looked up on stage. You’ve never seen him so animated, so confident, so completely in control—

ENOUGH! You must keep busy. You must not surrender. Idle minds are the horny-gal’s workshop, and you can not afford to let your mind be overtaken by your stupid, needy clot! Wait, no. Your clit. Your stupid, needy clit.

Fuck you, Hana, you fugly slut! WE AIN’T DOING THIS TONIGHT.

You try reading, but the words are squiggles on the page. You log on to Twitter, but the Powers That Be (aka the dickladle of an FBI agent assigned to your phone, who probably controls your algorithms) are clearly out to get you, because your personalized feed is flooded with Bangtan-chatter.

So you brush your teeth twice. You change from one pajama set to another. You slather your favorite lotion all over your elbows as you settle into bed to watch a Kdrama on the hotel’s flatscreen, because if there’s one thing you’re not gonna do, it’s walk around with two crusty ass weenises on full display and—

You freeze in bed, staring at your lotion. This is your emotional support lotion. The same one you use every night before sleep. The one you brought over to the dorms back in Seoul when you first started spending the nights with Meeyooee and—

And it’s spicy vanilla flavored.

Which is the scent that Yoongi told Jimmy Kimmel was his favorite scent last night on TV.

Huh.

It’s been at least two hours since the concert ended, so you’ve sobered up a bit, but not entirely, which means you’re just sitting there, mind sluggishly trying to process what it just learned, when the door opens, and your soulmate steps inside. He’s changed out of his concert clothes, and looks like he showered at the venue, too—his hair is wet, his makeup scrubbed off, and thank fuck for that, because you don’t think you could physically handle a smokey eye right now on top of everything else.

“Hey—”

“Good!” you blurt out in greeting from where you’re hunched over like Gollum in bed, earnestly stroking your lubed-up elbows. Yoongi’s dark eyes are sparkling when they meet yours—it’s blatantly apparent that he’s still buzzing from his post-concert euphoria as he slips his shoes off at the door and saunters over. Instead of rooting around for his pajamas, or even climbing onto the bed to rest beside you, he crosses his arms and looks down on you. There’s something incredibly dominating about the gesture—you, curled up in your pajamas, and him, fully clothed, towering above your form.

“Good?” he parrots back, his tone teasing and wry.

“You!”

The edges of his lips curl up into a slow, almost mocking smile.

“Me?”

Oh god. You’re losing it. Them. Your precious marbles.

“Very! Yes.” Balls. You take a deep breath and try not to give into your sudden urge to self-immolate. “You guys were amazing tonight. Congratulations.”

“Ah.” He drops your gaze at that, eyes skirting over your body to land on the lotion. He’s more bashful in the face of direct praise, you know—often, he’ll choose not to address it at all; sometimes he’ll even shut it down—but the ghost of that smile is still on his face.

You decide to press it just this once.

“Seriously,” you say. "I think Benny and I blacked out when you guys started performing Cypher PT. 3.”

Yoongi hums, turning back to face you at that—but says nothing. A beat passes as his eyebrows knit slightly, seemingly considering something as he stares at you.

Then, without warning, he leans forward. His feet remain on the ground as he plants his hands on either side of your body, caging you in between his arms—have his forearms always been so veiny? They look so veiny!—on the bed.

“Yoongi?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer you. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t do anything but lean forward, painstakingly slowly, until his features blur from the proximity. He tilts his head, his nose millimeters from yours. For one, mad second, as your eyes lock, you think he’s going to do it. Kiss you.

Then he draws his head back just enough to come back into focus.

“You’re drunk,” he says simply.

What. The. Butt?

“A little,” you admit breathily, your frayed nerves leading you to babble. “Benny kept ordering more drinks for himself, and it felt rude after a while not to join him.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

Does he even realize how close his hands are to your weenises right now? Probably not, right? Briefly, you wonder what would happen his fingers travelled just three inches to either side—he could grip your elbow, and pull you up to him, and then—

“Do you feel sick?” he interrupts your thoughts, that unreadable expression back on his face. You blink several times, shaking off the daydream, and take a quick mental inventory.

“No.” You shake your head. The room shakes with it. “But even if I was, it wouldn’t have any effect on your charge,” you reassure him, remembering how ill he’d looked in the coat closet. “You’ll be fine to perform tomorrow.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Yoongi says dismissively. In the work of a moment, he’s back to standing tall with his arms crossed, looking down at you. So much looking! Who gave him the right? How dare he just… use his eyes!

“It doesn’t matter if I feel bad,” you push the point, because you’re unsure of what to say. Despite your lingering tipsiness, you sense that the energy between you has shifted. Something’s off. You’re feeling very flustered.

“I don’t want you to feel bad.” Yoongi tilts his chin up to set his sights on the ceiling, running a hand through his long, dark strands as he mulls over his thoughts privately.

“Were you trying to keep up with Benny?” he asks carefully, looking back down at you.

“What?” Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that. “No.”

He hums, lowly.

“I haven’t seen you drink this much except for that weekend when Hana visited,” he says. The words would sound accusatory on paper, you think, but his tone is neutral, and the look on his face doesn’t strike you as disproving or critical—it’s more penetrating, if anything. Like he thinks that if he just searches the planes of your face hard enough, he’ll be able to read the truth of your heart, as if it were etched onto your skin.

“You haven’t known me for very long,” you try to deflect.

“I know you.”

You shift uncomfortably on the bed.

“Is everything okay?” he asks suddenly. “Did Benny pressure you to drink, or try to—”

“What?” You interrupt him, neck snapping up in alarm. “Oh, god, no. He… I… it wasn’t anything like that. He didn’t care if I drank or not, that wasn’t honest of me to say. I just—”

Oh, bother. You need to get this chooch back on the tracks! You need to nip the assumptions Yoongi’s making in the bud before they blossom into something far worse than the situation calls for. Benny didn’t make you do anything. That’s not what—

“I spoke to Ga-young today,” you blurt out. Because you’re staring at him, you can see the journey his eyebrows make as they shoot up on his forehead before he regains control and schools his face into a mask of neutrality. “She talked to me in the lounge area,” you continue, feeling bashful. “Before our English session.”

You can tell Yoongi’s thinking through something very hard right now. He surveys you silently for a torturous minute, still as stone. And then—

“Move.”

You peek up at him through your lashes.

“What?”

He gestures for you to scoot over with his hands, but it still takes an embarrassingly long time for you to process his request. When you finally shuffle over a few inches, he wastes no time in climbing into bed beside you, spreading his legs out and resting his back against the headboard. You wait for him to wind his arm around your waist like he usually does. Instead, he plants his hand palm-up on his knee, and then levels a pointed look at you.

You take his hand, exhaling softly as the soulmate connection cuts through some of the lingering dizziness from your binge. When Meeyooee speaks again, his eyes are trained on your intertwined fingers.

“Did I miss something?” he says, his voice measured and low and careful. “Has she—has Ga-young been on your mind a lot lately?”

“Um. Maybe a normal amount.” You shrug. “I don’t know.” But you do know. You do.

Don’t lie to him, you think.

“I think about her sometimes.”

“You don’t need to,” he says immediately, glancing at you. There’s something soft but hesitant in his expression that you can’t quite parse. It gives you a strange, gut feeling—almost like the words he’s chosen carry some meaning beyond what you could take at face-value.

Your next words slip out of you without warning.

“She called you a hitter-and-quitter.”

You’ve never heard a silence so deafening. You don’t know what reaction you’d expected of him—a scoff, perhaps, or one of those querulous noises he makes from deep down in his throat when he has to acknowledge a statement, but deems the practice beneath him.

The look of knowing resignation that comes over his face, though?

Yeah.

You didn’t expect that.

“Ah,” he says, and this ah is distinct in its meaning. This is an ah of corroboration—an ah that gives credence to Ga-young’s statement. He shifts his body so that he’s angled toward you, and says your name softly.

“Hey.”

The noise you make in response sounds strangled.

“YN.” He waits. “Can you look at me?”

You can. You do. Yoongi’s eyes on yours are serious, but not guilty. He nods, as if he’s rehearsing what he wants to say and confirming with himself that he’s on the right track. It’s endearing. It’s a habit of his you’ve picked up on that not even most Army are privy to, you think.

Suddenly, you’re not sure you want to hear what he’s about to say.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you say. “It’s okay.”

Just when you feel like a listing boat, heeling into the deep, dark, sea, Yoongi’s fingers straighten you out again. The warmth surging between the two of you prevents you from spiraling—it anchors you to him. To the moment. As though he can read your mind—can read your needs—he takes his free hand and places it over yours, until your hand is sandwiched between both of his as he says, voice low:

“I want to.”

Oh.

Oh?

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Yoongi nods. He doesn’t ask again.

“I had a relationship with Suran,” he says bluntly. “Years ago, when we collaborated on her song.”

You suspected as much, and don’t even bother to nod. How this connects to Ga-young, you don’t know.

Ready or not, you’re about to find out.

“It ended poorly,” he says, licking his lips. “We were younger. This was earlier in our careers. BTS was gaining traction, and there was insecurity on both ends.”

“Insecurity?” you repeat.

“Jealousy,” Yoongi confirms. He gives himself another one of those private little nods. “We both made mistakes.”

You force yourself to ask what’s on your mind.

“Did you cheat on her?”

“No. She cheated on me,” he says bluntly, releasing a tiny, humorless huff of laughter at your low hiss. “It’s ok. It’s in the past, now. But for a few months in the aftermath…” He looks carefully at you, fingers tightening around yours. “I slept around. I was careless with some peoples’ feelings.”

“With Ga-young’s feelings?” you hedge, trying to ask what you want to know without really asking. It occurs to you in that moment that Yoongi never really answered your unfinished question—“So, you and Ga-young never—?”—back at the dorm. Not definitively.

“She tried it,” Yoongi says. “After her breakup.”

“Ah.”

“She and Kihyunie had just gotten together when Suran and I ended things. They were into the idol party scene back then.” Yoongi waits patiently for his words to perforate through the wrung-out cheesecloth that is your mind right now; waits for you to meet his eyes and nod before he continues. “They took me out with them when I was sad, so Ga-young was there to see me go through that phase.” He looks at you seriously. “Nothing happened between us, ever,” he offers without any prodding.

“But she wanted something to?”

“Not really,” he said. “I would never do that to my friend. She knows that.”

“But—?”

“There are no buts.” Yoongi shakes his head. “I’m not interested in her, and she’s not actually interested in me. Regardless, I’m past that phase. I haven’t sought out those sorts of bandaid solutions as a way of putting off dealing with uncomfortable feelings for a long time, now.”

You take a moment to process this—everything that your soulmate is electing to tell you of his own volition, while you two sit alone in this foreign bed thousands of miles from any home either of you has ever known. Your continued silence, however, spurs him to continue filling in the blanks. 

“YN,” he says. “I know what you thought of me when we first met.”

Likely due to your revelatory conversation with Hana that morning, his statement throws you.

“Do you?”

“I wasn’t…” At last, he pulls the hand resting over yours away, yanking it through his hair. “You weren’t wrong to be upset with me, or to criticize how I treated you. I was acting like any asshole celebrity. I know that.”

“Yeah,” you say. Because he’s right. He’d been a total wankhammer back then. “I’ve forgiven you. Learning that you have a soulmate is a big shock,” you say. “You already apologized. It’s understandable that—”

“No,” he cuts you off. His eyes are round and almost pleading as they meet yours. You trail off, unused to seeing this expression—one that would look much more at home on Tae, or even Jungkook, you think—on Yoongi’s face. It brings you up short. “Ah. I don’t like to say it aloud.”

“Say what aloud?” you ask.

Yoongi’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows around nothing, a strong indication that he’s nervous.

“Look.” Another swallow. “Being an idol… it means that you’re put in a position of power,” he says. It’s like getting that first sentence out unlocks something in him. When he meets your eyes again, you see only calm, steely resolve reflected in those dark depths. When he doesn’t continue speaking, you understand what he wants—what he needs—from you.

You nod. You give him permission to continue.

“I would be lying if I said there’s not a part of me that enjoys feeling powerful,” he says. Just like that. He’s good at that, you think. Owning up to having thoughts and feelings that others would hem and haw over—that others would deny—for hours. “When I’m on stage, I feel respected,” he continues. “I feel in control. Like I can do whatever I want, and be whoever I want, and be with whoever I want.”

The words aren’t pretty, but they’re honest.

“I see.”

“That’s just how it is.”

Straight. To the point. Again, you nod. Again, you consent to let him continue.

So he does.

“After Suran, I leaned into that side of idol life. I lost myself in it for a while. Or I submerged myself in it. That was my choice.”

He’s nodding to himself again, the movement subtle and almost imperceptible. You both wish and don’t wish that he would look at you, but his eyes are on your hands again.

“I made those choices,” he says, “but that’s not the kind of person I want to be. Other than Kihyun, none of the people I met during that time actually liked me for me. They liked the idea of what Suga of BTS could do for them.”

He looks at you. It’s better when he looks at you, you decide.

“That’s what Ga-young liked, too. It’s empty. I wasn’t happy.”

Ga-young. You’d entered the hotel room two hours ago back to square one—back to wondering if she was actually a threat to what you hoped to build with Yoongi—and now… now, you’re just sad.

Yoongi’s right—you can’t just forget how he’d treated you when you first came to the dorms. There hadbeen something mean about the way he’d interacted with you, then—like he was so sure he already knew everything there was to know about you, and your intentions, and had deemed them wanting.

Unbidden, an image of him pouting in his Genius Lab surfaces from the tide pool of your memories.

Army likes it when I tease them, he’d said flatly, staring broodily at his palms—to which you’d responded that you weren’t one of his fangirls. Is that why he’d acted like he had back then? Like he could, as he said, do whatever he wanted? Take whatever—and whoever—he wanted? Had he just been slipping into that role—leaning into that side of him he’s admitted exists—as a defense mechanism?

Joonie’s words from your conversation in the dorm room office echo back to you. If he’s to be believed—and you have no reason to doubt him—then the answer is yes.

We’ve all been used, Namjoon had said. It’s hard to forge genuine connections with new people when they see an idol first, and a person second…

You take in Yoongi’s profile; breath in his woodsy, sweet scent—a scent that’s become almost as familiar to you as your own, now. There’s something telling, you think, about how Yoongi’s gone about dealing with Ga-young’s drama. Perhaps he’s just a forgiving man by nature; or maybe each of the members are just so used to being used, they don’t even bother getting riled up over it anymore.

You don’t plan to say what you say next.

“Are you happy now?”

It’s a loaded question, you realize belatedly. He could choose to interpret it and answer it in so many different ways.

Yoongi’s thumb brushes an idle pattern over your palm.

“Why are you asking me?” he says with a short, almost dour laugh. “I wasn’t the one who had to uproot my life when we met. I didn’t have to change anything—my routine, or my job, or even my home base. You did. To be here with me.”

If Yoongi wasn’t Yoongi, you’d take his pause as a signal to begin speaking.

But Yoongi is Yoongi, and you know him now. He’s thinking hard; deliberating with himself over something.

So you wait.

Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, you sense his neck turning to you, causing you to look up from your entwined hands. His eyes—smoldering, intense—lock onto yours, and don’t look away.

A tremor shudders through you, your mind going blank as your heart squeezes in your chest. That one look is like a one-two sucker punch from your head to the heat nestled between your thighs. You’re incapable of thinking, of saying anything, of doing anything other than staring back at him, slack-jawed and useless.

Then his free hand flashes up without warning. His fingers lock around your jaw, his gaze hardening as his pupils expand, his dark gaze growing darker. The soulmate connection is electric; shocking. Sparks of heat flash through you.

“Yoongi?” you ask weakly, unable to find the will to jerk your head out of his clutch.

His eyes on yours are almost fully black.

“Tell me this what you want.”

Holy fuck. His voice is deep—rough like craggy rocks—and you watch as his dark eyes flick up and down the length of your body for a moment before settling again on your own. His gaze is unwavering as he growls out his next words.

“Come on.”

Your mouth opens a sliver from pure shock and something else you don’t want to name as his grip tightens around your jaw, one long, experienced finger trailing dangerously close to your lips. You don’t think it’s possible, but his voice lowers an octave.

“Princess.” His breath ghosts across your skin. His lips are so, so close to yours. When he speaks, you can almost taste the words as they roll off of his tongue. “Tell me you feel in control. Tell me you feel free to do what you want to do. That you still feel free to be who you want to be, even now.”

You make a sound that sounds dangerously close to a whimper, unable to form words. ‘Even now?’ What does he mean by that?

You nod.

“Your words, YN,” he says, his voice sounding strained. “I need your words.”

It doesn’t make sense, you think. With your jaw cupped in Meeyooee’s grip, and his words thrumming in your ears, a sense of calm control—of empowerment—steals through you as series of seemingly unconnected events slot into place in your mind.

You think of Yoongi’s pleased smirk when you complimented him on his performance—how he liked your praise, but didn’t begrudge you for prioritizing your own career over his concert in Seoul.

You think of how instead of forcing you to move into the dorm—as his life circumstances had forced you to move to a different country—he’d simply given you a key once he lost his ability to eat, and placed his health in your hands.

He’d expected you to be one way, and over time, you’d surprised him—but the truth is, you had preconceived notions of who he’d be before you got to know him, too. And he’d surprised you back.

Soulmate.

“I trust you,” you whisper. It’s not an answer to the question he asked. The longer the words hover in the air between you, the more you realize they don’t even really make sense in the context of your conversation. But the words seem to make sense to him—or at least, they appease him enough for him to release his hold on your jaw. The soulmate connection shatters, and you suck in a deep, desperate lungful of breath. There’s no point in hiding how rattled he’s made you. Dressed though you are in an oversized shirt and pajama pants, you feel more exposed than ever.

“Yoongi,” you say, the words coming out a little slurred; a little strangled. His mouth twitches, before twisting into a small smile, his eyes gentle and soft on yours now. The emotional whiplash is a lot to sort through. You slump over, abruptly exhausted.

Yoongi makes a low noise, shifting beside you.

“It’s been a big day,” he says at last. “And you’re still drunk. You should go to sleep.”

You can’t even muster up the energy to respond. You nod mutely, blinking groggily at him as he rises from the bed, heading over to root around for something in his luggage.

“Sleep,” he commands you, disappearing into the bathroom.

You intend to turn off the lamp. You intend to wait for him to crawl into bed with you. But sometime between forming those intentions and hearing Yoongi close the bathroom door, your body takes over.

You’re asleep by the time he comes out again.

A/N II: Let it be known! I have absolutely nothing against our talented boy Benny Bahama, even if I do honest to god feel like him and Charlie both look like they carry an aroma of cured mystery meats! SORRY! SO SORRY!

A/N III: My fic, my rules, which means the setlist includes whichever songs I FEEL like including, and my soul just wanted YN to see Yoongi rap in Cypher Pt. III. PLS.