Problem | Myg

problem | myg

pairing: min yoongi x darksided!reader summary: yoongi’s got a problem, and she’s dressed like elvira hancock. type: drabble, suggestive fluff (?) au: darksided; halloween; established relationship rating: 18+ (minors do not have my consent to interact) word count: 1k cw: yoongi’s on his tony montana, more money/more problem shit shit; afab!reader dressed as female character (elvira hancock); no smut but definitely suggestive thoughts/statements; kissin’, gropin’, nibblin’. a/n: happy halloween! i didn’t plan this, lmao. this is partly to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the darksided series. you don’t need to have read the series to read this drabble, but context is fun 😌

For the past eight years, Halloween has been spent on the couch, eating candy straight out of a party-sized bag and watching movies. A low-key holiday for low-key people, both of whom prefer going to bed at a reasonable hour over getting stupid into the wee hours of the morning. 

It’s been your favorite holiday for the better part of a decade for that reason — the lack of pressure and commotion, as well as the guarantee of quality time spent in the comfort of sweatpants. It’s nice, doing fuck all with the person you love doing nothing and everything with. Nobody has ever caught you complaining; and they never will.

This year, to your shock and awe, Yoongi bucked your expectations for the millionth consecutive time. Not only did he RSVP “yes” to a Halloween party, he decided that you would both attend in costume.

Apparently, one of the multitudes he contains kind of likes the idea of coordinating outfits with you.

You damn near fell over when he brought his idea to you in the first place; but now that he’s kneeling in front of you, dressed in a white suit and a torturously unbuttoned red button-up, you’re struggling to stay upright for an entirely different reason.

“Left foot,” he murmurs, gesturing to one of the legs you have dangling off the edge of the bed.

You oblige, resting your bare foot on his thigh. Silently, you watch while he slips your heel onto your foot, lips pursed in concentration as he deals with the tiny buckle on the ankle strap.

It shouldn’t fuck you up to see his fingers moving deftly, doing something this mundane, but it does. 

Makes you want to blow off this party and spend the night with those hands instead.

God. 

Those hands.

Their gentle grip on your ankle, the glint of his rings in the lamplight, the slender length of —

“Jagiya.”

Yoongi is smiling slightly when his words nudge you back to reality with a jolt. If that smirk tells you anything, it’s that he’s called out to you at least once before. All you do is squeak in response; your brain is a bit too scrambled to think of better.

And he knows it, too.

Bastard.

Slowly, he shifts your heel off his thigh. To emphasize his instruction, he taps your right ankle lightly. “Right foot, jagi.” 

You’re boneless but acquiesce, nonetheless. 

Then, he has the audacity to say, “Good girl,” with his fingertips brushing softly over your bare skin, and you may as well black the fuck out. No part of the moments that follow registers in your mind; you may as well have lost it.

When Yoongi demands your attention the second time, he doesn’t bother with pet names. He leans slightly forward to where the high slit of your dress leaves a knee exposed, presses a kiss to the piece of you on display, and keeps his lips there just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“All set,” he says innocently, as if there’s anything angelic about the way he’s looking at you.

Dark eyes match the dark hair he’s pushed back off his forehead, and there’s a wickedness to them that you’ve never successfully ignored — not once in eight years.

“Ready to go?”

You make some unintelligible noise in response that you can’t parse yourself. Just like always, Yoongi manages to find the meaning you’re unable to locate; and he pushes himself to his feet. Two hands extend to help you do the same, and — just like always — you take them, no hesitation.

When you stand on unsteady legs, teal silk slips down the length of you and falls back into place with a flourish, fanning out at your ankles. Yoongi pauses, drinks in the sight of you like he’s drowning. He hums appreciatively to himself before reaching up to brush synthetic, blonde hair off your cheek.

“We’re running late,” he eventually notes. 

Neither of you makes a single move towards the door. It’s only his arm that moves, hand dropping from your face to skim over the fabric covering your waist, hugging the curve of it. You shiver, although it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the way your dress is cut.

“Michelle Pfeiffer’s got nothing on you.”

You swallow hard, going tense all over.

An hour passes in a second.

“Have I told you that I love this dress?”

You’re crawling out of your skin, vibrating on a frequency only Yoongi can hear. Fuck this dress, fuck this party, fuck me. Even though you don’t verbalize any of it, you know that he knows.

His eyes flick down your frame like he’s weighing what he wants against what he’s obligated to. Like he’s starving, and he’s searching for permission to sate his appetite.

There’s no weight to your voice when you say, “So, take it off,” but it hits him heavy. You feel the force of it when his hands grip your ass and pull you close. Chest to chest, it’s present in your heartbeat, too; thudding violently with anticipation.

He repeats himself, voice low, “We’re running late.”

But his actions tell you that he doesn’t give a shit about the clock. His mouth finds the skin beneath your jaw, and the heat of his breath warms your neck in the seconds before his lips do. At first, it’s just a kiss. 

Then, it’s a whisper.

“Really late.”

Then, it’s the faint graze of his teeth when he nips at you, followed by the flick of his tongue, eager to soothe the sting.

“We can be later,” he muses on an exhale, as if either of you needs to be convinced. His grip on your ass tightens just enough to pull a whimper out of you. “What do you think, Elvira?”

Your brain has liquified with the rest of you, but you summon the strength to run your fingertips along the edges of his lapel. “Tony,” you start with a sigh.

“Hmm?” He hums, mouth too busy to form words.

You grip those lapels and push him slightly backwards, interrupting his ministrations in order to look him dead in the eyes. Loving the challenge, he smirks back at you with one eyebrow arched expectantly.

“One of us’ll die if you don’t kiss me for real, and it won’t necessarily be me.”

Just like always, Yoongi only needs to be told once.

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