THIS MADE ME MISS THEM EVEN MORE BRING BACK MY FAMILY

THIS MADE ME MISS THEM EVEN MORE BRING BACK MY FAMILY‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

MY HEART WAS SO WARM WHEN I WROTE THAT SCENE 🥹

i could picture them so perfectly like that

that’s our family 😣

JIMIN Black Swan (200301)

Dang, I feel a major dry spell because I’m not used to you being gone for this long !!! Are you ok?

AWWW BABY I'M HERE:(

i wasn't okay, but i'm feeling much better today.

i love you!:(

let me know what you think! 💨💨💨 *farts*

SMOKE, ii. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. bangtan)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 9.6k

summary: everything that begins prolongs and deepens. 

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

warnings: hobi is drunk, oc gets triggered and dissociates, throwing up, ptsd, covid and the pandemic, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, thigh humping, social anxiety.

note: so happy to bring part two of the smoke series to my babies. you were all looking forward to it so sm that i worked hard to give this to you. it's longer than the first part and from oc's pov. this might have just become my fav series ever. idk why, it just feels different. more profound. please, enjoy reading and let me know what you think. i want to hear your thoughts. <3

He walks as if he’s immersed in a prayer.

With his hands sunk in the pockets of his sweatpants and his head dipped low, the gray strands of his hair, which compliment resplendently his monochrome tracksuit, shade his eyes with more charcoal that one finds in his absent eyes. It’s the first thing I noticed about him—the way he seems to be so out of touch with reality, how deep he’s fallen through the cracks and the way he’s not one bit bothered by it. 

Even the cloud that is suspended over his head is as gray as him. Hefty and sodden with the world’s rain and burdens that he broods over as he paces, unhurriedly. The room is jam-packed, filled with multitudes of people that make my skin crawl, but the way he appears to be pretending that he’s alone in the great spaciousness of the area is… uplifting. 

I wish I could do the same. 

But when I’m forced to be among souls that have more life than mine, I tend to overexert my non-existent social skills. Usually, it comes out in the form of my silent smile. Or, if the day is going well, I laugh and nod my head. Wait for the other person to continue talking so I’m no longer smothered in the awkwardness of the sudden airiness of wordlessness. And strangely, it works. 

And I know why. 

I’ve noticed people love to be listened to. To be fully conscious of the fact that the sentences they are uttering are being taken in, thought about and validated, either by that smile and that nod or by your own expansion on the matter. The latter is something I’ve more often than not had a problem with as I was born laconic. 

I didn’t speak as a kid until very later on. Didn’t have many friends growing up—and my parents seldom talked to me, as young as they were. It was their first life; kids having a kid and they didn’t know what to do. It may be a psychological block, my tendency to listen rather than speak and engage in a conversation, but it’s not something I blame my parents for. It’s something I’m grateful to them in my heart for. 

Had they been perfect and had I been perfect owing to that, I wouldn’t have the oneiric, yet earthy girlhood that created in me the confidence that is a sturdy mountain in me, unable to shatter or crumble. Being by myself, being in my head for the entire trajectory of my life nurtured its smoothness and strength. I’m not embarrassed that I’m unable to do something that is considered normal and perhaps… necessary in society. On the contrary, I take pride in it and I protect it. 

And my dignity in me is as unchangeable, assertive and secure as the day fading into twilight, greeting me, beckoning me out. 

It’s the only person—headless, mouthless, lungless—that doesn’t ask for words from me. When it takes me by the hand and drags me into its hues of pinks and blues, he doesn’t do it to expect something from me in return. The twilight does it just because. Just so I can breathe and refill my energy, my aloneness. Just so I can be knotted, devotedly, with my thoughts, dwell in them—dwell in my day and its ceaseless, eccentric events—without being under the obligation to share them with him or with anyone else. 

I like walks. I like my own walks in the tiny forest behind my apartment that pervade with the dreamy meanings of life stories, often more of other people’s than mine. Where I don’t meet anyone or try to match my steps to theirs. I could never even imagine turning off my brain and my life, in front of groups of nearly twenty people. 

But he’s done it and I can’t stop watching him. 

Whenever I’m forced to sit in someone’s company, I engage with my attention. He doesn’t—and it’s so stirring. 

Encouraging in the way it swirls my emotions because it incites me, almost, to get up on my feet and copy him, though somewhere far off, where no one would see me, so I’d get the hang of it first before I’d have the courage to do it in his fashion. 

My stomach grumbles and I don’t know why the question of whether he’s eaten at all joins my contemplation before I think about Jungkook first or before I even talk myself into taking the action to get something to eat. As if he somehow hears my body and mind, he stops in his walk all of a sudden and grasps the bottle of Hennessy that he set down on the table, by which he previously sat when I came in and our eyes locked so deeply that it took my breath away. 

I never thought I’d ever experience something like that. All my lonely girlhood, I read about it without ever expecting it to happen to me, nor longing for it. And it’s safe to say that none of them described it right. 

It’s not tender and dream-like. 

It’s a vacuum. A time-pulling force that sucks out your heart and leaves it hanging on the tip of your tongue for the other person to see. 

And I hope Yoongi didn’t see it. 

Because he wouldn’t see a flushed, unwrinkled and polished heart. 

He would see a bruise. 

A dotted, heavily breathing flesh speckled with unsightly yellows, reds and greens. A Vincent Van Gogh’s ‘The Night Café’ painting that is openly considered as ugly by even uglier society. 

An inanimate object. 

A gun—because whatever the eyes of society view as ugly or unright is a weapon against it. 

Yellow for my hostile solitariness. Red for my distrust towards the majority of men. Green for the streak of my hair that Jungkook dyed because he desired it to be a symbol of our special connection; for Grookey and my connection to him. 

His former struggle to fit in. 

A trauma response, painted by Japanese hands into a form of a chunky monkey monster that I’ve grown naturally attached to—because how could I not when something I struggled with a lot in my childhood was put out there in the world so beautifully and gave me the hope I needed that I will fit in with, that people will accept me the way I am. 

And the hope burst in my reality, in its own time. 

All those colors, that make the painting that my heart is, are a gun for Yoongi, too. That is if I ever let him in. 

It’s better if I keep it safe and hang around Jungkook like a kitten, keeping Yoongi’s safe in the process. Something that I never knew lived in me awakens from its slumber when I’m in his proximity, whenever our eyes lock in that depth and I don’t want it. I’d rather reject it and forget that it’s in me than provoke it to animatedness and get myself hurt in the end. Get him hurt. 

Falling in love never has a positive result in my life and the only relationship I had—if I can even call it that—devastated me to the point that I can’t even look in the eyes of a man I find attractive. 

Which is why I looked away, immediately, when our gaze deepened, because I knew that if I prolonged it for only two seconds more, my body would whisper to me that it’s inevitable and I’d believe it, succumb to it and beat at my heart until it stops feeling altogether. 

Which is why I look away now, when Yoongi senses my staring and swivels his head in my direction. I pray, like him, that he didn’t see the movement of my neck twisting quickly to pay attention to whatever Jungkook’s saying next to me. And I flatten my lips when my curiosity about the contexts of his meditation seizes me, the weight of his gaze only strengthening it, silencing Jungkook’s voice like I silence my body in a worthless fight.

I crawl into myself, spellbound, where a picture of him grows in size. A house where I can walk and contemplate without being seen or noticed, and there I ponder. 

A faint image of him rapping his lines flashes across the walls as if it was screened through a projector and I wonder if he was so preoccupied in his thoughts because of that. Jungkook told me it was their first performance in quite a while. 

But my own take me elsewhere. My gut tells me it was something else and the image disappears into the white of the surface until only his lidded eyes remain and they gaze right back at me. 

It’s like my consciousness is taunting me and it’s too much for me. I don’t feel my legs when I get up and take a walk. 

I exit out of the house. 

And I stride into the hall. 

My heavy eyes, beguiled by my drowsiness, follow the pictures of Korean idols and western singers along the walls. For some reason, whatever it is in me, that has more energy than my body, searches for Yoongi’s eyes, but none of them are so lidded, so in tune with suaveness and geniality of his art, powdered in pinks and purples due to the love he carries in his heart for his fans. I must be looking wrong, or looking in the wrong direction, because it’s nonsensical that I can’t find a group this successful in this venue. They bring glory to this country—and I think only their faces should grace these bland walls and bring more light into this hall. 

When I reach the end, I don’t find Yoongi.  

I find Hobi. 

So terribly low-spirited and pensive that my heart shifts in my chest. He sits on the ground with his knees pulled to his chin, his arms wrapped around them. He must’ve been watching me this whole time because when I meet his glossy eyes, he smiles, weakly, up at me. 

Doesn’t ask me to sit. I do it on my own—out of an obligation that is pressing down on me, for turning around and walking away would be too awkward and I don’t want to deal with any stingy feelings of embarrassment that I know would haunt me later in bed. 

I mirror his position, but I don’t lean against the wall. 

I face him. Him and his delicate, easy on the eye countenance. 

My bare toes nearly touch the side of his sneakers and it’s only now that I become aware of how cold the ground is. I shiver, eyeing his black furry jacket and the heads of his group members peeking out of the V of the zipper lining. Taehyung, hilariously, right in the middle and Jungkook, handsome and serious in his all black suit. 

No Yoongi. 

Hobi takes off his cap, placing it somewhere beside him beyond my sight, sighing distinctively, his stare fixed on a spot in front of him. It breaks when I prop my chin on the tops of my knees, something vague swimming, dazedly, across the enamel of his irises. 

He can be a doll, with looks like that. 

“Were you looking for someone there?” he croaks out, softly, clearing his throat, running a hand through his short, brown hair. His presence and the subduedness of his tone diminishes the pressure weighing down on me and I let out a muted breath of relief, my muscles relaxing. 

When I first beheld him, I thought he was the most beautiful boy I was ever blessed to witness. The fact that it seems I don’t have to force anything or fulfill any obligations is a lambent light my soul gravitates towards, fluttering and basking in the warmth and repose it offers to it. He gives me the hope that I could sit by him in complete, comfortable silence and he wouldn’t mind—he would appreciate it, not eager to change it. And for a brief second, before I answer his question, I muse on the pleasantness of gaining something you never expected—how precious it is and momentous. 

It gives hope to life; meaning, beauty and gentleness, too.

“I was,” I say, and there’s no ounce of lie in my agreement, even though I won’t tell him who I was searching for.

Not even Jungkook. It’s my private sentiment. Something to keep me company from now on before I go to sleep. 

And it’s safe in my mind, not so much in real life. 

“It’s so sad we had to do it online, but it’s the only thing we could do, the only thing we could give them,” he sniffles, lets me see the thick lines of tears that flood the corners of his eyes, and my heart rotates, my emotions in tandem with it. He would give his fans everything if he could, including himself. The awareness of that downturns my mouth into a pout, feeling his pain with him. “I wrote them a message. I told them I loved them, but it still doesn’t feel enough, you know?” 

Hobi sucks in a breath and hides his face in his palm and it’s not my mind’s command that lifts my hand and places it on his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly. It’s my heart’s, which splashes in the comfort zone Hobi created. 

And my heart, most peculiarly, opens my mouth and speaks. 

“They’re grateful that it was online. Everyone got to watch, that’s what’s important, isn’t it?” 

Hobi kneads his eyes, catching his tears before they could fall, dropping his hands. And when he sighs, deeply, I smell alcohol on his breath. Poor him, the wretched liquid most likely paints a more melodramatic, emotionally-charged picture in his brain, blurring the true face of reality. And if he’s anything like his members, he also hasn’t eaten, which allowed the liquor to cause havoc in his system. 

But then, a panic flickers in me—a distant memory of what alcohol did to a certain past person in my life poisoning my mouth enough that I can’t swallow, a lump forming in my throat. The comfort goes sour and red lights flash in my nerve endings, my need to detach and isolate myself and get my body into a realm of safety ringing, deafeningly, in my ears. 

My breath hitches and I pull my hand away from Hobi’s shoulder, my distrust reappearing, my knees shaking as I turn them in the other direction. My toes are icy cold and I flex them, trying to bring back some warmth, but alas—the iciness drags itself up my legs and my emotions glissade to a state of numbness, a thick mist of vague grayness obscuring my vision and my lungs tighten. I can’t breathe, I can’t feel my tongue, I can’t move my arms as painful tingles keep it in place around my stomach and—

A whistle. A raspy voice that calls out Hobi’s name. 

And its repetition fades out, melts into the static that I hear. 

And then hands. Soft hands that are fire itself, that stop my tingling. Delicate hands that pull me to my feet and take me somewhere. 

A splash of cold water on my face. I gasp, my lungs heaving, my throat hoarse as if I was screaming. My hair sticks to my cheeks and then doesn’t, pushed over the crown of my head, tightly. Droplets run down the nape of my neck; my length clutched in a fist that’s not mine. Then, down my spine, soaking the back of my dress at my loins and I am flung into present times, the image of reality unfolding before me, the static tapering off. 

Fluorescent lights that ache. Whiteness of tiles. Lidded eyes that used to be small but now are gaping and worried. 

It’s not Jungkook. 

It’s Yoongi. 

My stomach jumps, my gag reflex triggered and I bend at the waist, clasping a hand over my mouth to stifle my vomit. But that delicate fist moves it away and my trauma spills out of me into the sink, where I am pushed towards. 

My abdominal muscles clench and clench. Cold water trickles down my back, helping me awaken until I’m conscious of what is happening. The more my pain exits out of me, the more it dawns on me. 

Jungkook isn’t here, an observer to my agony. 

Yoongi is here, a participant that snagged me out of it. 

A stranger that has come to know me, the entirety of me, and holds my hair as I empty it out. 

Jungkook can’t know about this. He can’t know it’s happening again. I told him I healed from it, that it’s not haunting me again. Enough time has passed from my past relationship and I promised him that it wasn’t bad anymore. 

But it came back to me in the forced quarantine and I don’t know why. 

Yoongi washes my mouth once he sees I don’t retch my guts out anymore, heaving over the sink. And the gesture makes tears burn in the back of my eyes, burn like the heat of his hands. 

My legs wobble, give out on me and I fall. 

Not just onto the ground. 

I fall for him, unable to stop it. 

No one has washed my soiled mouth before. Not even Jungkook when I vomited in his toilet after we spent the night drinking at his place and I mixed my usual wine with a taste of whiskey that my ex-boyfriend used to love because I wanted to feel him after the breakup. 

Jungkook didn’t even hold my hair back. He gave me his frog headband from one of the episodes he shot with his members and I laughed at the lip of his toilet. And when I felt better and Jungkook tore open a new package of toothbrushes, he played that episode for me. Saved me, essentially, because I laughed so hard that I forgot about Ji-hoon and I fell asleep with a weightless heart. 

I’d watch it all throughout the quarantine every time it would come back to me. My realm of safety. 

Yoongi has saved me, too, similarly, yet differently. 

And I look at him as my heart thumps in my chest, tell him through the open windows of my eyes what he’s done for me. And when my chin wobbles, something in his softened expression breaks. Along with it, my fear of him splits and withers, leaving me bare and vulnerable. 

I feared him because of that unnamed thing in me that began to long for him when he wouldn’t even give me a tendril of his attention. I feared him because of his aloofness, out of which wildflowers bloomed once his members left and he talked to me for the first time and I detected the exact same flowers growing long and strong along the ivory of my bones. My mouth smiled, even though I didn’t want it to, and my body reacted to him, to his sudden care when he ordered the staff to wait with me for Min-ji to come and get me. I became feverish, boiling hot, even, once he looked back at me and wished me happy birthday. And then rapped his heart’s tenderness and wretchedness on the stage. 

I feared him because I knew I’d be his, eventually. And it wouldn’t matter if he’d never be mine. 

The Yoongi I profoundly remember wearing a bulby teddy bear headband in that episode, which has become my coping mechanism. The same Yoongi that held my hair while I puked, washed my mouth and now holds me steady on my feet by gripping my shoulders. 

And the process begins. 

He sucks me into him, taking me—and I am slowly but surely becoming his. 

But I don’t feel my stomach springing again. Neither do I feel a certain fear or panic quickening in me. 

I feel relief. I feel solace. I feel as though I’m being lulled to sleep—as if he sat by my bed and read me a bedtime story, in a soft yellow light that doesn’t hurt the eyes while the moonlight watches and dreams. 

None of us speaks. We peer into each other’s irises and I am spellbound. A garden that he locks up for the night, so no one comes in to vandalize it, when he curls a strayed, wet wisp of my hair behind my ear. His own hair is shading his eyes once again, but his eyes aren’t absent this time. 

They’re present, intentional, and full of gentleness that I’ve never known from a man. 

I sob. 

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” Yoongi whispers, and the secrecy in his tone gives me the private, sentimental notion that this is just between us—something that only he got to see and no one else will because he won’t let it. Gratefulness swathes my warm heart, pats lovingly my process of me becoming his, advancing it. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me. Did he do something?” 

I take a difficult breath in. I should feel pressured to respond, my obligations descending upon my head, but I don’t. I take my time because I know he’ll want to know the cause of my dissociation and I’m not too sure if I’m capable of sharing that with him. The block is a rising pool of water and I can’t swim. 

But then he tips my chin, the pad of his thumb in the center while his index keeps my head afloat. I feel myself being lifted into highs I’ve never got to see before, even though my toes stay on the tiles. And it’s all due to his touch. I can only let out little shivering breaths through my mouth, my tongue tied, my brows rounded. He reads it in my face, that something is wrong, but I don’t want to put the blame on Hobi; I don’t want him to think he hurt me. He didn’t do anything—it was me. 

All me. 

“Please,” he begs, the sound a mere hushed noise that travels through me and breaks me. “Don’t be afraid of me.” 

His words change everything. The beginning of the night and its end, too. 

And they change me. 

My distrust towards men roots from my fear of them and hearing Yoongi beg me, out of the generosity of his heart, to not be afraid of him punctures a hole through my reclusive bubble, where only Jungkook is permitted to enter. Yoongi’s light shines through, a streak of newness and calmness enveloping the bubble in an opalescent glow, thick with smokiness, wispy and cloud-like as if he brought heaven itself into my life. 

And I inhale that smoke, filled with soft tones of the rainbow, becoming it. 

And all those colors bring words to the tip of my tongue. 

“He didn’t do anything,” I whisper, and Yoongi flinches at my sudden response, his eyes deepening on mine. I soften at his reaction due to the simple fact that I’ve always been the one who flinched. It invites me to not stop there, like I normally would, but speak more. Scream at the top of my lungs. “That’s just who I am.” 

His mouth parts and he sucks in a tiny breath, taken aback. A light of the same size flickers in his eyes for a split second and his thumb caresses my chin just once. 

And I don’t stop there, either. It’s me who begs this time. 

“Don’t tell Jungkook, please.” 

And I gaze into a mirror of me when my plea floods his eyes with wetness and redness rushes to the surface of his cheeks. A layer of sweat glistens under the shade of his hair on his forehead and I catch a structure of sadness permanently coming to live in his features. The corners of his mouth round downwards and his eyes return to that smallness I met them in. 

He takes his hands off of me and nods. 

I mourn them. I mourn his touch. 

“I won’t tell him,” he promises, still in that hushed tone. Relieved, I place my hands on my arms, where his have been to replace them, but it doesn’t feel the same. A yearning forms in me—for his hands, for his gentle touch that doesn’t have the traces of roughness that Ji-hoon’s did, and I wonder what waters I have to wade through in order to get it back. I find myself determined to do the unthinkable in order to sense the warm delicacy of that altar. “Do you want to go home?”  

I want him to touch me at home with no one else around. 

“Can you take me home?” I ask and it’s the bravest thing that ever came out of me. And the same stupefaction that I sense on my face stirs his features, zapping my stomach with electricity.

He holds out his hand. “Come.” 

Every muscle in my body spasms and I do. 

I take what he offers and, oddly, I don’t let go of it. 

It doesn’t hit me what walls have been broken down in me until Yoongi places his red Jordans in front of my bare feet, white Nike socks into my hand and misunderstands my momentary shock for something else I’m too overwhelmed to decipher. He kneels before me and I hiccup at the sight, my cheeks blazing hot as he slides his warm palm down my ankle, prompting me silently to lift my foot.

And inwardly, inertly, I celebrate his touch—my body marred with gooseflesh. 

He’s taken me to his dressing room. At first I thought he was changing out of his clothes or grabbing some necessary things he needed in order to get out of this place, but he only snatched his phone from his vanity and went, without a second thought, to his—I assumed—work closet to fetch out his shoes. 

For me. 

The same red Jordans he wore in the episode, the color of my cheeks. 

My heart palpitates once he sets my foot on his knee and, wordlessly, plucks his socks from my hand. Unraveling them and bunching one as if he was putting them on a child, he slides my foot in it, raising the waistband as high as it can go before letting it snap and patting it to signal to me that he wants me to switch to the other one, where he does the same thing. Then, he guides them into his big sneakers, holding the tongue back for me. 

The size of my foot barely covers half of the shoe. 

I laugh, softly, through my nose. 

“They’re huge,” I comment, still on whispering terms, and Yoongi smiles up at me, lopsidedly, screwing up the rhythm of my heartbeat. 

“I’ll lace them up for you,” he whispers back, and my muscles spasm again. I believe it will be a regular occurrence throughout the rest of the night. 

This would be the time my panic would set in and send out a message to my body to start running, giving me the vigor to do so. But I remain on my spot and what’s more—I smile back, without him seeing because his hands nimbly and tightly make a pretty bow on his sneakers, making sure my heels don’t slip out of them. 

I must be dreaming. This can’t be real. 

I’m in my bed, settled in a deep slumber, where a dream that’s too good to be true is manipulating my mind because there’s no way that a guy, well one of them, that used to be my comfort for such long months is on his knees for me, having broken down my walls so quickly and painlessly that I didn’t even take a moment to notice them crumbled and decaying at the bottom of me. 

I didn’t go anywhere. Not to any concert, not certainly with my only best friend in the world. 

I’m going to wake up soon and lament this dream, ponder my loneliness and go on with the rest of my day, living in this dream for some brief time before my body eventually forgets. 

It’s happened before. It’s the face of my life. 

I have no problem with it. It’s my fate. 

“Your outfit looks way better with those shoes on,” Yoongi says, his attention fixed on my feet and I follow his gaze, extending my leg out of the slit of my dress and eyeing my long socks and the Jordans that go well with it, giving it a more casual look. 

I wish I had a matching red purse. 

Which reminds me that I left everything in the lounge room. 

I wipe my palms down my dress, feverish. “I like it.” 

I meet his face and blush, find him already smiling at me and I grin. A glint illuminates his dark pools, which makes me break the eye contact and play with my fingers—something I do to avert my mind from my shyness, but his stare is so potent that it magnetically lifts my eyes to interlock our gazes while my chin remains dipped. 

And it’s him, this time, who resists. 

He chuckles, awkwardly, and I bite my lip. 

He tilts his head towards the exit and I follow him out. In the hall, he looks back at me, similarly like he did before he went on stage, and adrenaline rushes through my nerve endings. A particular obsession, that I know that I will think about a lot once I wake up from this dream, with it perches on the top of my heart like a little, gossamer bird, gray like his hair, beginning to tweet its subtle, but ethereal song. 

“Can you walk okay?” he asks, and I’m so bowled over that I can only nod, flexing my warm toes at last in the spaciousness of the sneakers. 

Who would’ve thought that the guy who barely gave me the time of the day would, ultimately, borrow me his shoes and ask me if I’m able to walk in them. 

To say this is a crazy dream would be an understatement. 

Yoongi clasps the closed side of the double doors to the lounge room and casts me a glance. “Wait here.” 

I scrunch up my brows in confusion. I thought we’re saying goodbye to the rest of the members? 

I dip my head inside. The boys are each preoccupied with something else. Jungkook is downing shots with Taehyung at the table. Jin is having a heated conversation over the phone, pacing the room like Yoongi did and shushing Jimin when he laughs a little too hard with Hobi resting his head on his lap, still as devastated as he was. They’re sprawled on the ground with their backs against the alcohol station—Jimin drinking another tall glass of his mojito. And Namjoon… he is sat alone on the couch scrolling through his phone as if he was on a break from babysitting all of these boys. 

Yoongi goes unnoticed by all of them, bent at the waist as he drifts through them, looking for my things. 

My heart constricts. 

He picks up my heels by the straps near the couch and grabs my purse, walking over to Jungkook and tapping his shoulder. He swivels his head mid-shot and he sets it down on the table when I make out Yoongi saying to him that he’s taking me home. Jungkook’s mouth parts and bewilderment erupts in his features, his big and glossy eyes flicking to mine. Yoongi adds something and Jungkook, without another word spared, bolts to me. 

But I notice Yoongi straightening up and looking displeased behind Jungkook’s back, his mouth pressed firmly and his head knocked back a little. My throat dries, his semblant possessiveness curling something stable in my sternum. 

Run, I hear from within, despite all. 

“You’re feeling sick? What did you eat before you came here?” Jungkook asks, pity rounding his eyes, and my brows furrow in confusion for a second before I realize that it’s a cover-up. 

Yoongi’s actions silence that voice. His slow walk, too. 

My throat dries even more, but for a different reason. 

“Tteokbokki with lots of cheese. My hand slipped. You know what cheese does to me.” It’s borderline truth and I’m glad for it because I detest lying probably as much as I detest drunk men. 

Jungkook laughs and I fake a smile, facing Yoongi who’s come to stand by the threshold behind Jungkook. He’s biting the inside of his cheek and I fixate on it in the momentary interlude of the conversation, his dimple popping in and out with each movement. 

So cute.

“I’ll get my stuff, wait.” He goes to turn around, but faces the dead end that Yoongi is, who grips his shoulder. 

“No need,” Yoongi mutters, that wrinkle deepening between his brows. “Stay here with Taehyung. I’ll get her home safely and I’ll be back.” 

Jungkook looks back at me to see my reaction and I’m in awe how it’s the same motion, same gesture that Yoongi does, and yet it does nothing to me. I nod my head, curtly, and clutch my stomach, taking a step back as another heat wave washes over me and I can’t breathe. 

I need a shower, my bed and my lavender diffuser.

Jungkook swivels back to Yoongi and rubs his shoulder and I catch him wince, silently. I wonder why, but then Jungkook whispers something into Yoongi’s ear that averts my attention from it and sparks my curiosity. 

Yoongi only nods in response, avoiding my eyes. 

Interesting. 

Jungkook, then, turns to me. 

“Text me when you get home. I hope you feel better. Rain check?” 

I’d rather not, but I nod in the same fashion anyway. 

Jungkook hugs me, tells me happy birthday one last time as he rubs my back. Tears blur my vision but I push them back, wishing to not contemplate the misery that my birthdays have become since the breakup. 

But Yoongi sees them, mid-hug. And his bottom lip nearly juts out, his head tilting to the side, his arms crossed, that wrinkle between his brows. I blink them away, rapidly, even as I continue to look at him. 

Jungkook lets go and lets Yoongi step through. I wave him goodbye and turn on my heel to see Yoongi waiting for me not that far down in the hall, my heels and Grookey on my purse swinging in his singular hand. I skip over to him and we walk the rest of the way to the exit door together. 

With mismatched steps and itchy palms. 

His displeasure turned into a pure disgruntlement once our lungs were graced with a strong hit of petrichor-tinged brisk air. It was still raining, but not as vehemently as an hour ago, the thunder silenced like the protesting voice within me. 

However, Yoongi couldn’t control the weather just as easily. No matter how much he looked like he desired to. He seemed to be deeply uncomfortable by the rain and it ruffled my curiosity all over again, the simple question of why echoing down my being. His energy shifted—away from me as he wouldn’t spare me a glance, waiting for his chauffeur under the roof of the venue. 

He wouldn’t talk to me. Not even in the car. 

And the only time he spoke was when the driver wanted to drop me off at the spot, where he picked me up earlier. Yoongi told him off, ordering him to drive me all the way home, using a voice that tensed my muscles. 

Strict and low, an outright growl that ricocheted in my mind for the rest of the drive. 

It was safe to move through the rain; the raindrops pitter-pattered on the vehicle, creating a sedative sound that would mollify my disquiet if I wasn’t so bothered by the sudden change in his demeanor. I longed for his touch more than I did back in the venue, which is why I kept my hand flat on the empty middle seat between us, but he didn’t notice it, as absorbed as he was in his thoughts. 

The only time he glanced at me was when the driver killed the engine at my apartment building. The rain softened enough that its song ended as well and I was filled with a yearning so great, knee-deep in my waters, that I whispered the first thing my heart thought of and I wasn’t afraid of it. 

“Come upstairs with me.” 

Yoongi unbuckled his seatbelt. Didn’t say anything else. 

Didn’t give me my shoes, nor my purse. Carried them all the way up the stairs as the elevator was out of service. Walked them up in front of me, not behind me, checking in with me with silent looks every once in a while. 

I blamed the five floors I had to climb for making my heart race, not those looks from the back. 

I swore Grookey smiled at me the whole time. 

Once inside, taking our shoes off felt so intimate that my cheeks burned. I poured us tall glasses of cold water that we finished in one go and that silence settled between us fully, a thick smoke, that I now sensed to be comfortable, wafting between us. 

I told him I was going to take a shower and he nodded, solemnly. It took no longer than ten minutes and I didn’t let myself think, not even when I brushed my soapy palms on the places he touched and my yearning couldn’t help but grow. 

I stood up in my waters, letting the stream take me wherever it felt disposed to bring me to. 

And it brought me to open my bathroom door with a loud thud, indicating to him that he was allowed to come in. My skin was lustrous underneath my short black slip that did anything but cover my breasts with its lacy, heart-shaped neckline. My nipples kissed the fabric and grazed against it when I combed my wet hair and I blossomed into desperation, the longer I waited for him. 

A violet wisteria tree. 

A thing of violence—my arousal. 

And he comes, cognizant of the sweetened fragrance that leads him to me. Stands in the doorway with softened eyes and a mouth that falls, nearly, agape when he regards my nightwear. I glance at him, sweeping a makeup wipe across my cheek for one last time before I reach for my night cream and smear it on. 

Once I’m all done—clean, moisturized, and on the cusp of biting into my yearning—I face him with my body. 

His eyes, tormented, fall to the sheer fabric across my breasts. And his first primal instinct is to unzip his jacket and put it around me. 

“No.” 

The word tumbles out of me before any thoughts could rush in and I perceive that it’s my yearning, the stream, that’s in control of me, not my brain.

I throw his jacket onto the floor. 

His head knocks back like it did when Jungkook bolted towards me and he didn’t like it. The steam from my shower shields me like the smoke of silence that wafted between us and I step out of it, inching closer to him until I’m forced to look up at him. 

Something of great depth looms in his eyes, darkening them, and I recognize that it’s a torturous fight. And he confirms it to me by clasping his hands behind his back. 

But I don’t mourn it. I blaze up with anger so pivotal that I unclasp his hands, pressing myself against him. 

He sighs, but lets me hold his hands. “Jungkook said no.” 

So that’s the string of words that made him not reciprocate my gaze.

My anger thickens, taking my attention off the fact I’m touching him and he’s touching me at last and unraveling, wholly, in my seductiveness that I only feel in my aloneness and experience, for the first time in years, with a man. 

I can do anything I please without being held back. 

“Since when is Jungkook the boss of me?” I challenge, and Yoongi’s brows rise, his fingers flexing around my hands and lingering in that tightness. A code for me to decipher. 

Does he want the same as I do? 

Something about the way he’s peering down at me with his chin tilted teases my yearning and the unthinkable becomes thinkable. 

Just like that. 

“Are you not seeing him?” he asks, flexing his grip again and his thumb brushes along my long, manicured nails, playing with the tips. A sensual storm begins to wreak havoc in my stomach; I draw closer to him, breathe against his neck, ghosting my lips over that smooth skin. 

His breath shivers and I feel myself dampen, a thunder sounding in me. 

“Would I ask you to come upstairs if I were?” I take that question to his ear and his chest shudders against mine, his heartbeat an accompanying song to the thunder. 

I want it to be my lullaby as much as I want it to be my lifeline once I’m submerged in the lustfulness of my waters. 

I untangle one of my hands from his and glimpse into his shadowed pools through my lashes in this close proximity. Before I can feel up the part of him that I yearn for, he clasps my wrist and yanks it away, putting it back into the original position—although now it’s him who grips my hand. 

I hold him, he holds me. 

Cold sweat drips down my spine and I curl my lips, regretting my actions. It was foolish of me to think he’d want me as much as I—

“Are you needy?” 

I blink up at him, light opening in me—a momentary streak of sunlight in the middle of the storm. I’m flabbergasted for a moment and he misunderstands it again. Repeats the question, emphasizing my name. 

A lightning strikes in me, smiting every negative emotion. 

“What would you do if I said I was?”

Again, his brows twitch, the same light enfolding his irises and abiding there. 

He lifts my hands and crosses them behind my back, pushing me flush against his thinly clothed body. I feel the top ridges of abdominal muscles against my breasts, my stiffened nipples rubbing against them and I bite back a whimper, caging my bottom lip between my lips. His nose dips under the wet strands of my hair and travels across my cheek until he finds his destination—my ear, leaving the ghost of his soft, warm mouth and breath in his wake. 

He stalls the time, ruffling through the flowers of my wisteria tree, my arousal; disturbing the waters of my yearning. 

I begin to quiver. 

And Yoongi feels my tremor, squeezing me tighter against him. As if to still it. 

“I’d make you come so hard you wouldn’t have to touch yourself for days,” he whispers in my ear, reminding me of our privacy, of our whispering terms—something that has become so intimate, something that’s ours. Another thunder rolls in me as my eyes whisk back into my head, a trickle of my arousal drenching the inner of my thighs. And I let out the sound persisting in me—a whine, muffled by the steadiness of the crook of his neck. He sighs, deeply, in response. “Is that what you want?” 

I hum out my agreement, fixating on the dream his words paint, wanting mine to fade into it. I clench his hands so rigidly that our intertwinement convulses. 

Yoongi withdraws, his mouth wet and agape at last. And it’s him who gazes down at me through his lashes that oscillate in the same rhythm as our hands. 

He sucks in a breath. “You have to give me your words. No humming.” 

But I’m captivated by that mouth of his, by its small fullness, faint pinkness and luminescence. And he knows this—I sense his observance of my engrossment as I trace the lines of his lips with my eyes. 

And our interweaving is magnetic from both sides—the meeting of a wind and a wisteria blossom in a kiss. 

Both heads lean in at the same time, wordless synchronization as I take his lips and he takes mine, sucking on them as time ceases to exist. 

There’s no air in my lungs and there’s no air in his—his chest deathly still. 

We capture time and move it to our terms as we shift our heads in effort to take more of us. 

I devour his lips and he devours mine. 

Left and right, left and right. 

And I slip my tongue into his mouth, rolling the tip of the muscle against his. But he’s a tease—he pulls back just to take control of me, seizing my mouth in a closed kiss, slowing me down. He arches me, pins me against the shower screen and with the movement I get to feel the part of him I yearn for the most. 

I drip onto the tiles. 

His thigh, too, because he roots it between my legs. 

Yoongi deepens the kiss, lingering there, and breaks it. Pulling away, yet dwelling in that closeness, a raw marrow of the world’s light swims past his eyes, through our enduring magnetic, moistened connection, and right into mine. 

I feel whole. 

Yoongi smiles, delicately. “No kissing, either. Words.”

But that magnetic connection drives my hips to move against his thigh and he moans, mutedly, while I sigh in pleasure, my waters roused and gratified. I tip my head back against the shower screen, the smooth material of his sweatpants causing euphoria to burst in my clit, and Yoongi’s eyes descend to my chin, his hands flexing mine. 

And through that connection, I hear what his body said. 

He wants to grip my chin and make me listen, but he needs my consent in order to do that.

He’s respectful enough that he won’t do what he pleases, won’t let his hands wander, no matter how much I’d die for them to do that. He lets them be incarcerated—in the place where I’ve put them and he won’t try to break free. 

He wants me to open the cell because I have the key. 

My orgasm threatens to explode. 

And amidst the hot flashes and white dots shrinking my vision, he begs. 

“Please, kitty.” 

I come so hard that I lose my vision altogether.

I cry out. 

My eyes roll back and forth, Yoongi a constant, stable dark figure through my lashes as I ride out my high, my chest shuddering against his in a motion that grazes my nipples, heightening my orgasm. My mouth emits myriads of whispered agreements and exaltations that have no end, concocted with moans that echo through the lessening steam all around. 

Yoongi doesn’t let go of our clammy hands. He keeps them in a tight lock—holding me through it. 

And when the high tapers off, he swears, hushedly. 

He comes into full view; my vision clearing. He’s as pink as his lips, glowy and radiating as if he were the one who just orgasmed. The sight moves me, rippling my waters—and I might just work hard to give him the words he desires. 

“That’s the most I’ve heard from you all night,” he comments, his low intonation rasping his voice, teasing me, overstimulating me. “You’re alive when you come. Raw and articulate. No shyness to you.” 

I blush and I beam. In the middle of my high, I never know what gushes out of my mouth, but I’m aware of the freedom that surges through me. Having it validated uplifts my seductiveness and confidence and I struggle, purposefully, against his hold. 

I want to wade further through these waters. 

But Yoongi seems to stop me. 

He draws in and maps out my freedom with the lower half of his face. His nose and his chin nudge mine, his lips tracing the corner of my mouth before rising up the peak towards my cupid’s bow. There, he presses a validating, tender kiss. 

One that makes my knees weak. 

“You know what to do,” he murmurs, sinking his words into my mouth and I swallow them, kissing him back. The smacking sound of our liplocks prolongs my neediness, despite the fact I just received my release. 

No more distraction. 

“Lick me.” 

He stalls the time again. Raises his knee, brushing his drenched thigh against my sensitive clit, daring me. 

I shudder. 

Yoongi squashes me against him, fully, letting me feel the hardness of him as a reward.

I mewl. 

“Where?” 

That solidness of his causes my mind to spin; I say the first thing I think of. 

“My neck.” 

He dives in, licking a stripe across my throbbing vein before he sucks on the skin right beside it. The world shuts out as I roll my eyes back, moaning into the steam and arching myself further into him, yearning to glide into him, into the whole firmness of him. And when he begins to nibble, I make small rocking motions on his thigh, enough to stimulate me, drench me and make me needier, but not enough to get me off. 

And Yoongi senses well when it’s too much for me. 

“Where else?” he asks against my jaw, mouthing it, his breath ragged, and I lose myself in my arousal. 

“My nipple.” 

He dips to that lacy fabric on the left side, wafts that hardened breath over my stiffened nub. He flicks it with his tongue and I cry out, my wetness creating a trail on his thigh that sloshes when I ride it, adding to my madness. Yoongi wraps his puffy lips around that adorned peak, sucking it as his tongue, slowly and controlledly, continues to flick it. 

I exhale in staccato moans, broken—but whole. 

“Where else?” He swirls the muscle around it, taking it inside his mouth one last time. 

“My thigh.” 

He kneels without losing the hold over our interlocked hands. And when he whimpers against my inner thigh, I realize I molded him into the image of me. 

He’s as needy as me. 

Needy for me. 

“So pretty,” he hushes, dragging his tongue along the ivory stretch marks scattered there, collecting the stickiness of me, grunting. Plants open-mouthed kisses as far as our interweaving lets him. 

The taste of me doesn’t let him stay there for long.

I open my legs for him. 

He glances up at me, eyes large and glittery.  “Where else?” 

The last place ventures out of me with ease. “My clit. Please.” 

He growls. “Good. Spread your legs more for me.” 

I do as he says, the fabric lifting with the movement and revealing all of me to him. Shiny and wet, needy and desperate. He pulls down on our hands so I arch out more, and I lean the nape of my neck against the screen. He studies me, with those softened eyes of his and the glitter in them flickering. With a lopsided smile that he allows me to see, for he gives me a feral look before he leans in and attaches his mouth to my swollen clit, placing that open-mouthed kiss of his there, moving his tongue from side to side. 

And moans aren’t enough; I need to speak. 

My pleasured body begs me. 

“Yes, yes, that feels so good.” 

Yoongi hums, eyes in a trance on mine, validating my words. He sucks on my clit with a certain intensity that I’m not used to and I yelp, trembling, my noises growing in volume and I can’t hear myself, only his validating hums and growls that settle deep within me. He doesn’t focus on just one part of me—he collects my wetness, submerging the tip of his tongue inside my heat, fucking me there, before he returns to my clit and spoils it with nimble, fast flicks and and fervent, zealous sucks that make me praise him so loudly that his hands begin to tremble along with me. 

And they must cramp, too, because he lets go all of a sudden. 

Sinks my fingers into the fluffiness of his gray hair—and I am elated. 

His strands, silky and soft, sift through my fingers and I caress them, holding him to me as what he does can only be described as making love—and I break, I break so disastrously and splendidly that I know I won’t be able to recognize myself in the mirror after he’s done with me. 

I revel in it. 

And I want more. 

As if hearing me, Yoongi slides my leg over his left shoulder. His dark pink mouth drips and twists in a faint discomfort and I lift my knee, not wishing to hurt him—the two and two connecting in my brain that he must’ve undergone some kind of injury that he’s still recovering from. But he tugs my leg back down and pushes my hips towards his face more and I stumble, stuttering out giggles that dissolve into his and he lifts me over his good shoulder and throws me down onto my bed, immediately bending me in half. 

All breath loosens from me. 

He spreads my legs and pins them back to my shoulders. I concentrate on the firm grip he has around the back of my knees and I die, the blood-tingling feeling of his hands on me coaxing my liquid arousal out of me. And he watches the little rivulet follow the curves of my flesh, licking his lips—as if he didn’t already get a taste of me; as if his chin wasn’t dripping with the residue of me. 

Yoongi glimpses at me. 

“You really want this?” 

It’s a question that makes me roll my eyes in annoyance. I’ve moved way past desperation that I can’t wait any longer and I bounce in his hold—just to catch him humming and smirking. 

My breath hitches in my throat. 

He becomes someone completely different when he smirks. A more vulgar, masculine and playful version of himself; beyond attractive. I bounce again just to please him and see that smirk deepen and he does it, bites his lip dangerously slowly. 

I need him. 

“I need you inside me.” 

Those are indecent words that I never thought I’d ever be saying to a guy I just met, but if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s him. He washed puke off my mouth. The concept of time doesn’t exist in our shared, dreamy realm. We’ve shifted beyond it—outran it and my words mock it. 

But Yoongi doesn’t see it the way I do. 

“You’re not getting it tonight.” 

I trail my fingers up his forearms that bulge with the strength he uses to pin my knees back. It doesn’t pain me that he’s not giving it to me because the more he smirks, the more I perceive that this is a chase. 

One I’m willing to play. 

“What am I getting from you then?” I purr, basking in the sultriness I radiate. I’ve missed my seductiveness and I fall into obsession with the way I share it with him, with the way it affects him. 

He thinks about it, stalling the time again, and I pat his cheek with my big toe—a gesture that makes a swarm of giggles come out of him like butterflies that flutter all over me. 

I grin, my fever rising. 

This is fun. 

Sweat coats him in sheen and I was wrong earlier. Hobi isn’t the most beautiful boy I was ever blessed to witness. 

Yoongi is, when he laughs like the world isn’t unmerciful. 

He lets go of one of my legs, but I keep it in the same position. He uses the same hand to grip the back of my neck and pull me towards him, kissing me indelicately. 

Vulgarly. 

Offensively. 

And I moan, brattily, into his mouth, dragging him over me. He allows me, allows me to feel his hard manhood against the place where I need him the most and I grind, I grind like my life depends on it, my moans evolving into whines when his grunts deepen and he squeezes his eyes shut, our lips longing for each other, sailing on the almost bruised, swollen surface. 

He fucks into me just once and pulls away. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, but kisses me with chasteness that I taste for the first time. “I’m sorry, kitty. I’m gonna make you feel good.” 

He occupies a castle that isn’t built out of just physical pain. I may have thought the chase was conjured by his knowing better, but there is a more profound reason behind it. An image of the way he paced around the lounge room after the show flares across my vision and I bow to his decision, internally. I respect his emotional pain without demanding to know its story—enough that I sit up and clutch his right shoulder, the good one. 

“You don’t have to,” I say, lowly, covering myself by tugging the fabric of the slip down over myself, but he yanks my hand away and flicks the fabric upwards, giving me a look. 

“Let me eat you out.” His stare softens, the whites blinding. “I want to forget, please.” 

I don’t ask what, knowing how difficult it is to talk about a pain so enormous that it stops you from going after what you yearn for. And the way I lie back down is more of an expression of my chasmic respect than it is out of a selfish desire. And the way I spread my legs for him and pin them to my shoulders with my own hands, like he did, is the declaration of my ultimate submission to him and all the small particles that make him him. 

Pain or no pain, he’s the apotheosis of my entire being when he sinks his finger inside me and finds me locked, finds me forlorn. And once he opens me, stretches me and soaks me like a flower singing to God, he becomes the epitome, the core of all of my obsessions. 

And I’m going to take care of him. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ first part here

jin going live as i’m having lunch at work was something that truly brightened up my day and i wanna sob. 😣

i missed my baby so much.

so meaningful.

me too actually🧍🏻‍♀️

me three 🧍🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️