Woah!!! You Know How Hard It Is To Find A Good Mafia Au Fic? This Is Gold!!! (no Pun Intended, Okay,

Woah!!! You know how hard it is to find a good mafia au fic? This is gold!!! (no pun intended, okay, maybe a little bit!)

Fool's Gold || JJK

Summary: Sweet Y/N, with her fluffy pastel dresses, soft makeup, and ditzy mannerisms. She’s seen as a fool in a world where there is no place for such things, but little do they know, the only fools are them.

Pairing: mafia leader!Jungkook x mafia leader's daughter!reader

Genre: mafia au, arranged marriage au

Warnings: most warnings associated with mafia fics (e.g. gun/physical violence, blood, dead bodies, etc), additional warnings might be added as the story progresses

Parts Index:

Part 1 | 10k

Part 2 | 10.2k

Part 3 | coming soon...

OT7 LOVE YOURSELF FUKUOKA DOME, 2019

It's all up 🥳 thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I'll see you on the next one 💜

Too Sweet | MYG | Masterpost

PAIRING: Demon!Yoongi x (f)reader

SUMMARY: Coming from unabashed wealth has its perks — like never having to lift a finger in your life. When that suddenly changes, you end up at a crossroads: how far will you go to have everything you want?

WORD COUNT: 40.5k

GENRE: Crossroad Demon AU (Sloth), smut, angst

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: addiction (smoking weed and mentions of doing drugs + aftermath + withdrawal), implied trauma and abuse, including neglect growing up, dysfunctional family dynamics, eviction, trespassing, unprotected semi-public and public sex, nipple play, mentions of blood, biting, hair pulling, bruising, sprinkle of masochism, choking and breath play, degrading thoughts, blowjob + face fucking, subspace and aftercare, making bad decisions/mistakes, breaking Jimin's heart 💔, learning things the hard way, falling in love, mentions of death

A.N. This story almost didn't happen... thank you to @colormepurplex2 for brainstorming with me and literally setting my thoughts in motion. Thank you also to @colormepurplex2, @lunarelle1013, @heathfritillary, and @cherrysoulth for being wonderful betas. This is my entry in the upcoming @bangtanwritershq Seven Deadly Sins quarterly event!

Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Inspired by Hozier - Too Sweet (Official Lyric Video)

“What if I need you again?” You whispered, eyes set on the temptation in the form of his lips.

“I’m not a babysitter,” he rasped. Despite the jaded tone in his voice, his eyes were caught in the same trap.

“But you want my soul, right?”

Chapter 1 - You keep telling me to live right

WC: 7.3k - May 30th “Such a beautiful voice out in a wind so cold.” [Snippet]

Chapter 2 - To go to bed before the daylight

WC: 5.4k - June 6th “You know you already sold your soul, right?” [Snippet]

Chapter 3 - But then you wake up for the sunrise

WC: 8.9k - June 13th “You sold your soul to me,” he said calmly, eyeing your trembling figure knowingly. “What do you think I bought?” [Snippet]

Chapter 4 - You know you don't gotta pretend

WC: 8.2k - June 20th “I can’t do it, kitten,” he said firmly, grabbing your jaw so you wouldn’t avoid the truth. “No matter how much you’d like me to.” [Snippet]

Chapter 5 - But who wants to live forever, babe?

WC: 10.5k - June 27th “Legends speak of hounds that chase people like me.” “They won’t chase you.” “I wouldn’t run.” [Snippet]

I've read this late at night and forgot to reblog it, it's so good! I cried laughing, it's hilarious and hot!

If I Were a Bird, You'd be The First Person I'd Shit On.

It's this simple line. It cracked me up so hard, it still does, this is so fucking great!!!

Between the Titles

Pairing: Min Yoongi x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, smut (mature/18+)

warnings: egregious caffeine consumption, yoongi smokes cigarettes, reader is about the same height as yoongi (its me hello im almost the same height as him), gay taehyung, volunteer jungkook, silver fox yoongi (he just has some gray hair bc hot) smut warnings: making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), semi-public sexual acts, bathroom sex, protected sex, praise kink

Length: ~9.5k

Note: no thoughts, just big brain yoongi in a sweater smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. btw almost all the books in this are real but i haven't read them so if you have lmk if they're worth the read lmao. thank u to my dearest @gyuswhore and @idyllic-ghost for beta-ing this

Summary: Five days a week in the library means you're very familiar with the senior research librarian. It also means he has no qualms about making his own book recommendations either.

m.list + support my work

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

The sweet aroma of old books and strong coffee infiltrates your nose as the heavy doors into the library swing open, offering reprieve from the storm raging on outside. It’s far too early for anyone to be here beyond staff and a few other morning birds. You glide right to the circulation desk as if fatigue doesn’t pulse through your veins, barely quelled by the second cup of coffee you sip from.

As always, the same familiar head of dark hair with sparse silver streaks waits at the circulation desk. He’s the only person working this early despite being the senior research librarian but you never hear any complaints louder than muttered annoyance under his breath when he thinks no one is around to hear. Bent over his laptop, Yoongi doesn’t even bother to look up as he slides a heavy stack of books to the edge of the counter. 

Eleven total, ten heavy volumes on ancient fertility cults across the globe, and one book you know he’s mixed in for his own amusement. 

It’s become something of a game between you two. At first you thought he was mixing your materials with someone else’s, but every time you brought the additional copy back to his desk, Yoongi insisted he had no idea what you were talking about and questioned your reading choices. Each time the titles got more ridiculous: Castration: The Advantages and the Disadvantages, How to Enjoy Your Weeds, Amish Vampires in Space, the list goes on and on. But after he slipped Why Fish Don’t Exist into your stack a few weeks ago, you decided to start responding. 

You left the stack at his desk like usual, ears perked for his reaction to Fishes I Have Known. An amused snort rang out just as you opened the doors to leave for the afternoon. The sound was so unlike the stoic man you’d become accustomed to over months working on your thesis; not that you heard him talk much to begin with.

Since then you’ve made a point to match every book he leaves for you. Yesterday, Yoongi chose I Could Pee on This: and Other Poems by Cats. At the end of the day, you spent thirty minutes searching shelf after shelf for an appropriate response, every book failing to meet your expectations. It wasn’t fair he knew the expansive collection like the back of his hand but nevertheless you found something up to par.

Yoongi rolled his eyes when you passed your books over the counter, a copy of Staying Dry: A Practical Guide to Bladder Control, like a shining star on top. A brief pink of his tongue flashed across his lips, a feeble attempt to muffle an amused smile. It was the most obvious reaction since the first time you responded.

Smiling like the cat who ate the canary, you left on clouds last night.

But this morning you have notes to write.

Snagging the collection, you make your way deeper into the building. Your unassigned-assigned desk tucked away on the fifth floor, far enough away from any noise so you can fully immerse in work without the threat of distraction. An uninterrupted view of the courtyard below is an added bonus.

The wooden table top is covered in a neat collection of pens and sticky notes in minutes; your laptop and the foot tall collection of references you devour over the next eight hours taking up the other half.

A few titles you request over and over sit on top, too valuable to be checked out for long term use so you settle for keeping them in constant rotation since no one else bothers to read the dusty yellowing tombs. For now, you focus on the new pieces you hope hold the information you need.

Earth rites: fertility practices in pre-industrial Britain, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in the Ancient Mediterranean, Metamorphosis of Baubo: myths of woman's sexual energy— 

I’m in Love with Mothman…

Well there it is.

You thumb across the glossy cartoon cover, failing to bite back a smile. Yoongi has a penchant for tossing in the most outlandish romance books he can find. Maybe because he knows you spend just as much if not more time than he does between the stacks. The suggestion box at the desk was full of cards stained with your penmanship asking for longer hours; several of which you’ve seen Yoongi rip in half as he pointedly met your gaze.

Tossing it aside, you pull forward one of the more musty books and start reading.

When you finally manage to resurface from laborious tales on several cults of Aphrodite, the rain is long gone. Even the darkest corners of the old building seem to glow gold in the evening sunset filtering through the glass doors. They're the only thing standing between you and freedom in the form curling up on your couch with a glass of wine and a new episode of your favorite reality dating show. But first, Yoongi needs his books back. 

His desk chair is abandoned and the return cart is gone as well which means he could be anywhere in the building. Disappointment leaches into your spine at the fact you won’t be able to witness his reaction to the twelfth book in your pile; the one you spent an extra fifteen minutes looking for in the corner of the third floor. 

A thick piece of library paper lists the materials you’ll need for the next day lays atop the neon green cover of Pest Management Solutions: How to Manage Your Moth Problem. They decorate the corner of the desk until Yoongi returns to find them. Hopefully he appreciates your humor.

Yoongi isn’t at his desk the next morning when you come in either. Instead, a doe eyed man with a lip piercing occupies the chair, clearly playing some game on his laptop. 

Approaching the counter, you begin to ask, “Where’s Yoon–”

“Staff meeting,” he interjects like he’s already answered the question a million times despite the library opening only five minutes ago. The white of his teeth threaten to blind you. “But I can help you!”

His name tag isn’t the same engraved golden metal Yoongi’s is, it’s a plastic sleeve with a paper insert with barely legible handwriting you decipher as  “Jungkook” and below “Volunteer.” You’ve seen him before from a distance. Usually trudging through the shelves with the book return cart in tow, occasionally taking a quick read inside before putting them in their rightful place. 

“I need to pick up some books. I gave Yoongi the list yesterday.”

“Sure.” Jungkook jumps up, approaching the shelf lined with piles for other patrons. “What’s your last name?”

He combs through the list after you answer, finding your stack easily enough. 

“Alright so Yoongi left a note that the encyclopedias you wanted are on the usual desk you have upstairs. But other than that I’ve got: Historical Studies of Changing Fertility, Sacred Mushroom and The Cross, Archaeology and Fertility Cults in The Ancient Mediterranean…” Jungkook lists off the titles, checking to make sure they're all in order. “And, um, this one isn’t on the list.”

It must be Yoongi’s choice for the day.

“What is it?”

Jungkook looks like he’s trying to hide his own amusement as he slides it over for you to read.

If I Were a Bird, You'd be The First Person I'd Shit On.

“Huh,” you blush. “Wonder how that got in there.”

“He must have left it by mistake. I can put it ba–”

“No, I’ll take it.” You toss it on top of the other, less embarrassing books in your stack and gather it into your arms before Jungkook can get in another word. “Thanks for your help!”

Scurrying towards the hallway housing the elevators, you attempt to juggle the pile of books, your stuffed bag, and coffee without taking a spill. It’s one thing to have your silent battle with Yoongi, but having someone else witness it makes you feel downright silly. And for the first one witnessed by others to be such an absurd and downright passive aggressive selection sends embarrassment through your veins.

As promised, three encyclopedias sit neatly on your desk; the volumes so thick they protrude from the table top like a small mountain. No wonder he left them there instead of making you carry them up in individual trips. But Yoongi’s goodwill clearly ended there. A sticky note on top of the stack pens his discontent at your selection.

I had to spend 3 hours in the basement to find these. If you need them again, don’t.

Even though he hadn’t signed it, you know it’s from him. The tight script fits his personality; thin lines of annoyance bleeding through the ink, not just his words. A waft of musty old paper and dust breezes through your nose as you open the first copy. They must have been housed in a forgotten storage area. At least his bird book makes more sense now. 

You don’t dig into the heap until after the sun is halfway through the sky but when you do it only proves to unravel your wits. Reading on, the wrinkle in your eyebrows deepens further. Page after page of conflicting knowledge passes by, each sentence more confusing than the last; minutes negating months of research. The thick pages hardly provide a soft landing for your head as you allow it to thump forward in exasperation.

The scrap of chair legs alerts to a new presence watching your meltdown in real time.

“Something wrong?” Yoongi asks.

With a heavy sigh, you respond.“I want to die.”

“Get in line.”

Shifting in your seat, you peer in his direction. A different day but the same wardrobe: dark button up, glasses, same unapproachable facade. But what Yoongi is doing sitting next to you is new.

Yoongi makes himself comfortable, picking at his nails as he waits patiently for an explanation. 

“Everything in my thesis is either wrong or the world authority on fertility in Europe is full of it.”

“Bummer.”

“Your sincerity is overwhelming.” You snap.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Boredom seeps across his face but he doesn’t move to leave, just sinks deeper into the chair. “You’ve read almost half the collection since you started coming here, why are some old dusty books such a big deal?”

“Because all of those books cite these books which means those books are wrong and all my work is in the toilet.”

“Those books are from the seventies, the information is probably out of date.”

Slamming the copy serving as a pillow shut, you take a second glance at the title: Encyclopedia of Women and World Religion, Volume 7.

“Yoongi,” you sing.

Yoongi’s gaze flashes to yours, a trickle of confusion flashing across his eyes.“What?”

You stack up the books and push them across the desk with some effort. Just to savor the satisfaction of besting Yoongi, you indulge a long sip of now cold coffee before speaking again. No one else is around to witness your victory but that won’t dampen the high.

“Looks like you’ll be back in the basement because you brought me the wrong editions.”

He opens his mouth to argue, snatching one of the books to investigate but you beat him to the punch.

“I asked for the twenty-fifth edition, not the seventh.” You smirk. “I think you're losing your touch.”

He watches you over the rim of the cover. A fleeting glance in your direction but it makes your heart squeeze with need.

“Well, I guess you’re right,” Yoongi sighs, standing. “Do you still need them for anything or can I go ahead and take them?”

With your approval, he heaves the heavy tombs on to his cart. The strain of his forearms, bare from rolled up sleeves, catches your attention. Veins raised under creamy skin, lean muscles leading down to hands you’ve noticed since the first day you started visiting the library.

If you keep staring, you’re likely to start drooling. So you dive back into one of the useful books littering your desk and pretend to read until he’s disappearing down the hall.

On your way out, leaving much earlier than a typical day due to Yoongi’s mistake, you drop the remaining books off at the circulation desk. Along with a copy of Avian Hunting Techniques. He’s absent again but it doesn't matter.

You continue out the doors and down the sidewalk only to spot him leaning against the brick exterior further down the street. Even from a distance you can make out the natural scowl he’s constantly sporting. Except this time his lips pout around a cigarette. 

Of course he smokes.

The quasi-mysterious librarian who flirts with you through book titles, smokes cigarettes and looks hot doing it. 

“You know those things will kill you, right?” 

“That’s what the box says but they aren’t holding up their end of the deal,” Yoongi responds, flicking the ash before looking at his watch. “Wow, out before six. I’ll alert the press.”

“Well, if someone gave me the right books then maybe I’d stay longer. But I’m not about to wait around while you get the ones I need.”

Yoongi takes another drag of his cigarette before responding, “Are you trying to say I forced you to take a break?”

The realization dawns on you. Yoongi is the senior research librarian. He’s never given you the wrong books, even when you request the rare copies needed to be loaned from a different part of the country. The few times you’ve offered understanding if he couldn’t get them were met with a challenge in his gaze and smug satisfaction when handing them over a week later.

“You brought me the wrong copies on purpose!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He’s lying. You know it. Yoongi definitely knows you know by the way he smirks. But he’s already crushing the filter under his shoe and moving back towards the library by the time your brain catches up to your mouth.  “Have a good night, Y/N.”

With a scoff of indignation, you stalk towards your car.

The next morning, you march straight through the class doors to where Yoongi sits, fueled by snowballed annoyance from the previous day. Waking up on the wrong side of the bed is an understatement. If there are any gods, Yoongi should pick one and pray.

Your free afternoon of yesterday was spent dealing with the chaos your apartment has become over the past few weeks. Unfolded laundry, stacks of random papers, out of place books, and errant dust bunnies all became new victims to energy usually reserved for a full day of research. Taehyung practically shit himself when he woke up before dinner and found you scrubbing the bathroom sink.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hand to his chest like a flustered old woman.

Bleach curled in your nostrils. “I live here.” 

“Not between the hours of eight and seven.”

But after the mess was dealt with, aggravation set in. How dare Yoongi purposefully meddle in your work. Well meaning or not you were an adult and could decide when enough was enough. The purposeful mishap hadn’t set you back far, one afternoon but a drop in the bucket in comparison to the months you’ve already spent chasing new leads. But the principle of the matter is that it’s none of his business what you do and when you do it.

Yoongi slides a slimmer stack over when you stop in front of him.

“Encyclopedias are on your desk,” he announces through a sip of coffee. He continues to type away, feigning disinterest as you sort through your stack with measured annoyance.

“Are they the right copies this time?”

“Double checked them myself.”

You open your mouth to verbalize your doubts but Yoongi’s pick of the day catches your eye.

Surviving Your Stupid Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School.

Scoffing, you flip the book around and shoot daggers into his face with your eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”

The corner of his mouth twitches then becomes a full blown smile. Leaning over the desk, he drops his voice, “I think I’m hilarious.”

Remembering you are, in fact, in a library, you manage to muffle a frustrated groan. You dump the supplementary reading back on the counter for Yoongi to deal with and head upstairs. 

Unlike the usual days where you put off finding a response to Yoongi’s extra copy until the waning hours of the afternoon, you drop your bags and head straight for the shelves. The fifth floor houses a collection of textbooks and other reference material. It’s why it's always deserted unless some poor fool stumbles on it by accident; the perfect place to work uninterrupted for hours.

You head down stairs, circling the fourth and then third floor like a shark in a feeding frenzy. A few covers spark interest but nothing captures what bubbles in your veins: annoyance, anger, confusion. A brief flutter of interest as to why Yoongi decided to mess with you but those feelings are more dangerous than the acidic ones.

Row after proves unfruitful in your quest for passive aggressive revenge. None have the same bite as his book, or seem to curb the homicidal thoughts raging in your head.

Until a little white book peeps back at you from the end of the aisle.

Yoongi jumps when you slam Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass in front of him. A feat in and of itself to sneak up on him given the loan desk has a perfect view of the entire first floor but whatever he’d been clicking away at on the computer was distraction enough.

“What's this?”

“Thought you might like some new reading.” You flash your teeth.

His chin jerks towards the glossy cover. “I already gave this two stars on Goodreads.”

Of course he has.

Face prickling in embarrassment, you turn back the way you came without a word.

Hours later, when half the day has ticked by and the ache for more caffeine burns your eyes, Yoongi stops by your desk. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try and gain the attention you pointedly withhold. He sets a paper coffee cup on the corner of the tabletop and leaves.

You snatch up the cup after he rounds the corner out of sight. The lack of sugar leaves much to be desired but free coffee is free coffee, especially to a PhD student with limited means. 

It isn’t much of an apology but guilt blooms down your spine anyway. He meant well. You aren’t known for giving yourself breaks; unable to quit while you’re ahead. A voluntary day off is less likely than winning the lottery. You’re a busy body and the constant work keeps you from dissolving into chaos.

You don’t see Yoongi again until every book at your desk is exhausted, begging for a break from your manhandling. Double and triple checking notes and citations are the poor excuse you implement to delay the inevitable. At some point you’ll have to go downstairs to face the music. 

He’s waiting like always, scanning the mountain of returns littering the counter from a long day. Each step closer withers something in your stomach. 

The copies in your hand shift onto the wooden surface, joining the stack for him to work through. Yoongi flashes a polite grimace when you catch his eye before immediately diving back into his work. Hopefully he understands why you chose Thank You for Smoking. And why you covered the second half of the title with a sticky note.

Jungkook’s smiling face greets you bright and early. His name tag has been upgraded from flimsy paper to a plastic one and a printed label with his name. 

Handing over your library card, he quickly scans it and grabs the books meant for today’s dissection. 

“Yoongi wanted me to tell you that if you want more coffee while you’re working, you can go to the staff lounge on the second floor.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook continues sifting through your requests, making sure each is correct.  “Between you and me, the coffee down the street is better. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a coffee snob and thinks his shit—sorry—stuff is the best.”

“Okay,” you say, grabbing your pile. “Thanks.”

You set up your station like always, sorting through each book and devising a mental to do list. The desk resembles a feast but instead of food it’s encyclopedias, printed articles, and dusty manuscripts Yoongi wrangled from who knows where. On the outer board of your work station rests the feature of the day: How to Beg for Cigarettes.

A few hours pass between the pages. Your previous research is confirmed by the significantly less dusty encyclopedias this time, corroborating the basis of your thesis. A new work you haven’t seen is cited in the back, piquing your interest for more evidence. 

Instead of bothering one of the staff, you use the library website and find it in their catalog. It’s somewhere on the second floor where Yoongi offers free coffee. Two birds, one stone; a new book and a new cup of coffee.

The layout resembles all the other floors. A collection of study tables in the center crowded by bookshelves on all sides. One person, an undergrad by the look of pure dread on their features, occupies a table but that's it. Glancing at the note with the call number, you start towards the stacks on the left.

You find the correct area, eyes scanning up and down the different shelves to no avail. Hundreds of books, different sizes in an array of colors, flash by but none are the one you need. You’re about to call it quits when you spot it on the top shelf, just out of reach.

Call it a moment of stupidity, a brief blight of recklessness, but the book sits only a few inches beyond your fingers. You look around to make sure no one is around to witness the brilliantly flawed idea crest in your brain. With the coast clear, you hoist yourself up the shelf.

A deadpan voice nearly makes you fall.

“Looking for something?” 

Yoongi stands a few feet away, head cocked to the side. Of course he’d find you in such a ridiculous position. Even through the blur of your peripheral vision, the harsh lines of his usual uniform clashes against the back drop of books. Dark jeans fitted over his thighs, dark button down rolled up his arms, and a pair of glasses that make him look hot. But you’re in no position to dwell when the risk of falling on your ass is so high.

“Nope, just getting in some exercise” you grunt, moving your foot to the shallow hold of the next shelf.

Yoongi moseys up behind you before continuing. “And climbing a decades old bookshelf is how you stretch your legs?”

“You smoke cigarettes, I climb old furniture. We all have our vices.”

Your foot slips from its perch, making you squeak before catching your balance. 

“Alright spider-monkey, that's enough.” His hands slide across your hip, fingers curved around the softest part of your waist as he helps you down. 

Distracted by the weight of him still on your hip, the heat of his chest a scorching across your back, you don’t even think to disparage him for the cheap Twilight reference. The few inches Yoongi has on you allows him to reach overhead to snag the copy you need with ease. But as you watch his hands close around the spine everything beyond fades to black; like the universe pinholes where you two stand.

“This one?” You feel the vibration of his words up and down your spine, warm breath tracing across the shell of your ear.

Body on autopilot, you turn to face Yoongi. His mouth moves, eyes scanning the book cover but every word deafens in a muddy haze. He doesn’t seem to realize his hand is still on your waist, or how he crowds you into the shelves; chest to chest, stomachs barely an inch apart.

“Huh?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from his mouth.

“I said, if you asked for this book earlier I could have gotten it for you.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?” he asks, stepping further into you. “You look a little flushed.”

The bastard smiles. A God’s honest smile like his thigh isn’t between your own, or he isn’t waiting for a reply while his fingers dig in beneath your ribs.

Just when you open your mouth to say something, Yoongi silences you with a firm squeeze of his hand. His head lowers until his breath ghosts along your chin. 

Then you’re kissing; lips sliding together easily like he anticipated it. The world shatters all around from just a few passes of his mouth across your own, the weight of his body flattening you against the bookshelf. 

The first hint of his tongue against the seam of your lips makes you gasp and Yoongi takes the opportunity to taste you. You melt under his attention. Head tipping back, shoulders bowing to take more, your senses flood with the remnants of coffee and something else; something so quintessential Yoongi your head spins. It lights a new flame in your veins, one burning with pure want.

A handful of his shirt pulls him closer. Yoongi follows easily but gets more than asked for when one of your hands tangles in the back of his hair, tugging until he’s tilting his chin the way you want. It’s a bad habit other dates have subtly complained about but a noise bubbles in his throat at the dig of your nails; responding with his own palm squeezing roughly across your ass until your hips meet his. 

The crash of the book near your feet is like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. Jumping back proves futile as the shelf digs further into your spine. “I–”

Puffy lips and lowered eyes stare back at you, clear evidence that you haven’t hallucinated what just happened. Yoongi dips down to kiss you again but you slither out of his grip.

Forgetting the book on the tiled floor, you mumble an apology and flee back upstairs, beelining to the vacant restroom.

To your own mortification, your features mirror Yoongi’s; lips swollen, eyes glazed. Your sweater twisted around your torso clearly betraying your rendezvous in the stacks. Beads of sweat cling to your forehead and neck.

A few splashes of cold water help clear the fog in your brain but as it dissipates embarrassment sets in. Making out with a handsome man is one thing. Making out with the librarian assisting in the most important work of your life is an entirely different ordeal; one that can only spell trouble.

Pacing back and forth, the cool paper towel on the back of your neck helps calm your racing heart enough to leave the safety of the ladies room.

Try as you might to drown under piles of books, it’s useless. You pretend to read the same passages over and over but none of the words register. The kiss replays over and over and over again. You kissed Yoongi. Yoongi kissed you back. He tried to kiss you again when you pulled away.

The end of the day inevitably comes which means you have to face him whether you want to or not. But you won’t allow a single lapse of judgment to affect your work; a moment of weakness propelled by months of abstinence that just so happened to coincide with a surly librarian’s entrance into your life. You just needed to get it out of your system. If it hadn’t been Yoongi it would have been someone else. 

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

A glance at your watch informs you that today is the second day you’ll leave the library early. Rather than give into the stubborn instinct to stay, you decide putting as much distance between yourself and Yoongi is far better for your mental health. With squared shoulders and a raised chin, you head downstairs. 

Yoongi’s waiting behind the counter. He isn’t typing on his computer or scanning books. He watches every step you take, arms crossed in front as he leans forward like he’s eager for a confrontation. 

“Yoongi,” you say.

“Y/N.”

You use every fiber of will to maintain eye contact as you pass your stack over the counter. “I’ll need these same ones tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He nods. “And the kiss?”

“What kiss?” you croak.

Yoongi’s eyes blaze like you’re a new puzzle to be solved, like he wants to take you apart and find exactly what makes you tick. You feel naked. “The one where you—”

“Must have been someone else. Sorry. Have a good night!” You rush for the door before he can say another word.

Another morning is another day in the library, but this time your roommate begs to tag along. 

“Look, I’m not getting anything done on my thesis so maybe you’ll rub off on me,” Taehyung says.

Rolling your eyes, you step through the door he holds open. “I think you’ve had plenty of people rub off on you.”

Gasping with fake indignation, he catches up easily. “Are you calling me a slut?” 

“Yes.”

“Good, I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Is that him?”

Yoongi and Jungkook are talking behind the counter. Jungkook’s hands wave wildly as he recounts whatever information to his boss while Yoongi listens with fake interest. Or that's what someone else might think. The subtle signs he cares are hidden in the details; the miniscule lift of shoulders, a cock of his head, and when Jungkook pouts in a way too ridiculous for a man his size, Yoongi hides a smile in the shake of his head.

“Yes.”

“And I’m the slut?” Taehyung scowls as you pinch his shoulder. “What? He’s a nerd’s walking wet dream.” 

“And he can hear you, so shut up.”

“Morning!” Jungkook calls on his way past with a cart full of books. 

He grins like he knows exactly what happened on the second floor yesterday but that can’t be true. Yoongi doesn’t seem like the type to kiss and tell. Only the type to kiss and tease you relentlessly for it when no one else is around to hear.

Taehyung’s attention immediately locks on him. You love your roommate, always have and, unfortunately, always will; but he is a slut and Jungkook is definitely his type. However, he’s on your turf and knows better than to fuck where you have to eat for the next few months. 

“Y/N, Y/N’s friend,” Yoongi says when you approach his desk. 

“Taehyung.” 

“Right,” Yoongi drawls, blinking lazily before sliding your books over and turning around to sort something on the opposite counter.

Taehyung, ever the gentleman, grabs the pile for you and follows upstairs. 

“Well he seems like a cup of sunshine,” Taehyung whispers. 

“Just because he isn’t fawning over you doesn’t mean he’s an asshole.”

“I’m very fawn-able, ask anyone,” your roommate argues as you approach the fifth floor. “Wait, what's this… How to Defeat Your Own Clone and Other Tips for Surviving the Biotech Revolution. This is the type of shit he’s giving you? You’re easier than I am.”

“Give me that.” You snatch the paperback out of his grip. “Stop being nosy.”

Taehyung lets you work in peace after that, disappearing to gather more of his own materials. Even in undergrad he’d never been one to sit still for long. But he still managed to get a spot doing an engineering thesis despite the constant changes in his attention.

After several hours of mind numbing typing you need a break, and another cup of coffee on someone else’s dime sounds perfect.

“I’m getting coffee.”

“Bring me some,” Taehyung says without looking up from his screen.

The staff lounge is nothing fancy. A couple small tables with plastic chairs tucked around, a cork board covered with fliers, and a white board stuck to the fridge scrawled upon with black dry erase marker. The coffee pot sits full in the machine, still hot to the touch. 

You pour two cups. Taehyung’s gets loaded with creamer cups until it’s closer to white than black while yours is sweetened to sickening perfection. When you try to take a sip, the liquid immediately burns your tongue. Too hot coffee is better than cold coffee but an ice cube would help make it more palatable.

Moving back to the fridge, you go to open the freeze but stop when the white board catches your attention again.

Most notes are chores or friendly reminders about time cards but almost half the board is dedicated to a back and forth.

‘Unofficial Employee of the Month: Jungkook’ 

A note in Yoongi’s tight script: ‘You don’t work here.’

‘That’s why it's unofficial!’ in what must be Jungkook’s messy handwriting.

‘You’re my official employee of the month. - Namjoon’

At the bottom is a crude drawing of stick figures, two tall smiling ones holding hands under a rainbow labeled ‘JK’ and ‘Joon’ and a comically shorter one with evil eyebrows surrounded by storm clouds and ‘yoongi :(’ overhead.

“Snooping for secrets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you jump, turning to face Yoongi. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“You’re in the staff lounge, there’s gonna be staff here.” Yoongi crosses to the coffee pot on the counter and pours himself a cup. He doesn’t add cream or sugar or anything else to lessen the bitterness. Cliche. “So, was bringing your boyfriend here your subtle way of letting me down?”

“You think Taehyung is my boyfriend?” You whirl around in shock. Yoongi raises a brow, prompting you to continue. “Jungkook is more his type than I am.”

Yoongi releases a pleased hum, eyes shining. “So no boyfriend then?”

“Nope.”

You’re shaking but don’t look away from his hungry gaze. Yoongi takes a step closer, and another and one more until you're pinned to the countertop and his mouth is on yours. 

This time, you're more aware of everything. The smell of his cologne, the tickle of his bangs along your forehead, all the tiny details that were muffled before. Yoongi’s lips are firm against your own, a little chapped but it only makes you hotter with each pass.

His mouth is everywhere; your chin, your jaw, peppering down your throat until he pushes aside the hem of your shirt and sets to work on the jut of your collarbone like he’ll never get a chance again. 

“Yoongi,” you hum on the first rake of teeth. 

He takes it as an invitation to dig in harder, sucking the skin until your spine threatens to break and you say his name again. Desperate for some kind of anchor, you knot your fingers back in his hair and pull. 

A throaty noise responds and the need to hear more rears its head. Yoongi who always watches with measured fascination undone by some light petting. The power is addictive. 

Legs spread, he presses in flat. The heat of his cock, rigid beneath the fabric of his jeans, teases across the seam of your own. You're technically still in public but the consequences concern you less than the knowledge that you’ll go mad if you don’t feel him. His arms circle your back, pulling you firmer against him, right to the edge of the linoleum counter.

Wedging a hand between your bodies, you manage to get his zipper undone while your tongue traces along his jaw. Yoongi angles his hips to help, curling into your palm when you cup him over the fabric of his boxers. Every press has him swelling harder. 

His hands reach under your shirt. Skin on skin, the rough calluses of his fingers trace your ribs, thumbs following the cup of your bra in a tease. It’s a simple touch but your own hands falter when he brushes a nipple. You melt into each other.

“Hey, Yoongi, do you know where—HOLY SHIT!”

Jungkook stops at the door, eyes wide, mouth wider. 

“Get out!” Yoongi barks. He’s trying his best to keep your body covered from the younger man’s view but even if Jungkook isn’t getting a full frontal he isn’t dumb enough not to realize what’s going on.

Yoongi shudders a few breaths. Head hung low, he tucks himself back into his pants without moving away. You’re already slipping down from your perch when he looks back up.

“I’m just gonna…go,” you mumble, scurrying out the door.

Jungkook waits outside, eyes still bugging out of his head but at least has the decency to pretend he didn’t catch you in the act.

Tugging your shirt down, you avoid his gaze. How far would you have let Yoongi go if Jungkook hadn’t interrupted? 

“Coffee?” Taehyung asks as you approach the table.

You know what you look like without a mirror. The same as yesterday with glassy eyes and bruised lips, clothes wrinkled. Thankfully, Taehyung is more interested in his modeling software than where you’ve been. 

“They were out.” 

With a sigh like he is personally victimized by the lack of caffeine, Taehyung collapses on the table and plays dead. But he perks up at the sound of footsteps approaching behind you.

“You left this in the break room,” Yoongi says, dropping a cup of coffee by your side before disappearing. 

You turn to follow his retreating for until he’s hidden back between the shelves. The back of his hair is still messy despite his attempt to fix it, same with the wrinkles in his shirt from your hands.

“I thought they were out?” Taehyung eyes you suspiciously when you look back at him.

Cradling the still hot cup in your hands, you avoid his gaze. “Shut up.”

“So you do have to sleep with someone to get a cup of coffee.” 

“I’m not sleeping with him,” you spit in a harsh whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because…”

Because what exactly? There isn’t a good reason other than the fact Jungkook was the king of cockblocks. You would have let Yoongi do just about anything he wanted and he seemed to be in agreement. But you’d rather die than admit that out loud.

“You are so smart and so incredibly stupid.” Taehyung rolls his eyes, rising to pack his things. “I need to pee.”

You point him in the direction of the bathrooms and get back to work.

When Taehyung returns minutes later he starts shoving his things in his bag. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

“This is like the epicenter of hot smart men and I refuse to suffer any longer.”

“You got Jungkook’s number,” you deadpan.

Taehyung can’t hide his own shit eating grin. “Yoongi gave it to me.”

“If you’re leaving, so am I.”

“Why?” your roommate whines. 

“Because I got you a hot date and that means you owe me dinner.”

“Technically it was Yoongi but I’ll concede.” Taehyung heaves his bag up. “Come now my dearest, we can still get happy hour if we hurry.” 

You reach in your own bag and toss him your keys. “Go wait in the car. I’ve gotta go grab another book real quick.”

“Whatever,” Taehyung says, mumbling something like ‘nerds’ under his breath as he heads downstairs.

You find Yoongi while on your way to his desk, already toting around the cart piled high with returns from the day. Several of the covers are Taehyung’s picks and somehow the knowledge they’ve spoken almost knocks you off kilter. Taehyung is a good wingman and that’s what worries you most.

“Hi,” he says, kneeling to put a book on a low shelf.

It shouldn’t have the effect it does but something about the way Yoongi looks up at you, on his knees, head tipped back, has your mind running wild with the image of him in the same position with both of you wearing far less clothing. Maybe if you weren’t interrupted in the staff lounge you’d have seen it in real life.

“Hi. Mind if I add these to the pile?” 

“Go ahead.”

The Stocking was Hung sits on top. You don’t wait around to see his reaction.

The temperature had steadily been increasing over the past weeks but this morning is the worst of all. That inescapable warmth fully seeded overnight and promised the comforting days of sweaters and pants are long gone.

Heat makes you lazy and fitful. In the early hours, long before you actually need to be awake, you stare up at the ceiling of your room. Not even a frigid shower helped the stickiness of your skin or laying still in your bed in nothing but one of Taehyung’s shirts and ratty shorts. It followed you everywhere until you left for the same brick building you spend more time at than at home.

Without thought, you throw on the first seasonally appropriate outfit in your closet; a thin dress that covers enough for the public but promises to keep you cool.

Yoongi seems to be taking the change in weather as well as you are. His usual attire is absent, nothing but a white shirt clinging to his torso. The pale skin of his forearms briefly catches your attention but you focus anywhere else to stop from rounding the desk and finishing what started upstairs.

You steel yourself and approach the desk, determined to act normal.

Familiar dark eyes flash up to greet you but Yoongi’s mouth doesn’t form any words. He just stares at you. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your shoulders, your neck, and then he pointedly keeps them trained on your eyes. Like he's willing to pretend yesterday didn’t happen. 

He doesn’t speak when he passes over the same pile of books as yesterday but you can feel him burn a hole in your back. Even after you climb up the stairs and out of sight, the prickling sensation you’re being watched follows.

You don’t get anything done. The words on the page might as well be another language as your mind races.

Yoongi didn’t give you an extra book today.

An endless list of potential explanations race through your mind. Maybe you’d been too forward with your choice. Maybe he’s gotten it out of his system, a quick tryst in the employee lounge enough to satiate his curiosity. Maybe because it’s the second time you’ve brushed him off. Even if it wasn’t your fault Jungkook stumbled in before anything worthwhile could happen. 

But he isn’t speaking to you and he isn’t giving you the random book you’ve come to look forward to every morning. 

Channeling the restless energy of overthinking, you take a lap around the floor. You pause to flip through random books as you zigzag through the stacks. Anything to take your mind off the unshakable tension sticking in the air like syrup.

Your laptop is in sleep mode by the time you reluctantly come back. Everything is as you left except a book you’ve never seen before sits on top of the open one you’d been reading.

There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom. 

A sticky note sticks up from the inside of the cover. A bolt of excitement shoots down your spine. When you flip it open a familiar handwriting stares back: ‘on the seventh floor’.

You hadn’t been gone too long but the fear of making him wait has you rushing up the stairs. Each step brings you closer to where he waits until you’re opening the bathroom door.

“Yoongi?” 

A hand wraps around your upper arm, yanking you in. Another hand silences a surprised shout before you realize it’s Yoongi and not a murderer pinning you to the interior of the door you just came through.

“Jesus, you scared me.” 

“Sorry,” he breathes. “It’s just not a good look for me to be up here.”

“Oh, really?” You smile. “And why is that?”

“This is my job.”

“Didn’t seem to stop you before.”

“Who says it’s stopping me now?”

He thumbs the strap of your dress, hooking under the thin material and dragging it down your arm. The heat and weight of Yoongi against you, touching you so simply, makes you vibrate. Yoongi moves into your neck, panting with a grind against your thigh. “I swear I don’t usually do this.”

You want to argue that you have two accounts that he does do this often, at least with you. But for someone who says they don’t, Yoongi is surprisingly natural. The tease prickling the end of your tongue fizzles out under his teeth across the curve of your shoulder, goosebumps blossoming along your back. 

A whimper unbecoming of an adult woman breaks the lullaby of summer air conditioner singing through the vents. You’re sweating under the cling of your dress, skin hot to the touch thanks to Yoongi’s attention; long fingers curved around your waist, thumbs skimming just under your breast.

“Could have fooled me.”

“This is a very nice dress.” His mouth bites down your neck, taking advantage of the new strips of skin the neckline unveils.

“That’s all it takes?” you pant from the wet of his tongue. “A pretty dress?”

“If you think,” he whispers into your ear. “I’m doing this because of your dress then you really haven’t been paying attention.”

The dark locks of his hair are too alluring to resist, tempting one of your own hands to scratch against the tip of his spine when Yoongi rolls against you again. A firm tug brings him to your mouth, lips molding to one another in a searing kiss. You can taste the coffee from the lounge and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke, like he thought to hide it before asking you to follow him.

“How long? How long have you wanted this?”

Yoongi hooks one of your thighs higher, savoring the heat of your core against the crotch of his pants with a slow thrust. “Since you came in and busted my balls over not having that archived manuscript when the website said we did.”

You remember that day. Patience thin from Taehyung’s loud overnight guest, you stormed into the library looking to take it out on a photocopy of the manuscript only for the only copy to be AWOL. Yoongi became the surrogate for your rage, his eyes burning into your skull as questioned how he could let it happen.

The next day was when he started adding books to your stack.

“That was months ago.”

“I’m a patient guy.”

You want him naked; ache to catalog what he’s hidden underneath bulky sweaters and loose button ups over the past few months. But that idea has to wait for somewhere less risky. You settle for dipping your hand under his shirt, tracing your fingers over the elastic of his boxers peeking from the waistband of his pants.

Attempting to hide the effect he has, you loop your fingers in his belt loops and pull him even closer so your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. “There’s a Boy in the Girls’ Bathroom? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Like The Stocking was Hung is any better?” Yoongi sighs as your mouth ghosts over the rising vein webbing the side of his throat.

“Hey!” you object, rising to face him. “I thought you’d appreciate it after that mothman book.”

“I appreciate you complimenting my dick plenty.”

Yoongi doesn’t let you go, hands palming at the swell of your ass the entire way from the door to the counter. He’s got one hand curved along your jaw, thumb hooked around your chin and his teeth bruising your lower lip. The edge of granite digs in your spine but not for long as he lifts you and settles on his knees to dive under your skirt. 

He kisses up your calf, tongue snaking across the knob of your knee then the plush of your thigh. Just when you feel a puff of breath against the damp crotch of your panties, Yoongi falls to repeat the same path against your other leg. 

You don’t suffer for long. Pooling the excess fabric around your waist, Yoongi blinks up from between your thighs. The pink of his tongue follows the edge of your panties, wetting the fabric more until it clings obscenely. 

He pushes his glasses up to rest on the top of his head, keeping the mess of gray and black hair out of his eyes before diving back down.

His tongue lathers over your covered slit with a groan. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You thought about this?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it. On my desk, yours, against that fucking bookshelf.” Yoongi punctures each word with more wet kisses against your core. “In my car, my bed. Everywhere.”

A cool breath has your thighs squeezing around his head thanks to the erotic combination of his spit and your own fluids drenching your panties. “Is this all you think about?”

“I had to come up here and jerk off yesterday because I couldn’t stop thinking about your hands.”

Your panties are pulled to the side before you can indulge in the new visual blooming on the edge of consciousness. “Yoongi.”

Eyes closed, his mouth circles your clit, tongue gently stroking you to life. Every pass against the sensitive bundle of nerves has your thighs squeezing around his head. 

The first prod of fingers makes Yoongi’s hold on the crook of your knee tighten. He stretches you back open, eyes following the way you suck him inside; coating his spindly digits with more arousal each time.

“A-ah,” you shake. “Please.”

Yoongi chances a glance up at your face, the needy sheen in your eyes, the way your mouth gapes, and decides to take mercy. 

He latches back onto your clit. Yoongi groans as you tug his hair, knocking his glasses to the ground. The pace he works your remains lethargic, savoring the kick of your hips until you grind against his mouth. 

Throaty groans vibrate against your cunt, tightening the muscles along the inside of your thighs. Neither of you are doing a good job muffling yourselves but if it’s between getting caught and having him stop then you’ll deal with the consequences when they come.

“Oh, Yoongi.” Your chest pulls tight; spurred on by the sounds of Yoongi bullying your insides, his mouth smacking against your folds. “I’m— oh, oh, oh!”

The rough crook of his fingers sends you flying. Only the pressure of his shoulders keep you from slipping off the counter as you explode against his mouth. Euphoria rushes your veins, licks of pleasure overwhelming. Every muscle quivers as Yoongi works you through until you use his hair to pull him away.

He’s quick on his feet. You’re still recovering as Yoongi pushes your bra down and draws one of your nipples into his mouth, licking and sucking until you pull his hair again. Eyes cinched tight, face wet, you force his pants open then his underwear until Yoongi is almost as exposed as you are; pretty in your palm, sticky and hot to the touch.

But it’s not enough to feel him in your hand, you need to feel him inside. To fill you up where you sit hollow and aching without his fingers to provide a sliver of relief. “Fuck me.”

Yoongi doesn’t tease, has no quip about how needy you are. He keeps his mouth on your chest and uses his hands to grab something out of his pocket. It happens so fast you don’t even realize the condom is on until he nudges between your legs.

Your nails dig into his back, breathing through the initial stretch is the only way you stay quiet. Yoongi hides himself back in your neck, strained noises clawing out of his throat.

Yoongi isn’t gentle. Not caution or waiting. Months of push and pull destroy any desire for him to treat you as something fragile. He rushes into desperately, forcing your palm flat against the mirror behind you for some semblance of stability.

“God,” he grunts. “You’re incredible.”

You whimper a quiet acknowledgement, too fucked out to blush under his praise; pulling Yoongi closer until he’s scooping his hands underneath your ass, thrusting into you over and over. His mouth finds yours. Greedy. Hungry. 

It’s Yoongi who struggles to stay quiet. Even through the kiss he moans loud enough you feel it in your throat. You listen to them all, twisting the hand knotted in his hair to hear the whine you’ve quickly become obsessed with.

“Should have done this sooner,” your back arches and Yoongi’s mouth slips back down. 

“I tried. But you kept ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t—fuck—ignoring you.” Yoongi is everywhere. His taste on your mouth, cologne burned in your nose. The feel of him all over your body. “Shit.”

He fucks you harder to prove a point, hand slipping down to rub your clit. Your second orgasm glows on the edges. If Yoongi keeps playing with you, stretching you in half on his cock and biting a mark into your breast, you know you’ll come.

You focus on breathing. Letting it come to you instead of chasing it, overthinking it to the point it evades you. It’s easier than usual. Yoongi doesn't leave room for anything else beyond feeling good. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper as the cord tightens. 

Everything turns white hot, pleasure tearing through your muscles and ripping them to shreds. You convulse in Yoongi’s hold, only pinned down by his hips fucking you brutally. Nerves shot, Yoongi babbles praise in your ear but it's indecipherable from the headrush.

Yoongi follows you over the edge a few strokes later, twitching inside you until he stills. His hips give a few arrhythmic bucks as he fills the condom with his load. 

There's something nastier about clothed sex. The way sweat makes your clothes cling tighter, the rush of needing each other so badly you can’t be bothered to do more than pull things to the side. 

You feel dirty but in a good way. Yoongi kisses across the apples of your cheeks, your chin, your forehead, even your brows, but never returns to your lips. Each leaves you more frustrated than the last, muscles twitching beneath and head turning at the last second to try and meet his mouth. 

Tricking you with a brief connection, he laughs when you chase his lips as he dodgers back. But a pout and whine bring him back into your orbit.

He cleans you up with paper towels, wiping away the mess between your thighs with something akin to disappointment. But he doesn’t complain as he fixes your clothes and then his own. Muscles like jelly, you fall into his side when he helps you down from the counter. 

With a kiss to your temple, “Let's get out of here.”

“Morning, Yoongi.” You smile as you walk up to his desk.

A set of dark eyes rise to greet you, taking the cup of coffee you so graciously offer before smiling as well. “Good morning.”

Jungkook gawks like he’s never seen you two speak before. Round eyes bounce between you and Yoongi as if it’s a tennis match instead of a normal conversation. Probably because Yoongi was less than subtle when he pulled you out of the building yesterday, telling him to call Namjoon if anything came up.

Or maybe because you’re wearing one of Yoongi’s shirts.

You discovered much about the mysterious librarian overnight. He’d taken you back to his apartment; a perfect extension of himself decorated with dark furniture and more books than anyone could possibly read. Yoongi owned a collection of vinyl records that rivaled his book collection, he was a great cook, and he was studying to take the entrance exam for law school. 

After you were wined and dined, Yoongi dedicated hours between your legs. On his couch, against the massive bookcase in his living room, between the sheets of his bed. 

He also had a kink for eating you out while you explained your thesis in precise detail.

You’d only been allowed to leave when Yoongi was getting ready for work, not that you'd put up much argument. 

You make a scene of sorting through the stack he slides over. It’s not that you don’t trust Yoongi. But now that you’ve had a taste, you’re addicted to his presence. But he unfortunately can’t follow you upstairs so you savor the time now. 

“One of my books is missing,” you say.

“Oh, right.”

Yoongi passes over an unfamiliar copy.

Maybe He Just Likes You

And the blue sticky note attached, with his handwriting. ‘Dinner when you're done?’

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu @sliceofwoozi @dokyeomkyeom @yoonguurt

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

ok but I need jungkook to know that he is the most beautiful stunning gorgeous person ever in the entire universe

Too Sweet 💜 Chapter 5 - But who wants to live forever, babe?

PAIRING: Demon!Yoongi x (f)reader

SUMMARY: Coming from unabashed wealth has its perks — like never having to lift a finger in your life. When that suddenly changes, you end up at a crossroads: how far will you go to have everything you want?

WORD COUNT: 10.5k

GENRE: Crossroad Demon AU (Sloth), smut, angst

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: break-up talk, feelings of abandonement, (f) masturbation, tension, talks of death

A.N. You deal with the consequences of your wishes and your time ends. I hope the ending tracks and hits 💜 (The song mentioned is Ruin my life by Zara Larsson.)

Masterpost | Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | < Previous Chapter

You screamed.

You rolled around in bed, tossing the sheets, kicking the air, screeching some deep anger, or maybe a form of agony. Yoongi couldn’t tell exactly; all he could do was look at you. He had stayed with you all night, making sure to give you comfort while you slept hanging onto him with your rigid fingers. Yet when morning came, he vanished from your eyes as he had vowed he would, and you weren’t taking it well.

“Yoongi.”

What started like a soft call that touched him in ways he didn’t understand became a cry for help before turning into a hateful shout. He didn’t take it personally; if anything, it reached a little deeper. You were probably feeling like you had lost everything, but you had decisions to make. He wanted you to realize that this was an opportunity: to stop counting on him and to make something of your last year on earth as a human.

He didn’t think your first instinct would be to cross your apartment and go straight to the liquor cabinet, grabbing a cigar and a bag of blue, small pills while you were at it. He sighed as he observed you, but did nothing to stop you.

You put everything on the glass coffee table in the center of your living room and ignored the red velvety couch, kneeling in front of it while you poured the whiskey messily. He saw you putting two pills in your mouth before you gulped a half glass in one go. It wasn’t that he was disappointed in your reaction or regretting his decision; more like he thought you knew it wouldn’t work.

You sat for a moment, letting it all sink in before you reached to grab the cigar, but you didn’t make it. You veered to the side and vomited everything you had taken in seemingly agonizing convulsions, before you fell back, panting. 

He wasn’t surprised when people knocked on your door, and neither were you. There would always be someone around to cater to your needs, as per your first wish. You simply sighed, saying you were fine before you grabbed the cigar and walked to the balcony. Yoongi followed you out, keeping his eyes on you while you faced the morning sun shimmering on the cityscape. He always liked how you looked, especially the way your cupid’s bow perked up as if asking for a bite. Your normally light eyes were dark with your thoughts, and your bed hair made you look even more aery. He hoped to see you rally, but you scoffed and put the cigar in your mouth, lighting it up in a quick succession of experimented gestures.

He didn’t even blink; you tried, but in an instant, you were coughing the smoke out, about to gag out of disgust. Someone who was cleaning inside came to check on you and you raised your hand for them to go back inside and eyed the cigar. He saw the moment your eyes lit up in realization — you had asked for this yourself. You asked to be free of the addiction, you couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen or force it upon yourself again.

He tilted his head, observing every microexpression. Technically, you could if you tried really hard. He thought you might, just out of spite, refusing to learn anything from all the sacrifices you had made, but then you rubbed your empty wrists and he pursed his lips. Your attachment to him could be something of an addiction too, and as you muttered his name, he closed his eyes.

No matter how much you called, he would never come to you. Well, at least not that you knew of. He would be there when you called, beyond the reach of your eyes, seeing you adjust and adapt to a life without him. He could feel your time ticking, he could see the sand grains falling in the narrow opening of the hourglass — why couldn’t you?

You spent a week crying, cooped up in your apartment, before you decided to rekindle a glimpse of normalcy in your life — the daily massages. He saw your determination as you made your way to the appointment you had missed for the last seven days, and wondered how you’d react when you made it there.

You staggered when you crossed the door of the spa on the first floor of your building. Jimin got up from the green armchair in the waiting room and extended his hand to you, and you took a step back. Yoongi could instantly see on your shoulders the weight of defeat, of regret. Your breathing changed with the anxiousness tensing you up despite Jimin’s pleas.

“Please, I— I just want to talk to you.” 

He looked hurt, too, with sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes. Now that he was looking at you, his heart beat a little faster, but he was still lost. Yoongi thought you saw it through your own hurt because your eyes watered, and your fingers twitched out of concern. You had rejected his offer when he tempted you with Jimin, but maybe now, faced with him, you’d change your mind.

“Okay,” you agreed. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

You guided him inside the spa and asked for an empty room that turned out to be a meeting room. Yoongi followed you and Jimin in silence. He didn’t care, he couldn’t be bothered, but he was curious about your decision. He wished you could see that, despite the spell, Jimin could bounce back if he was given the right incentive. Love took many forms, as many as there were hearts, and still some. Alternatively, you could just make the best of it and enjoy his affection and company for the time you had left. What you couldn’t do was tell him the truth and let him decide, so he wondered if you’d consider a white lie just so you could give him a choice. A false choice.

You took a few steps away from Jimin and ignored the supposed harmony of the room, with its lowered window blinds and light wall colors with bamboo wavering under an imaginary wind. Instead, you looked resolute.

“I’m sorry,” you started, and Jimin’s breath shook. “I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it, and I’m sorry I haven’t returned any of your calls. I’ve been— I’ve been trying to figure myself out.”

He nodded and licked his lips, and Yoongi pulled a chair to sit down. He guessed Jimin wasn’t dumb.

“Okay. And what did you conclude?”

“I’m still going through it but,” you looked down, selecting your words. “My decision hasn’t changed. I know it might not make sense to you, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Jimin looked bewildered, “I do! I do, but— this doesn’t make any sense to me! You want me to just trust that ending things is— Is what? Something that needs to happen?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!” He stepped to you and you stood firm. Jimin respected the distance you imposed, and Yoongi thought he truly was a great guy. Better than Yoongi ever was, at least. “I don't get it! Is it your fault I fell in love with you? Sure! But why is that a mistake? Why does that need fixing?”

Your lips trembled and Yoongi saw that you couldn’t speak. You wanted to tell him the truth, but you couldn’t.

“It doesn’t matter, I— I couldn’t fix anything.”

“Of course not!” He was angry and hurt, “You thought I’d forget you that easily?!”

“That’s not what I—”

“I fucking love you! You thought I’d just forget the person I want to spend my life with?!”

You glanced up to the ceiling with tearful eyes, and Yoongi could almost read your thoughts — you wished he could.

“I never said that,” you finally breathed.

Jimin’s jaw twitched, “No, but you don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

“No.”

“Trust me,” your lips trembled. “I do.”

Jimin ran his fingers through his blonde hair and shook his head, “No. I can see it in your eyes,” his voice sounded tight with anguish. “You hear me, you see me, but you don’t. It’s as though I’m screaming mute, and you’re nodding just to accommodate me.” That shook you visibly, and Jimin insisted, “All I want is for you to actually listen.”

You gripped your hands and nodded, and Yoongi supported his head on his hand.

“I knew from the moment I saw you, there was something about you.” His eyes were locked with yours and you gulped. “Call it fate, attraction, love at first sight— I don’t know, and I don’t care! I just knew, and everything was perfect ever since. You and I— I don’t think it’s even contestable how much we fit. I don’t need to draw you a picture because you know. You feel it too.”

You stayed quiet, and Yoongi couldn’t decide if that was a dick move or self-preservation.

“So when you tell me you want to end things, it’s like nothing makes sense! Nothing!” He insisted, voice wavering with the tears in his brown eyes. “Because I know you love me too!”

“You’re right, I do,” you acceded, and it looked to Yoongi like you were opting for the truth. “But I’m not your future.”

“How can you say that?!” Which would upset Jimin, of course.

“Because I know it’s the truth,” your lips curved in a beautiful small smile and Yoongi almost cursed. It would be easier to make the man hate you if you didn’t look heavenly without trying. Jimin would be a stupid man to let you go. “I believe there’s another fated love out there for you. I wish you find each other and live a happy, wholesome life together.”

Jimin shook his head in aversion and confusion, “No!! What the hell are you—?”

He stopped and Yoongi rubbed his mouth. You were saying goodbye and it was quite firm.

Jimin became livid, “If I made a mistake, I—”

“You didn’t,” you countered firmly, stepping forward. “I don’t want you to think that for a second.”

It was the first time you gave him something and Jimin couldn’t help himself, “We don’t have to marry.”

“It’s not that.”

“How can you say that?!”

“Jimin—”

“I mention it, and suddenly you want to end everything! I should have never said anything!”

“No, I’m happy you did,” you stepped again to face him, and you were earnest. “It opened my eyes to the decisions I was making, to— to the way I was living. It’s not about you. I’m not ready, Jimin.”

He looked hopeless, “What?”

“I’m not ready to— to live such a grand love,” you smiled sadly as you said it, and Jimin’s voice wavered as he protested with your name. “I screwed it up for myself, and for you by extension. I know what I’m doing, so won't you please trust me?”

Jimin’s desperation overturned in the tears streaming down his face and Yoongi got up. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry,” you finally raised your arms to offer a hug, and he let you, hiding his sobs in your neck.

You kept comforting him, and Yoongi had to admit it was sweet. You managed to appeal to his senses with a truth that he couldn’t defy. Yoongi could see it in the way his shoulders shook in sorrow — he respected you as a person and your decision. Even to Yoongi, it would always be elusive if Jimin genuinely loved you or was compelled by demonic magic, but that right there could be undeniable proof of authenticity. Hellish magic had a way of warping things, of distorting them, especially feelings. Jimin could have turned out to be obsessive, but he respected you enough to end things. 

“I’ll still be your biggest fan, no matter what,” you promised, still well in his embrace.

“You don't have to lose me,” he pulled away to face you, and Yoongi nodded — there it was. “I don't want you to! We could— We could stay friends or—”

“I can’t handle that,” you confessed, brushing his hair to the side.

He pursed his lips and saw your arms letting him go before he asked, “Will I ever know why you’re making this decision?”

You pressed your lips, but you never answered his question.

Yoongi was proud of how you handled your mistakes regarding your fated love, but he kept checking in on you. At first, you kept calling for him multiple times a day, and he always went to you, even if you never knew. He was there the day you tried drinking again, only to shatter the glass against a wall, and when you tried gambling all your money away only to have more pop up the next day, miraculously.

Because he was always there, he saw the moment you stopped crying and peeked your head out of the sheets, facing your empty wrists. He was sitting on the bed next to you, and your wet, puffy face still revealed to him the extent of your thoughts: he wasn’t coming. It was the way you pursed your lips in irritation and sorrow, not knowing he was right there next to you, right before you sat up and decided to grab your phone and call someone. 

Something changed for you that day, as though a switch was flipped. He never knew exactly what, only that you took a quick shower and headed out with determination. He followed you; you met with friends and tried being lively, and he thought it was sincere. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what it was that comforted you enough to get out of bed.

Time passed and although you’d only call for him once daily, he’d still accompany you for far more than that. You were finding your structure, trying to find things you liked and could dedicate yourself to, and there were green flags all around, but still. He kept showing up, always with an urge, a twitch he couldn’t shake off.

Time passed differently for him, and he was afraid of missing something important. That was why he was now facing the window of that luxurious gentleman’s den — which was really a demon den — while drinking his neat whiskey and ignoring the other demons in the room. A month into stepping away from your life, he found himself more invested than ever before, choosing to see you on the window instead of his reflection. He didn’t even notice his breath caught at the sight — you had been contacting people, but now you were finally at a music label. Standing in front of a studio assigned to you to give it a try, your hand was hovering above the doorknob, hesitating. His heart was racing as if he could rush there and grab your hand around it, taking that step with you.

His lips twitched when you grabbed the doorknob. Then, upon seeing the room, you took a deep breath and entered it. His eyes teared up.

“Are you checking on that soul again?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling that victory close to his heart. He probably shouldn’t feel that way, but he couldn’t think about it right now.

“I personally wouldn’t want to keep snacking on the same soul but…”

Yoongi turned and took his glass to his mouth, seeing Hoseok shrug on the chestnut leather armchair. On the chair next to his was Namjoon, who had originally asked the question; meanwhile, Taehyung was contemplating his options from the liquor cabinet.

“We all know some are sweeter than others,” his tone was velvety right as his tongue peeked between his teeth and he reached for a bottle. “Maybe Suga here was just lucky with this one.”

Yoongi finished his drink, the one from his private collection that, unbeknownst to you, you had helped curate, and placed his glass on a nearby table. The heavy carpet in shades of yellow and black muffled his steps as he gathered a new drink from the four Taehyung was serving.

“Hmm,” Hoseok twisted his nose before he accepted the drink from Namjoon. “There’s something about someone who is too sweet.”

Yoongi didn’t reply nor indulge in their conversation. Instead, he moved back to the window and took another peek: you were sitting down in front of the console, but your eyes fell on the piano inside the recording room, and you couldn’t stop yourself. He watched with bated breath as you sat down, placed your fingers over the keys, and pressed. His heart thrummed in response, and he blinked.

His reflection showed instead, including the unshed tears in his dark eyes, and he was bewildered. He hadn't shed tears in forever. Why now?

“If I didn’t know better… I’d say you’re in love.”

Taehyung’s voice was cloying, the impossibility of his suggestion beyond a tease and far into the realm of absurdity. So it was no surprise the whole room laughed and Yoongi's lips twitched with derision.

He took the glass to his lips, swallowing the bitter choice — he knew he couldn’t love.

Regardless of how many whiskeys Yoongi drank, all made him twist his nose. He couldn’t help it — all carried an acridity that offended his palate, or maybe it was just him trying to recall a fond taste that nothing could match.

The reason for his bitterness came down to the irrationality of his actions. The other demons would tease him at times about his attitude, and it was not that he cared — every single one of them had their illogical moments too. The problem was that he didn’t know why he was acting like this, but he had been giving it some thought.

The tears — it was the moment he was forced to admit it, but there was more. You had accused him of breaking the rules, and he couldn’t deny it, though he was sure you didn’t know how far he had gone. Giving freebies was frowned upon, but preventing you from making stupid wishes? Unheard of. No one would bat an eye at his refusal to take you earlier, as that was against good practice, but fucking you until you took a wish back? Everyone would lose their minds if they knew.

Which they wouldn’t, and although he didn’t care, he still went to you to figure it out. You stopped calling him daily and three months in, you looked well. He observed you leading your life, chatting, sleeping, or scrolling on your phone, with a sense that was unfamiliar and didn’t clarify anything for him.

Not in the beginning, but as he observed you, he ascertained a few things. You knew his name, but he wasn’t worried about it at all. He didn’t believe you’d use it, as you hadn’t, and you never wrote it down or uttered it to anyone else ever since. He didn’t fear you’d take your own life or ruin your life; you were doing well now. So what was it that made him look at the window again and instantly take a look at you?

He closed his eyes, forcing the scent of the cigar to pull him back to the demon den where he spent most of his downtime, like now. Anything to curb the need to find out where you were because one glimpse showed him that you were nervous about something, and now he was unsettled.

“Here.”

Yoongi heaved a deep breath, letting the exquisite combination of woodiness and leather of the cigar’s fume scratch his tongue before turning around. Jin was holding a neat whiskey for him to take.

“Why are you so obsessed with this human?” Jin asked, and Yoongi took a sip, grimacing instantly. It wasn’t right. “She’s already yours.”

Jin sat down on an armchair and the invitation for Yoongi to sit beside him on the other one was clear. They were alone, and Yoongi wouldn’t have bothered sitting or replying if that wasn’t his mentor.

He sat down, “She is.”

His tone was low and quiet, and the way he instantly took another sip didn’t go unnoticed by either of them.

Jin scrunched his nose a little, then suddenly gasped, “Is she related to June?” Yoongi nodded and Jin laughed wholeheartedly, “Ah, that one.” His smile danced on his lips for a moment. “I must confess I still remember her, even almost a century later,” he licked his lips. “Lucky you to get her descendant.” Yoongi didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed on his drink. “Is she leaving offspring?”

“No.”

“Oh. Such a shame,” Yoongi could tell Jin meant it. “June had a very sweet soul, it was a total contradiction to her personality,” he smirked, licking his lips again. “Her great-granddaughter would too.” Yoongi still didn’t budge and Jin looked away, “I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

Yoongi remained impassive, though he was remembering your sweet taste. Your soul belonged to him, no one would ever be able to take it, steal it, or touch it, and so he was at ease.

“I can see you do too.”

Yoongi thought about ignoring Jin, but in the end, all he did was take another bittersweet sip. “Not sweet enough.”

Jin grinned and drew the glass to his perfect plum lips; no, he could guess no one would ever compare to you.

Something echoed in the air, like a doorbell chiming, and both demons knew automatically where it was coming from and whose turn or turf it was. 

Jin kept drinking, and Yoongi nodded, “You can have this one.”

Jin swallowed harshly as his eyebrows shot up. Yoongi could be going through whatever that was, but to refuse a soul was—

He got up and Jin understood without words. “Alright.”

Yoongi took a deep drag from his cigar before vanishing, releasing the smoke as he transposed planes all the way to you. Your soul had called to him at the same time, and if the other soul sounded like a bell chiming, yours sounded like a piano brightening the fluttering wings of a butterfly — quite simply irresistible.

He found you in a studio room with a man, each of you in your own chairs, listening to a string melody coming from the speakers. You were wearing something comfortable, as you did when you went to the studio these days, and were looking down, rubbing your wrists gently as you listened in silence.

I miss you pushing me close to the edge, I miss you

It was your voice, your song, and suddenly the excitement was looking to burst out of him.

You set fire to my world, couldn't handle the heat

Now I'm sleeping alone and I'm starting to freeze

Baby, come bring me hell

Let it rain over me

Baby, come back to me

His grin widened as he heard you, and he let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and enjoyed it.

I want you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, you to ruin my life, yeah

He loved that the piano set the tone of each verse, that a quick beat mimicked a racing heartbeat, and that it was exulting. By the time the bridge was repeating, he opened his eyes to look at you, and something overheated inside him, like a motor about to explode. You wanted him to bring you hell and ruin your life, and little did you know how much he wanted to grab you, kiss you, and do just that.

He didn’t because the man in the room shook his head in disbelief, “You call this a guide track?”

You shrugged, “Yeah, why not?”

“This— We could record it, but your vocals are—” He seemed incredulous that you were simply staring at him, not seeing it. “It’s good! There’s emotion, and your range is beautiful! If you want to rethink starting a career as—”

“I don’t,” you raised your hand firmly. “All I want is to be free to create as many songs as I please.”

The man sighed and Yoongi lowered his eyes. “Okay, well. I won’t fight you.” You nodded and meant to pass on to something else, but he continued, “But I do want to ask… If you’d be okay with Jimin singing this.”

You stopped and looked at the man, who was in all likelihood a producer, and hesitated.

“I know you guys ended things, but he said he’d like to listen to anything you make.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched in a knowing smile as you thought it over. You had stayed away from Jimin, who had surprisingly respected your decision and done the same. You were both fated to love and care for one another in your own ways, so Yoongi wondered what your response would be: a firm no, or a ceding yes.

“You can give it to him to see if he’d like it, on the condition that he doesn’t know it’s mine,” you decided. “I don’t want that to be a ruling factor on whether he picks it.”

“He’ll know as soon as he hears it.”

“You can tell him I just recorded the track.”

The man opened his mouth to continue giving you arguments but decided to stop there. Your gaze was resolute both in your decision and the wish to move on to work on something else, and the producer got up and left, resigned.

You put black headphones on and started working on something else while Yoongi stared at you. He could hear it in the back of his mind — you asking him so beautifully for him to ruin your life — and it made him want to get on his knees and hold you.

That was the moment that your surroundings hit him and everything made sense, like a card slotting in place. He wrapped his arms around you, placing his chin on your shoulder as you hummed something. You couldn’t feel him, but he could feel you, and he closed his eyes. You breathed music, you were the kind of muse he couldn’t deny, and he got it.

He wasn’t just proud that you were finally free from your shackles, fulfilling your soul’s desires, he was living it as well. There was an inevitability to it all. The way you two resembled one another, at least the human he once was, pulled a chord inside a heart he didn’t know he had. How else could he justify always going back to you? Pushing you to do better? Getting annoyed when you swerved from the path and avoided your true calling? The color and melody of your soul that he could see so clearly and held so dearly?

He just wished for you to make it. Because if you did, then maybe a part of him, the human remnants, would feel vindicated too. 

But that couldn’t be the only reason why. He breathed in the sugary white raspberry scent seeping from your hair, feeling the compulsion, demonic or otherwise, to own you. To at least be a part of you in any way he could, and as you experimented with effects and chuckled, he almost turned you to face him to kiss you desperately.

He remembered his reaction when you asked for that human, Jimin, to love you. Yoongi had made a mistake that day — he got too involved. He knew that you’d encounter Jimin at that party, and he wasn’t able to resist seeing it happen. He had the distinct impression that your soul didn’t change as much as it should have from such a life defining encounter, but it didn’t matter because when you called for Yoongi, you had Jimin on your mind.

It was no coincidence that Yoongi had gripped your flesh and fucked you onto that mattress, wishing to leave his mark on you. It was not by accident that he didn’t go to you in those six months that you were with Jimin, that he purposefully eradicated you from his mind and was bitter at anything remotely sweet. He thought he had become stupidly attached and even mocked himself for it — as if he, a demon, could get pussy whipped or something. But now, he could see it — and it was so simple.

If you had met as humans, you would have been explosive. He would have loved you madly. A part of him wished that would have happened.

He chuckled; of course, it would have been a disaster. He left you to your creations in that studio room, and his consciousness stretched as he made his way back to his plane. With both your addiction problems, you both would have probably died fairly quickly. But it would have been mad and passionate, and you would have birthed amazing, unparalleled music.

Unfortunately, none of that mattered. He was a demon, you were never alive at the same time and you had a fated love. Maybe that was why he gave you what you wanted and stepped back. If experiencing a bit of fated love would snap you out of it and make you live the rest of your life, then he’d do it. And he did. Only to realize that it hurt you, that helping you made things worse.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He could only shrug; he was a demon.

But that was when he realized that by trying to help you, he was feeding your spiral instead of helping you get out of it. Leaving and never showing up again was the best he could have done, right after refusing your last wish. 

He couldn’t give you what you wanted and had refused to see why for so long, but not anymore. He couldn’t steal your last opportunity to fulfill yourself and reach a little bit of happiness. He couldn’t punish you and take away the little time you had left, he wanted to see you fly. For his own selfish reasons, maybe, but also just for the sheer pleasure of it.

And now you were where you should have been all along, releasing bits and pieces of your sweet soul. He was proud, even if he hadn’t done anything, or arguably, made it all harder. Part of him hated that he ever offered you a deal, but if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else.

Now you belonged to him. You wouldn’t consume each other in your love to make amazing music as humans, but fate was not unkind. Soon, he’d have you to himself. For now, however, he would have to be contented with just visiting you and listening without partaking.

That was how he found himself in yet another visit. This time you were in your apartment, windows open with the curtains almost floating in the air. He chuckled, seeing that it was late morning, and you were still in your bed, but then he heard something.

Your moans were short and sweet, almost like a hiss, and he stopped at the sliding doors of the bedroom. His gut twisted and he scowled at himself. The human remnants of his soul were always the strongest near you, as he had come to realize, but maybe it had come the time to squish them. Maybe seeing you with someone would effectively rid him of that annoying trace.

Doors meant nothing to him, he just passed right through, only to stop in surprise. You were alone.

He got near you and kneeled on the bed, swallowing dryly at the sight. You were naked over your black silk sheets, facing up with your legs parted and a hand giving you the rubbing that was making you squirm and huff. He ate the image of you like an animal starved, watching your slick drip down onto your sheets as you bucked your hips to intensify the feeling. 

Inadvertently, his hands found their spot atop your knees, but he controlled himself in time so that you wouldn’t feel it. It was hard for him, though. Your breathing was intensifying, your tongue peeking between your teeth, while you raised your free hand above your head as if you wanted it pinned down. And fuck, did he want to give you everything you desired. Just the sight could drive him mad; he knew how much of a vice you could be, tightening around him mercilessly. He knew how sweet you tasted and how easily he could brighten your soul just by ramming his cock inside you and making you see stars.

He was burning, going mad, delirious from keeping himself at bay for so long. With every moan, he thought the next would be the one to break him. He fought himself with all his might, the claws looking to snatch you for eternity extending and barely grazing your skin, until finally you gasped.

He saw you squirming in pleasure, moaning anxiously as you rolled your hips, coaxing him to drool and leak like crazy right before you. 

When you settled down, he almost cursed you. You couldn’t know how crazy you rendered him; insane and mindless, and he wished he could do the same to you. He wished he was driving you up the wall, but you were but a fickle human. It had been six months since you last saw him, you’d have forgotten him by now, and—

You chuckled with your forearm over your eyes, “Kitten.”

You pulled your knees away as you rolled to put your feet on the floor and step away. The sound of you showering and singing was carried all the way to him, but he was still as you had unknowingly left him: kneeling on your bed, frozen with his head hanging low. 

Six months passed and there were still six more to go, and yet… he was the one you were thinking about.

He pulled the hair out of his face and took a deep breath, your perfume and arousal still hanging in the air, then bit his lip. Something was happening inside his chest, something he didn’t know was possible, and he couldn’t help a sneer. He blamed the single human heart string still left inside his heart, the one that only you could pull.

He never knew he could feel this way, but he was counting down the days. He regretted nothing, and he could wait. The best whiskeys had to sit in barrels for a long time until they matured to perfection. Six months wasn’t long, and he had your music to fill his ears. He could wait.

You woke up with a ping from your phone and as you stared at the ceiling of your bedroom, you let reality dawn on you — that was it. You sat up and pulled the AirPods out of your ears before you rubbed your eyes and let the muffled sounds of the city reach your ears. You couldn’t sleep the night before, both in excitement and nervousness, so you had decided to close your eyes and listen to music, finding comfort in the lullabies and soundtracks you had composed over the last year. Some could have stayed up doing crazy things in their last hours on earth, but not you. You had planned your last twenty-four hours to make sure you did everything you wanted and needed to, and sleeping, even if only a few hours, was fortunate.

You reached for your phone and your chest filled with relief. Finally. 

You got up, put a black silk robe on, and got to your piano room — a fairly recent addition to your apartment, all things considered. You had worried for the last couple of months that the one thing you had decided to do and leave behind wouldn’t become official on time, but you just received good news: you succeeded.

You walked into the room with dark wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows letting the morning sun and skyline comfort you, and then you sat on the red velvety piano stool and took a deep breath. The nonprofit organization you had founded and coordinated for a year to ensure equal treatment and protection of professional rights in the music industry had been finally officially recognized by the government. This meant that it could provide counseling to professionals and fight for their rights, whether economical, social, or legal. Your shoulders relaxed as you let the worry dissipate from your body; that was one of the items on your bucket list. Now, you could get started on the others.

Your fingers touched the keys, but you didn’t press them. This was a very important moment for you, and it couldn’t be rushed. You had spent the last month composing multiple melodies and accompaniment to what you had hoped to create today: your last song. The only testament that mattered in the end; the only way you’d be able to leave behind the truth to anyone who would listen.

You made sure the microphones were close to the piano soundboard and turned the recording on before adjusting yourself. You closed your eyes, trying to let the moment take you. It would be the last piece of your soul that you’d leave behind, and you wanted it to be as genuine as possible.

You started delicately on keys with more treble, softly pressing them as a chick would chirp after hatching from its egg. You were born in a loving nest, innocent to the world around you darkening as sickness ravished your mother. You matched your innocence with darker tones, establishing a baseline you didn’t quite understand at the time. Yet, everything would take its toll, even on you. As your mother lost the ability to grow your family, it caused a rift. 

You tried to reach out to your parents but soon discovered that you were surrounded by tutors and incentivized to learn as many skills and talents as possible, not so you could make them proud, but so that you’d fit a list of requirements for your solitary standing. They didn’t congratulate you for your swimming medals, prizes for winning obstacle tracks in equestrian competitions, or trophies for your ballet performances. You would strain yourself trying to achieve the highest graces, have good grades, and excel in your piano lessons, but your parents never showed to your recitals or school meetings. Your nanny assured you they saw the videos and bragged about it to all their friends, and you wondered why they wouldn’t celebrate with you, then. The void grew between you and them, and you never learned to fly properly. Rather, you learned nothing could bridge the gap, neither the good nor the bad; they just weren’t there.

You pressed the keys more softly, trying to push the melody from lower to higher registers in an attempt to fill the emptiness inside your chest. Because although your parents never cared, the piano was always there for you. It didn’t hurt you, it listened, and it always let you echo your thoughts. You thought you had found your calling, and you pressed the keys gently, tentatively; the more you tried and delved into the world of music, the surer you became.

But you were naive. The piano was good and tried to keep you safe, but there was this spiral, and you thought it would lead you up, into a higher understanding, into love, but it went down, and down. So low you became spent and graceless, dwindling like a flame smothered by a cup. You needed something to help your broken and abused soul surrounded by nothing but darkness.

You found it in sparks. Sparks and sprinkles, as exciting as the higher keys you were pressing, but equally fleeting. They were a boost, a thrill, a euphoric moment of rapture, and a delusion. Because as those notes became ever ephemeral, so did your semblance of control. The void in their absence imposed grueling efforts to keep you afloat, and you struggled.

Your fingers pressed the keys desperately, oscillating between highs and lows as you tried to keep your head above water. You weren’t good, you were never assembled properly, you had no purpose, and sooner or later, you had to leave the nest. You didn’t expect to be kicked out coldly and at the same time thought it was fitting, seeing the lows you had reached.

Then, the register of your life changed because, in a turn of events, you had a choice. A choice of grand potential for a hefty price. You had no idea what you were doing, only that you wanted to be in the comfort you had known all your life, so you made a deal to ensure you wouldn’t lose what you knew, perpetuating the same vicious cycle that had kept you stuck and in the dark.

However, something unexpected came with that deal — someone. Someone who filled your baseline with shades of blue in a baritone range that tried balancing your deregulated soprano cries. Your life became lavish but eventually guided, and despite your mishaps, he was there. In spite of your mistakes, flaws, and petty decisions, regardless of his enabling role — he was there. 

But you didn’t know better. You refused to open your eyes, attempting to replace one addiction with another until you made the most egregious mistake.

You paused in an attempt to find the right key. Love was like the first sun rays of morning, and fated love was like a summer day. Yet, you knew and valued neither. You couldn’t recognize it from the bubble you were in, and so you twisted your red string of fate until it became feeble. Exhausted of integrity, there was nothing left, and you lost it all. It took a sizable fall for you to realize that life couldn’t be lived without hardships, that struggle brought purpose, that love was worth burning for, and that fate was but a potential course of action. You had picked your love over a year before fate presented itself, and you should have known better than to threaten and push him away.

But there was hope. You realized it the second you recalled the look in his eyes right before a tender last kiss and goodbye — you were given a chance. Because although there was a price to pay for your blindness and recklessness, your potential never waned. It took you a moment to see it, but now you were finally free. There was freedom in solitude, in living for yourself and deciphering what could make your last year worth it rather than living for someone else, or dreading anyone else, including yourself.

That was why your song would end on a high note — on a hopeful spring morning about to dawn. Not for yourself, but for the roots you planted. For others to have opportunities in your wake.

Your fingers stopped, and you looked down, feeling the smooth key surfaces almost as if they were part of you. That was where you wanted your story to end, that was what you were able to tell.

Before heading to the studio room, you stopped the recording and brushed your hand over the piano in a last goodbye. You put your headset on and spent the next hours mixing the other melodies and instruments with yours. You didn’t eliminate mistakes or fill the pauses — you wanted everything exactly as you expressed originally.

Because of your preparation and how long you had spent envisioning your legacy, you finished the song quite rapidly. You were happy with it and right on time for your daily massage.

You smiled and waved at everyone on your way to your appointment, asking your masseuse trivial things before you started. You had since learned her name, that her grandmother was sick, and that she had gotten that job by accident when another professional had failed to show up during recruitment. You had become intrigued with hearing other’s stories, searching to learn and live other experiences through them, since you wouldn’t have the time to do it yourself.

During the relaxing time of your massage, soothed by the ringing of the Tibetan Singing Bowl and the water streaming peacefully from the speakers, your mind wandered. Today was about closing chapters, and you were well on your way and had decided not to bother Jimin. You had spoken with his manager since Jimin had chosen songs of yours to perform and kept in touch. You knew that he was holding up well and although his manager never mentioned it directly, he didn’t have to. Whenever Jimin was seen in public, even now, a year later, he still had the pendant you gave him on your three-month anniversary. You remembered him fondly and suspected he did too. Whenever you crossed paths, he was gentle and never once imposing or invasive — he respected your decision and didn’t hate you for it, which you were grateful for. You’d like to believe he found comfort in the thought of you, as you did of him, and that his love could one day transform into affection for a close friend. Maybe it already had.

It was a good outcome for such a colossal mistake — not caring for him or meeting him, but forcing him to feel something that, in the end, might not have happened to begin with. You realized in hindsight, after processing your feelings and decisions, that you had made your choice before you acknowledged it. Just as you revealed during your song, you had chosen Yoongi before fate presented you with Jimin. And you didn’t do it just by taking the deal, but because you depended on him, opened yourself to him, and yearned for him long before you were aware. Jimin was a calm ocean, whereas Yoongi was a succession of massive waves you were eager to surf.

You probably should have never fallen for him, never made the deal, never looked at him twice, never let yourself feel cradled and safe in his presence, but it still happened. And maybe it had been for the best too, because you weren’t sure you would have ever met Jimin or composed any lullabies otherwise. You had become a person so lazy that you refused to get clean, preferring to die on a hill from dehydration and cardiac arrest rather than yield and fight for yourself. Yoongi cured you so you could see past it, and maybe Jimin could have as well, but you doubted you’d live enough to meet to him. You were even too lazy to wait for his love to bloom naturally — it could be that the person you had become just didn’t deserve him altogether.

As you got back to your apartment, you mused over every little choice that led you to the big decisions down the line. You were in love with a demon and about to be taken by him and still, you were nothing but calm. What did that make you? You shrugged and left the elevator — you felt how you felt, it was a bit too late for regrets.

“Ah, miss.” You nodded at the maid who usually tended to your needs, Vera. “The organization has just sent something in for your approval.”

She stepped aside for you to enter your apartment, the black silk robe rustling at your passage. You noticed the big frame on your red velvet couch and went in that direction, pulling the white sheet over it to reveal a portrait. A big portrait of you with a fairly gentle expression, glistening eyes, and long hair falling over your shoulder. Behind you, there were depictions of recording rooms, concert halls with orchestras, and on the corner, a grand black piano that you brushed your fingers over.

You analyzed the drawings around your figure more than your face and noticed something was missing. The portrait of your great-grandmother came to mind and your lips twitched. Unlike hers, yours didn’t involve darkness, but she had portrayed something important that yours lacked. Maybe you could ask Yoongi to add it before taking you.

“What do you think?” You asked Vera, whose wide blue eyes displayed her shock at being asked.

You chuckled; she couldn’t seem to get used to it.

“You look splendid!”

You pursed your lips, “But what about my legacy?” She blinked, caught off guard, and you pointed, “What represents me — does it make sense?”

“Of course!” She stepped forward to your side, and you waited patiently for her analysis. She was shorter than you, but delicate in her mannerisms. At about your age, you hoped she’d have a long life ahead of her. “They could have added children or the cartoons. You know, the ones you develop the soundtracks for.”

“Children?”

“For the lullabies.”

You chuckled, “Well. It might have made it goofy,” you shrugged, though a smile adorned your lips the whole time. “It should be serious, after all. The first of many.”

“You’ll probably have another one done down the line,” Vera mused. You were quiet but your eyes on her were just enough to pressure her to explain, “This is just the beginning of the organization and your leadership will last for many years.”

Your lips twitched; she was endearing, but there would be a new president of the organization very soon. 

“Thank you, Vera. It can stay there while I think about it, but in case anyone asks, it’s perfect.”

Vera nodded and left after probing whether you’d like brunch or lunch, and you refused both, much to her disappointment. You didn’t want her to find you dead and had tried to give her the day off, but she had declined — yet another thing you would bring up with Yoongi.

You glanced at the portrait again and nodded. You were happy everything was set and prepared for your inevitable passing. All your wealth would be left to the non-profit organization, all jobs associated with you would be secured, and your presence would linger in the cartoons and music spread all around, immortalizing you, in a sense. Not that you wanted that, but you did find joy in hearing your melodies played, regardless of the medium, and found the thought that it would outlast you comforting.

You sat by your desk and faced the blank sheets of paper before you. You had thought long and hard and, despite being estranged, decided you should leave something to your parents too.

You thought it would be harder to put your feelings to paper, but it was surprisingly easy. There was no point in grudges or accusations, or in causing pain or reopening wounds. You wanted them to have peace.

You started with your father’s, remembering the letter he had left you the day he kicked you out.

I know you probably regret it, but I wish you didn’t. Your efforts gave me a chance I was not ready to take. As a parent, that was all you could have done. In the end, I’m still thankful for all the opportunities that brought me here, even the ones I couldn’t appreciate before.

Then you wrote the one to your mother. It took you a moment to begin.

How difficult it must have been to suffer for so long to keep the promise to not let me go through life alone. I wish I could erase the pain that both the cancer and the loss of a child marked on your heart. I wish you had not seen me grow to become yet another pain. As always, I wanted to make you proud of the kid you had, or if not, for you to at least remember me. I’m sorry I failed to see that there was no way you could have forgotten. The right way to make you proud was to be happy; I lost track of that somewhere. I wish for you to know that I’ve found it, somewhat. I hope you know I’m happy, and that you can find happiness in that too.

You took a third paper sheet and thought of Jimin. You were afraid of how the news would impact him, and so you kept your message simple.

Please be happy, mimi. I wish for that with all of my heart.

Unlike your parent's letters, left folded and addressed over your desk, Jimin’s stayed in your hands. You looked at the clock and sighed, getting up to sit on your bed as you faced the city out of the window. Asking Yoongi’s opinion could prove unwise, but he would know. You hadn’t seen him in a year, but you trusted the demon you knew — the one who wouldn’t lie to you.

You quite simply waited for him like this. None of what you had done had changed anything — you still sold your soul, committed your sins, and were ready to be taken. You were more nervous about Yoongi’s thoughts on how you spent your last year than anything else. You pressed your lips; you wanted to make him proud.

You didn’t notice the clock pointer rushing over the twelve, only the growling. You turned to the slid-open doors of your bedroom to find Yoongi there, standing in his black suit, looking at you. Your eyes watered at the ethereal sight; not that you could have forgotten, but he was even more breathtaking than your memory could do justice. And he was there, just like he promised.

You glanced at the dogs, each by his side, black fur shrouded in mist with red glistening eyes trained on you. They were growling loudly but didn’t show signs of impatience, and you smiled.

“Legends speak of hounds that chase people like me.”

“They won’t chase you,” he said, and your heart shook.

“I wouldn’t run.”

Tears ran down your face as you got up with Jimin’s letter still tucked in your hands. You weren’t sad per se; you were very happy to see him again.

He entered the room, walking in your direction, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Despite your cry, he didn’t seem worried. Rather, he seemed impatient.

“Did you finish all your business?”

Your lips twitched in a smile, and you wiped your cheeks, “I knew you’d ask.” You raised the letter in between you two, “It’s for Jimin. I… don’t know if I should send it.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to make things worse for him,” you confessed, unsure on how much you should reveal. Gazing up into his eyes, you knew you didn’t have to go into details. “I just wanted him to know that I wish for him to find happiness, but I don’t know if it will make sense to him. You know, when I pass.”

Yoongi was silent, and you raised your eyes to him. There was no judgment on his delicate features; if anything, only understanding. “I can make it look like something sudden that you could be somewhat aware of. Like an aneurysm or a stroke.”

Your lips parted in surprise, and then you considered it, “The drugs… would have made it possible, no?” Yoongi nodded. “And that would justify why I’m leaving a letter like this. Okay, that’s a good idea,” you agreed, though you instantly filled your chest with air. You wondered if it would hurt. “Do you think it will help him? To deal with my— death?”

“I think he’ll be mad about it forever,” he revealed, shifting on his feet. 

“Why? If it was something unpreventable and sudden like this, shouldn’t it be…”

You couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t wait for you, “Whatever little time he could have had with you, he would have preferred it. Especially if you knew your days were numbered.”

You chuckled bitterly, “Then it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he interrupted as you shifted the letter between your hands. “To receive a letter means you thought of him. Thought to give him closure. He will hate it because he had no control over it, but he’ll be comforted by the fact that you thought of him. Love… takes many forms.”

You smiled, “Okay, then let’s do that.” You placed the letter over your nightstand then turned to him, “There are… a couple of things I’d like to ask of you.”

He sighed, but you could see through his exasperation; he wasn’t annoyed, he expected it. “Yes?”

“Could Vera not find me dead? I don't want to traumatize her.”

He frowned, “Vera?”

“My maid.”

He blinked before chuckling, “Sure.”

“And… could you give my portrait a final touch?” He raised an eyebrow, and you pointed out of the room at the couch, “You’re missing in it.”

“This one?” He asked, and as you blinked, he was holding the portrait. 

You hummed, observing his reaction as he gazed upon that depiction of you. He took longer than you would have expected, going over every little detail. You couldn’t help your nervousness; it was as though he was evaluating your performance. Not of the painting, but of your life. You bit your lip with curiosity.

“And I’m missing?”

He glanced at you, and you nodded before he returned to the image with pursed lips. He was taking his time, and you couldn’t have guessed his thoughts — your cupid’s bow was much perkier than that.

“How should I do it?”

You mused about it and let your head lean against his arm as you observed the painting. “Something blue.”

His eyes stayed on you before he rubbed the portrait with his thumb ever so slightly. A shade of blue under the piano replaced its shadow, and you smiled. You felt incredibly at ease — now it was complete.

You straightened up and nodded, and in a second the portrait was over your couch again.

“Thank you.”

“Ready?”

Your smile widened, “Yes.”

You became deaf to the growling, the city noise, or even the thumping of your heart as you faced him. Your eyes drank every microexpression on his marble skin as you waited with bated breath for him to touch you. You didn’t know what was supposed to happen, only that you’d belong to him, and that was enough. You could only hope you’d get to feel his touch before dying, that you could remember the ache inside your chest at your longing, and that you’d see him again.

The back of his finger touched your cheek and your breath caught. The way he was looking at you entranced you and made you forget about everything that wasn’t your reunion. His dark eyes glistened with something you couldn’t decipher, but that had a sweet flame licking up your stomach to your chest, only to tighten its hold when his thumb brushed over your lips. You held your breath, unable to do anything that could stop this when he suddenly leaned in and crashed your mouths together. He raised you to him by the waist, lips voraciously devouring you, your taste, and your every breath. You met his hunger, gripping his dark hair so he’d stay forever on your lips, and you believed then that maybe he had been waiting for this just like you.

You didn’t want your kiss to simmer out, but his hand on your neck reassured you when he pulled away. You could see hunger and maybe even desperation in his glistening dark eyes, but then he blinked, and you knew it was time. He only needed one nod to press your lips ardently again, and you let go. You melted in his arms, guided by his taste and tongue as you abandoned your volition. Whatever he decided was what you wanted as well as long as he never let go, and he wouldn’t. You trusted him absolutely.

The flames of your desire and passion were rampant in you, without a semblance of weakness, not now that he was holding you. But you were used to your fervent yearning, so you didn’t understand when it went beyond your threshold until a second too late. Your heart beat intensely and your nails sank into his flesh, and as your mind flooded with dopamine, all you saw was white.

You woke up utterly dazed and confused, so nauseated you couldn’t distinguish above from below. But as you trashed around, trying to free your limbs and breathe, you realized you were on an expansive bed, fighting silk sheets. 

You sat up with your long hair falling messily over your face and frowned. You were in a wide bedroom with a tall ceiling with celestial scenes depicted and a large chandelier with black candles hanging from it. Over you, were black silk sheets just like the ones you liked, and over them and around you, red velvety pillows and blankets. The walls were dark, just like the floor, and to the side, the floor-to-ceiling windows let an unnatural shine in. You had no idea where you were and as you touched your chest and neck, you noticed your familiar black silk robe. Then you touched your lips, remembering just how frantically you were kissing him and—

You pushed the covers and jumped off the bed, running straight for the door. Tears were threatening to stream down your face not because you regretted or because you were frightened, but because you were alone.

Yoongi.

Your heart called out to him as you dragged the tall mahogany door open and rushed out. The whole mansion had dark walls and paintings whenever there was no door or on the ceiling, and you kept running until you found the central staircase. You looked down and, finally, your heart jumped; you took support on the banister and rushed downstairs until you could reach the first floor.

The stairs ended on a wide, several-floor high hall with only glass as walls. In it, at its center, was a red circular carpet with a black piano. It was as though Yoongi was waiting for you because as soon as your bare foot stepped over the carpet, he started playing.

You held your breath, unsure of what that meant or what you could say, but you still neared him. Slowly, your anxiety melted and your brow furrowed. What did he mean, he’d been waiting?

It took you a second to realize what was happening. He kept playing, eyes closed and head hanging back, and you observed him. You almost opened your mouth, but then you understood. You sat by his side on the long stool and pressed the keys with higher treble a bit tentatively, and he eyed you.

Your lips pursed as you retorted his glance, and then his music. You had been waiting too, you wanted to talk to him.

He heard your notes with closed eyes, and you saw him visibly relaxing before he played his reply.

I knew you’d be the one.

You froze, unable to press any keys, and just looked at him with wide, tearing eyes. He turned to you, reaching to cup your cheeks before pressing his lips to yours, and you were strangely revitalized, swimming in peace.

When he moved away, you asked him, “What now?”

“Now, I have you.”