Save The Sharks Pleek

save the sharks pleek

Omfg me too

ha?

every single person who reblogs this

every

single

person

will get “doot doot” in their ask box

Namjoon "fuck let's go" in still life- MALFUNCTIONING

At around like 2:17 😫🤚

a mochi asked me to choose and well… i love both white and dark chocolate..😌 {cr. namuspromised, dwellingsouls, 0613data, @yoonjinns}

JIN WILL APPEAR ON LEE YOUNGJIS SHOW OMGGGGG THIS WILL BE ICONIC

😂😂 I am spEED READING ~the finale~ while also racking my brain remembering some parts and taking it all in. Does that make sense?! Anyway matchy U A MENANCE ISTFG--

Trip No Further | Chapter 19 (Pt. II)

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

Pairing: idol!Yoongi x Reader Genre: soulmate!au, idol!au, slow burn, heavy humor, smut, idiots/nemeses/enemies to biases/lovers (iykyk) Word Count: ~10k Rating: 18+ Warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking/partying, explicit sexual content (spanking, unprotected sex, blow jobs, ill-placed atla jokes, breast play, allusion to a potential choking kink [but only if you squint], yoongi has a filthy mouth and he's not afraid to use it, the clit gets: slapped, marking, teasing, yoongi's bony fingers do the devil's work, softdom!yoongi but also subby/whiny!yoongi makes his grand debut) Links: AO3, Masterlist 🖤 Please note: Trip No Further does not have a taglist 🖤

A/N: If we live fast, let us trip young*~*~

Whewwww! Hey, besties. TNF's penultimate chapter is here 🥺💜 Without getting into it, I know it's been an eventful week in Bangtanland, to say the least, so I truly hope this chapter provides a little slice of joy or light to whoever needs it right now. I love you!

Chapter Nineteen (Pt. II): Journeys End In Lovers’ Meeting

You die a little death waiting for the car to arrive.

After a brief check-in with Jungkook and Jimin to make sure they’d be comfortable staying without you, you follow Yoongi out into the brisk autumn night, more aware than ever of your outfit—or, more accurately, the lack thereof. Two minutes ago, when you’d been inside with Yoongi, hiding together from the rest of the party, you’d felt like your skin was on fire. Now, goosebumps line your arms, only somewhat related to the chill.

It’s clear Yoongi notices you shivering, but it’s not like he can draw you in for a hug when you’re both outside and could be spotted. That sad reality doesn’t stop him from finding other ways to be menace, however.

“Don’t smirk,” you chastise, crossing your arms over your chest—your nipples have responded to the weather, pebbling up through the fabric of your shirt, and it appears Meeyooee has noticed. Far from dissuading him, your admonishment only spurs him to deepen his smirk—he tilts his head to the side, staring baldly at your chest before breaking into a shit-eating grin.

Asshole. He’s provoking you, knowing you can’t do anything about it. Not in pubic.

“What’s the matter, Princess?” Yoongi whispers, his voice carrying to you on the wings of a breeze. It’s insane how even now, your heartbeat still stutters at the pet name, but you recognize the fake-concern in his voice. This can only mean trouble. “Cold?”

His gaze flickers wickedly up to meet yours as the car pulls up, Jae behind the wheel.

Two can play this game.

“Not really.” You shrug, letting your arms drop to the sides. You’re impressed by how level and calm your voice sounds. “I’m just not wearing a bra, is all.”

Shooting him a wink—which instantly makes you feel like an idiot—you stalk over to the street, hearing Yoongi’s puff of laughter behind you. He trails after you closely, his breath tickling the nape of your neck when he leans forward to open your door.

The moment you’re both strapped in for the ride, the very air between you seems to shimmer, the space separating your respective legs sparking with electricity. He’s so close; he might as well be across the ocean. Your blood tingles through your veins like streams of liquid fire—more than anything, you want to reach across the middle seat and touch him. The only thing giving you pause is the knowledge that if you do it now, you won’t be able to stop.

Patience, you think. It’s hard-going, though. So hard. Desperate to release some of the tension coiling deep in your belly, you dig your fingers into the meat of your thighs, tapping your foot impatiently to the radio. When you glance over, it’s to see Yoongi mirroring your exact stance; his long, bony fingers dig into the carseat, dimpling the expensive leather with his strong grip.

You’re affecting him, you realize, just the same as he’s affecting you. You want him, just the same as he wants you.

It’s only once the car passes the usual turn-off that you remember you’re not headed back to the dorm. A thrill sparks through you as you zip down unfamiliar streets, headed somewhere new with the man who somehow always makes wherever you are—a hotel room in Paris; a utility closet in Los Angeles; an overlarge couch in a dorm room in Seoul—feel like home. You turn to stare at him, swept up in a sudden surge of emotion, and for one moment, as his dark eyes flick up to meet yours, Min Yoongi feels yours for the taking. He smiles at you like he has a secret. He smiles at you like he’s going to share it. If you’ve learned anything since June, it’s that everything can change—that everything does and will change. That’s the reality, and it’s unescapable. Sometimes those changes are out of your control, but sometimes they’re not.

You chose this.

You chose him.

Yours.

The sky is pitch black, the glow of the streetlights providing paltry illumination as the car pulls down a secluded side-street, depositing you in front of a tall apartment complex. You unbuckle your seatbelt, preparing yourself to sprint to the entrance, when Yoongi chuckles.

“Relax,” he says, the first thing he’s uttered since you both entered the car. “This is a safe complex—Hobah has an apartment here, along with many other actors and artists. Don’t worry too much.”

As though to drive the point home, Yoongi winds an arm around your waist the moment you’re back in the cold, the soulmate connection overriding your chills with heady anticipation as you mosey into the complex, your slow steps belying the urgency coiling deep in your gut. Once the pass the doorman, however, heading over plush carpeting into a separate hall with the lifts, the atmosphere shifts. Yoongi’s hand drops from your waist to grab at your hand, and he drags you forward, one thumb jamming the up button at least four times impatiently. You giggle, and he shoots you a thoroughly unamused look laced with something else—something that looks a lot like desperation.

“In a rush?” you tease, and to your surprise, he literally tilts his head back and groans. You’ve barely any time to contemplate this new development before he’s striding forward, caging you between the slice of wall separating the lifts and his arms; his chest; his intoxicating scent of musk and sweetness… his whole fucking deal washes over you. Slowly, he drags the back of his hand from your temple to your jaw, blown-out eyes hyper focused on your reaction to his touch as you take in a jagged breath.

You know what he’s doing, and the knowing—the knowledge that he’s reminding you that he knows, too—makes you shudder. Just like that, the two of you hurtle back in time. You’re standing outside the dorm again, waiting for the elevator to take you down and away from him. You’re pretending Yoongi’s touch is just like any other. You’re lying to yourself, and you’re lying to him—

And he’s seeing right through you.

“You feel so good,” you admit now in a choked whisper. “You always have.”

Maybe you should be embarrassed at the blatant neediness underscoring your tone, but it’s hard-going when he’s looking at you like that. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t even touchedyou yet—not properly, anyway. Suddenly, you’re overcome with a desire to rewrite that night—the night you became nemeses and called Yoongi “a means to an end.” Suddenly, it feels like if you’re not honest with him now, you might never get the chance to prove to him how much you want him—how much he’s ruined you for anyone else—again.

“I know, Princess,” he says, splaying his hand out over the expanse of your throat; your pulse thuds wildly against his fingers, but you make no move to wriggle out of his grasp. You like him here—like the rush of adrenaline flooding your veins as he observes you, his expression primal and enraptured. He dips his head down, nuzzling into the crook of your neck for a minute, and you can feel his throaty laugh reverberating through your entire body. When he pulls back, he looks disheveled. He looks undone. Your breath catches, your fingers tugging him closer by the loops in his pants almost subconsciously. The truth is, you haven’t had the talk yet, but something about that look ignites something deep, something full, something you think you might finally be ready to face in your chest.

Maybe you can belong to each other, you think.

Maybe you already do.

Just before the lift arrives, Yoongi flashes you one of his genuine, gummy smiles—the one that stops your heart—and whispers something that makes you crumble: “You feel good to me, too.”

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you’re the one who pulls him into the car—he stumbles after you, looking sort of dazed, and you have to ask him several times which floor before he finally comes to, scanning his thumb (of course, you think) on the biometric reader before jabbing the button for the penthouse.

No sooner do the doors close than he’s on you again, his lips chapped and rough, his grip on your exposed waist strong and relentless, as though he’s nervous you might disintegrate in his fingers, or even float away if he dares let you go. You feel languid, drunk not on alcohol, but on the fact that somehow, you’re getting to see this new side—this stripped-of-all-disinterested-pretense side—of Yoongi. He’s so worked up. He’s not even trying to hide it, confident at always in going for what he wants. On a whim, you push him off you, and he goes willingly, chest heaving as he stares at you with lidded eyes and swollen lips.

“Is everything all r—”

“Sh,” you cut off his concern, watching the confusion in his eyes morph into an almost anguished lust as you slide a hand under your skirt. “Stay there.”

Yoongi swallows, jerking his head in an obedient nod as he tracks your movements with rapt attention, groaning as you shiver involuntarily when your fingers graze against your clothed heat. The skirt is short enough that you think (you hope) he can see exactly what you’re doing—can see just how wet you already are for him as you loop your thumb through the top band of the lacy material—you came prepared tonight—and tug gently, wriggling your hips a bit until your panties slide over your ass and drop down, coming to rest on the floor. You step out of them with one foot, then cock an eyebrow at Yoongi before slowly lifting the other foot up, the ruined fabric dangling around your ankle, messy cunt on half-display for him. You feel obscene, and very, very powerful.

“Here,” you say simply, your heart pounding hard as Yoongi’s jaw drops, his pupils blown black and wide as he takes a moment to recalibrate. He drifts toward you as though he has no choice—as though you are a siren; as though you are his destiny—and grips your waist to steady you as his free hand relieves you of your damp panties and stuffs them into his pocket.

“It’s like that, huh?” he murmurs, canting his hips forward as he towers over you. One of your legs is still hovering a bit in the air—when his pelvis connects, you inhale sharply, seeing stars. “My filthy girl.”

You bite your lip, inwardly preening at his praise. There’s nothing but the thin material of his pants separating your naked, slippery warmth from the erection you feel pressing insistently into you. 

Hello, you think distantly. Zuko here.

Before you can do anything else, the elevator slows to a smooth stop—but not at your floor. You only have a split-second of time to react before the doors glide smoothly open, revealing two sweaty, white, middle-aged men in gym clothes—there must be some sort of athletic facility in this complex—who clearly have less than zero interest in the two of you, despite your heavy breathing and dope ass matching costumes.

In one seamless motion, Yoongi spins and smooths your skirt down for you, shielding you from the newcomers by trapping you between the far corner of the car and his back as one of the men scans his finger for his floor, a few stories below the penthouse.

With your head leaning against the back wall, you tilt your chin to the side and catch your reflection, distorted and filmy, in the far elevator panel. Your eyes are wide and bright; your hair in complete disarray. If you had Yoongi’s complexion, you expect your cheeks would be pink and flushed right now. Your entire body is hot. Tingling. You feel both fully grown and like a little girl—hopelessly giddy for what’s to come.

The elevator pulls to a stop, and, compelled by the power of petty vengeance—tonight, you want nothing more than to get him back for his staring stint outside; to bring this beautiful man to his knees—you reach forward to rub a cheeky hand over Yoongi’s ass. Just because you can. Just because he’s yours now. He latches onto your hand with surprising celerity, squeezing tight as though salvation lies in the fusion of your fingers—as if you’re the anchor keeping him from getting swept up in the wreckage of a sudden squall.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he breathes, flexing his grip on you for a second, and the way his jaw flexes as the men get off on their floor tells you everything you need to know. He intends to get you back for that.

You’d like to see him try.

Still feeling playful, you step around him once the doors close until you’re face to face again, delighting in how he runs a thumb over your lips when you smile teasingly at him; at how his other hand goes to cradle your head and pull you into him again, his hold uncompromising and deliberate. He kisses you like he’s testing to make sure you can take it; like he needs to do his due diligence and ensure you won’t break. His tongue thrusts into your mouth fiercely as he alternates between sloppy kisses and teasing nips, not too far gone to lose his rhythm, but when one of your hands drifts up to his chest, he swats you away.

“Nuh uh,” he says, and you realize then that this is your punishment; he’s going to make you beg for it. Make you beg for him. You’re still processing this when your vision blurs as Yoongi spins you around again to face the doors as they slide open. Behind you, he commands, simply: “Move.”

The elevator lets out into a short hall, with only one door to break up the drywall. Yoongi hovers behind you, crowding your space, making your entire body tingle like a lyre that’s been tuned to the highest frequency. Everything in you grows taut, waiting for him to touch you. You want him to pluck you, to play you like a piano; to hold on and never let you go.

Trust him, you tell yourself. Yoongi scans his thumb again, and then you’re taking your first step inside his flat.

Though you wouldn’t admit it aloud, a part of you had expected Yoongi’s apartment to lack in personality. You’d assumed it would look almost like one of those model homes—an impersonal but aesthetic bachelor pad that prioritized minimalist sophistication over warmth and character. 

To your pleasant surprise, that’s not the case. Exposed brick greets you upon entry, lending a cozy, lived-in feeling to the admittedly spacious living room. A cursory scan reveals soaring ceilings, worn-in leather armchairs, overstuffed bookshelves, and a record player—the glass is still up, as though Yoongi had been about to switch the record before heading out the last time he was here.

“Whoah,” you breathe, taking your time ridding yourself of your shoes. He doesn’t hurry you. He doesn’t say a thing. But the moment you’re barefoot, he grabs your hand and pulls you along crudely after him to what you imagine is his bedroom. “Look at that view, is that—”

“Later.”

You can’t help but giggle, neck craning this way and that to gather what snatches of information you can—there’s a wooden console table in the hall that looks like it might be handmade, perhaps by Yoongi himself; an office with a miniature basketball hoop attached to the outside of the door, which seems impractical. You point at it.

“Why—”

“Baby,” Yoongi interrupts you, squeezing insistently on your hand, and then he finally succeeds in pulling you into his bedroom and shoving your back against his wall. One of his hands comes to grip your waist, keeping you stationary; the other slides along the wall behind you, flicking some sort of dimmer switch, so a single light, amber and ambient, ignites from the ceiling. It’s enough so that you can make out Yoongi’s features—his glowing, dark eyes; pouty lips; sharp jaw; surprisingly broad chest—but only just. You two might as well be outside, the low glowing embers of a campfire your only source of illumination.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, his voice gentle—and then his hands are roaming over your stomach, fingers dipping under the fabric of your shirt to discover you hadn’t been lying to him before.

“I missed these tits,” he says in a low growl. You blink, and his lips are traveling down your throat, sucking harshly against the skin there—marking you, you realize. Signaling to the world that you belong to someone, and that there’s someone out there who wants you—who claims you. Someone you were made for, and who was made for you.

Soulmate.

Your knees buckle, unable to withhold your whimper as his thumbs caress the swell of your naked breasts. The cold had betrayed you, but your top had enough padding to warrant your decision to go braless—a decision Yoongi is wasting no time in making known his approval. With no warning, he bucks his pelvis into you, his lips sucking down from your neck to nip at your exposed collarbone as he hooks his fingers under the material of your shirt and tugs upward. Obediently, you lift your arms, allowing him rid you of your top.

Abruptly, he pulls back, running his hands almost chastely down the curve of your body before he lets his arms drop to his sides. His eyes are twin burning coals in the shadows as they roam over you—your kiss-swollen mouth, your bare chest heaving under his heated stare, your legs pressing together in search of the friction you so sorely need. When his tongue darts out to wet his slightly chapped lips, you think you can feel your brain leaking out of your ears. You can’t believe you’re still standing. You are made brighter under his attention, as though lit from within by starlight.

“Yoongi,” you choke out, already so gone for him. You take him in, standing before you, fully clothed with a slight furrow between his brows and his jaw clenched—almost as if he’s in pain. As if he’s literally in distress over baring witness to you. For a moment, the world stops. You freeze, mouth parting slightly as his eyes rake shamelessly over your figure again. The intensity of his stare makes you want to look away.

“Baby,” he murmurs, and then he must see something in your expression—some flicker of self-doubt as you try to hold on to his endearment—because his gaze softens marginally when you two lock eyes.

“Come here,” he says, and you have no choice—you step forward, a moth to a flame. For a second, he doesn’t touch you, leaving you to stand there with your stomach curling in anticipation.

And then—

“So pretty,” he breathes, almost to himself, pulling you into him. Suddenly, he’s on you again—he’s overwhelming; he’s everywhere—his thumb tweaking your nipple, coaxing it to a stiff peak, while his other hand comes to cup the heavy weight of your other breast. “You’re so beautiful, YN,” he says, his tone betraying nothing but awed sincerity as he dips down to replace his hand with his tongue.

“Fuck,” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as the wet muscle flicks against your nipple. Your back arches, chasing the high as your eyes roll back in your head. “Yoongi, please—”

“What’s that?” he taunts, biting gently down on your hardened bud. You jerk in his arms, shaking in pleasure when his tongue comes out to lathe at the skin, soothing the sting. He refuses to stop his assault until you’re a writhing, pliant mess beneath him. Overcome with a burning need, you slide your hands down his clothed torso, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants, but he makes a tutting sound against your lips in warning.

When you try it again, he spins you around until your nipples—aching and fully erect now—graze the wall, your cheek pressed into the plaster. You relish the cool temperature against your sensitized skin.

“Can I?” he whispers into your neck, letting his fingers slide down to toy with the fabric of your skirt. Gently, he cants his hips into the curve of your ass, earning a mewl from you.

You nod, words failing you—but Yoongi won’t have it.

“Let’s hear your words, Princess,” he says as you scrunch your eyes shut.

“Yes, Yoongi,” you manage to croak out. Trembling with want, you allow Yoongi to divest you of the last of your costume, his hands traveling all the way down your leg and circling your ankle, helping you step out of the skirt. You can sense rather than see him straighten back up behind you, and a shiver rolls up your spine. You’re completely naked now, back arched, ass out, waiting for him to do something to you. Anything.

A second passes without him touching you. Two, and he still hasn’t made a move. You clamp your lips down together, determined not to unleash the desperate pleas you feel sparkling up in your throat. The waiting is a glorious torture, turning the edges of your vision warm and fuzzy as you concentrate on trying to read the mind of the man behind you. He is all you can think about—he is all you want.

Tonight, you need to make sure he knows that.

When you can’t bare it any longer, you tilt your chin to back to gaze behind you, and find Yoongi looking at you again with that same pained expression, biting his bottom lip. It’s like he’s actually paralyzed by how many things he wants to do to you—now that he has you here where he wants you. You bite back your own moan at the sight, pressing your thighs together in search of some relief, feeling as though you understand his quandary.

How do you express to someone that this is it? That you want it forever? How many different ways can you show someone without words that, yes. This is it for me. I’m sure if you are.

“Please,” you whisper—it’s as good a start as any. All the waiting is killing you, the longing and trust and admiration and understanding you have of this man twining together in your gut. Your core throbs, impatient and wanting, under the weight of his consideration.

“What’s that?” he says idly, as if utterly disinterested in your answer.

“Yoongi,” you whine, your composure crumbling on a dime. He’s driving you crazy. He’s barely gotten started. “Please, please touch me, I—”

“Sh. It’s okay.” In a flash, his hands are back where you want them—one links around your waist, pressing you into his chest, while the other impatiently spreads your folds, gliding down to your entrance.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs, the words slurring a bit—or maybe you just can’t hear him right over the delicious head-rush his command inspires. You comply without hesitation, granting him direct access to your cunt, keening as his fingers dip to gather up your slick in a long, luxurious stroke. “Such a good girl,” he whispers, and you feel the curve of his smile against your throat. He plants a hot, wet kiss on your pulse point. “Already so wet for me. You’re dripping, YN.”

Your knees weaken at his tone, and he notices, chuckling darkly as he drags his fingers up to circle your clit. Your hips buck involuntarily, the stimulation as heavenly as it is unbearable.

“This pussy is just begging to get stuffed,” he continues, voice dangerously low and almost stern. “Is that what you want, YN? You want me to fuck that tight, wet cunt the way it deserves?”

God, yes. You’re trembling now, his sinful words causing a new wave of arousal to pulse through you. His arm wound around your waist moves, sliding slowly up your chest and coming to rest lightly over your neck again. Your eyes go half-mast and you swallow deeply under his fingers as he whispers your name—a question. You nod your consent eagerly, needing him to move. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on before.

“Yeah?” he breathes, sounding almost dazed. You hum weakly, eyes fluttering closed in rapture as he flexes his fingers with feather-light pressure, securing you against him as he slips two fingers inside of you, curling expertly against your walls.

“Fuck. Look at that,” he says, the hand on your throat drifting down to play with your breast again. Your gaze drops to where his digits pump in and out of you, the sight so erotic and the sound so lewd that if it weren’t for the soulmate connection flooding your body, you’d almost believe you were watching an adult film. This can’t be real. This can’t be your life. “Such a needy little pussy,” Yoongi goads you. You squeal when he suddenly exits your heat to slap two sticky fingers harshly against your clit. “Should I spank you for being such a greedy girl, Princess?”

Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at his words, your cheeks heating up as your craving for him reaches a fever pitch, pooling deep in your belly. You jerk your head in a nod, too riled up to say anything, black spots tinging your vision.

“Take a breath for me, YN.”

You didn’t realize you were holding it in—but Yoongi pays attention to you. You can trust him. Nodding, you release a shuddering breath, twisting your neck to blink back at him with your best doe eyes—but it’s all for naught. Yoongi’s not going easy on you anymore.

“Speak up, baby girl.” he smirks. “No more of that coy shit. Not with me.”

“Yoongi—”

“If you want something, you gotta ask for it.”

What do you want?

When you still remain silent, he flips you around to face him, cradling your head in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. You can smell your essence on his fingers, deeply musky and sort of sweet.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. You see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows around nothing, and that tiny, visual cue—the reminder that he’s just as affected as you are—gives you the courage you need.

“Spank me,” you whisper.

He grins.

“Then get over to the bed,” he says lazily, eyes drinking in your shaking, bare form, “and bend over for me.”

His predatory gaze does something to your insides—you can’t imagine ever denying him. You heed his request, breath catching in your throat as after a moment, two hands come to rub over your ass, kneading the skin and pulling the cheeks apart. A yelp of mortification catches in your throat—you’ve never felt more exposed in your life—but the long groan of obvious desire Yoongi releases as he plays is enough to ameliorate the heady (and not necessarily unwelcome) discomfort of letting him see you this stripped down; this vulnerable.

Your soulmate is not the type of man to do something he doesn’t want to do, you remind yourself. And he’s certainly not the type to outwardly praise something he doesn’t like.

As though he can read your thoughts, his voice drifts over you, like a pinion cutting through the mist of your apprehension.

“Give it to me, baby,” he says, and for a moment, you’re not sure what he’s asking for from you. 

“Whatever you’re worried about, give it to me,” he breathes, and you melt. “Give it all to me.”

The sweet words, followed by a loving caress, sends you soaring up to the rafters—because he’s doing it again, you realize; he’s letting you shed whatever shame you brought into the room, showing you it has no place in here with him—before the sharp sting of his hand lands on your ass, the crack of it ringing through the silent room. You lurch forward with a gasp, more of surprise than pain, the tingle spreading belatedly through you as Yoongi’s hand comes back to rub soothingly over the abused skin. Slowly, Yoongi inches closer to you, smothering you in his heat as he curls down, his chest warm against your back as his free hand returns to roll circles against your clit. Driven by instinct, you grind back hungrily into his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” Yoongi growls, his erection pressing into you. “I love it when you take what you need. Let go for me.”

“Fuck, Yoongi.” You rut against him, his encouragement making your blood sing—because this, again, is another gift he’s giving you. He’s always finding ways to show you that you’re safe with him; that nothing you can feel—nothing you can want—can ever be wrong with him. He’ll meet you wherever you go. He’ll take whatever black thoughts plague you and siphon them away. He’ll use his words, his actions, his fingers to turn your ailments into music. Into something beautiful. “Can you take another one?”

“I can do it,” you breathe, pliant and boneless and his, his, his. “I can take it.”

A beat of silence.

“I know you can,” Yoongi rasps, and then the second strike comes down on your ass, eliciting a moan from each of you. All the uncertainty—the overthinking; the desire you’d trampled down; the words you’d bitten back and the questions you’d let go unanswered—evanesce into nothingness. There’s no place for any of that anymore. Not now, when you’re here with him.

Yoongi hand caresses your ass again, and before he can draw it back for another strike, you flip around, grabbing his wrist. He looks down on you in subtle surprise, and you wonder if the expression is mirrored in your face—you certainly hadn’t planned on moving. You’d wanted to be patient for him; to let him take his time, even if you went crazy from the waiting.

But enough is enough. You’ve proved to him that you’ll follow him—over seas and across countries, and now, at long last, up to a penthouse, on top of Seoul and the whole wide world. You grip the bottom of his shirt, and for one moment, you think he’s going to stop you—to swat your hand away again, and make you beg for this, too.

But he doesn’t. The asshole-y smirk that you love—the cool pretense and lazy disinterest—drops from his face as you drag the fabric up, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. Your eyes rove over his torso greedily; the milk-pale skin, the dusky nipples, the winding trail of black hair leading below.

You drop to your knees on the hardwood, curling a finger at him. As though hypnotized, he stumbles forward, slightly sweaty strands of hair hanging in his face as he watches you undo the button of his pants and tag the material down; you hardly notice him kick them away, your eyes homing in on the outline of his cock bulging through his briefs. As you watch, he reaches forward to palm the length, giving it a little squeeze to take the edge off. The sight has you practically drooling; your tongue pokes out between your lips, unbidden, as you stare up at him.

“YN,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “You don’t have to—”

“Let me,” you whine, fingers looping through the band of his briefs. There’s a wet spot that you press your lips to, kitten-licking at the material, and his eyes narrow as he stares down at you, mouth popping open a sliver. “Wanna taste you so bad, Yoongi.”

“Yeah?” he asks, finger coming to card through your hair. You hum against the outline again, heart soaring like a blown flame when he tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut at the sensation.

“Go on then, baby.” He presses a finger between your lips—the one that had just been inside of you. Your swirl your tongue indulgently around the digit, tasting yourself on his skin, releasing it as he groans with a faint pop. “That’s it,” he says, voice deeper and more ragged now. “Wanna see you choke on my cock.”

That does it. You tug his briefs down, his cock bobbing up instantly to rest against his lower abdomen, and finally, finally, Min Yoongi, your soulmate, is standing naked before you. It comes as no surprise that his cock is just as beautiful as the rest of him—long, straight, and more girthy than you’d expected. You’re smug to discover he’s already leaking, his head flushed and ready for your ministrations. Wasting no time, you reach forward to feel the weighty warmth of his cock in your hand, gathering up the beads of precum with your thumb and rubbing them over his head before giving his length an experimental pump.

“Don’t tease me,” Yoongi hisses, his voice strained. You look up to meet the fire in his gaze with a shy grin before leaning forward to wrap your lips compliantly around his tip, sighing in happiness at the warm saltiness of him. You swirl your tongue in a sloppy, wet circle before focusing on the underside of his head, lust dripping between your legs as he lets out a throaty moan, staring down at you with hooded eyes.

“Oh, fuck.” He sucks a stuttering breath through his teeth, and your heart quickens at how this must look to him; his pretty cock resting between your smeared, swollen lips as you suck him off like your favorite candy. As though reading your mind, he tilts his head back again, hand flexing in your hair—he doesn’t push, but you know he wants to. “You look so hot like this, YN,” he says, brows knit together as he exhales shakily. “So fucking sweet for me.”

Drawing back, you give him another pump with your hand and then, keeping eye contact, spit on his length, before immediately diving down to lick a slow stripe up a prominent vein, all the way back up to the flushed, angry tip. His hips jerk as, with no warning, you relax your jaw and swallow him down as far as you can with a series of obscene slurps, hollowing your cheeks and using your hands to service what you can’t fit in your mouth. Adjusting to his size, you establish a rhythm, head bobbing, eagerly soaking up his quickening breaths and quiet, worshipful groans as you pick up your pace, gagging on his velvety skin.

“Shit,” Yoongi gasps, hips surging forward involuntarily after a particularly deep thrust. Eyes watering, you power through the discomfort to lean forward, managing to take his entire length, feeling the tip of his cock graze the back of your throat. His thighs clench, his stomach muscles tensing as he mutters a string of lewd, affectionate curses, the filth of which only serves to encourage you.. Determined, you hum lightly before swallowing around him, one hand coming up to gently fondle his balls.

“Holy hell.” Immediately, Yoongi’s fingers clamp down and he rips you off of him, staring down at you in fucked-out reverence. You meet his gaze with teary eyes, your soaked lashes fluttering. You feel so tall, so strong, right now, down here on your knees. “What the fuck?”

He looks mesmerized, utterly enthralled by you, his breathing heavy and labored. You manage a pleased smile, practically purring at how flustered you—your mouth, your touch; you, just you—have made him.

You mean to stand up to meet him, some insecure part of you still needing that reassurance—still needing that reminder that you are on his level, and that it’s okay to assert yourself as his equal, and that you can stand strong in your belief that you really are his partner. His other half.

But Yoongi doesn’t make you rise up to meet him.

He drops to his knees.

“YN,” he says, your name rough and idolatrous and desperate on his tongue. He cradles your face, claiming your mouth hotly before drawing back, looking you bang-on in the eyes.

“Was it good?” you rasp.

He shakes his head, looking to the ceiling like some sort of aggrieved votary seeking a higher power.

“Princess,” he huffs a laugh. “I have literally never been this hard in my life.”

He pulls you up with him, both of you rising together in perfect, synchronized harmony—one flame and one shadow—and then he’s walking you backward, pawing at you, and together you’re a clumsy jumble of limbs. No one’s in control; no one’s steering this ship. You’re both swept away together, driven by pure need; both caught up in a frenzied haze of relentless, reciprocal passion.

“I need to be inside you,” he murmurs, pressing you onto the bed, and his lips travel down, up, across your body, branding nonsense patterns into your skin with his tongue. “Want you so badly, YN,” he says as he crawls over you to settle between your thighs. “Always fucking want you.”

You watch his eyes travel over to the bedside table, but when he reaches for the drawer, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest flush against yours. You want to keep him here—want to continue sharing the same breath for as long as possible. You can’t imagine ever letting him go.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper, body aflame at the way he instantly freezes above you. You know he’s clean, as are you—the doctor you shared with Bangtan had tested you all before tour, and you’d shared everything with him (including that you had an IUD) during that ride back to the hotel in New York. “Is… that okay?”

Yoongi nods, his expression darkening into something hungry and primal. Slowly, you take hold of his length, peering down between your bodies to see the way the tip, glossy from precum and saliva, shines under the low light. When you drag it up and down your folds, smearing your essence over his already messy cock, Yoongi groans, planting his forearm on the bed next to your head as he plunges his tongue into your mouth. There’s no more finesse to the movements anymore. It’s all tongue and teeth and hot and wet, unstripped and raw and perfect.

“Please,” he whines, and the sound is devastating. He’s practically begging now, relinquishing all control. Placing everything that he is—all his trust, and his want—in your hands. “Please, baby. I need you.” 

He pulls back to look at you, and in that moment, time stops—or at least, it compresses for the two of you. His dark hair fans across his face, his lithe, toned chest heaving. Sweat beads across his brow as his cock twitches in your grasp, seeking out your wetness and heat. He is, now and always, the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. And he’s staring down at you like you’re the beautiful one. Like he never wants to stop looking.

Again, you align the tip of his heavy cock with your entrance, and this time, instinct takes over. Threading your free hand with his, you arch as Yoongi slowly presses in, the stretch of him considerable and overwhelming, even after all the prep.

“Fuck,” you moan, pussy fluttering around his flushed cockhead. Your vision goes white, bliss ripping through you like a forest fire, hazing down every barrier left standing within you.

“You can take it,” Yoongi grits out, fingers coming up to pluck at your nipple. You mewl into the sensation, rocking your hips, allowing him to slowly spear you open, feeling every veiny, heavy inch of him as he sinks further into your heat.

“There you go,” he encourages you, voice breaking the deeper he goes. “That’s… that’s it.”

He stops when he’s finally fully seated, panting as your walls tremble around him, but wanting to let you adjust to the sensation. You don’t know if you ever will—you feel full, stuffed to brim with him, driven absolutely incoherent with pleasure and satisfaction. Maybe it’s the soulmate connection, or maybe it’s just him. Yoongi. Only he has ever made you feel this way.

“Fuck YN,” he grunts, slowly rolling his hips to drag himself out of you before snapping forward to thrust back in, pressing to the hilt. Eyebrows furrowed, he shakes two strands of hair from his eyes before beginning fucking into you with long, hard strokes that have you reeling, incandescent with how good he feels. “So… fucking… wet,” he grits out. “So warm and tight for me.”

“Harder, Yoongi,” you plead, arching up to lick into his mouth—and his resolve breaks instantly. You swallow his moan before he instantly complies, driving hard and deep into you, emptying your mind of everything but the slap of his skin, the sheen of his sweat on his forehead, and the warm pulse of his cock splitting you open over and over. You can feel your orgasm looming over you already, the coil growing tauter and hotter with every passing second. Before you can reach that height, however, he pulls out, dipping down to kiss you before slinging both of your legs over his left shoulder, pressing your thighs together.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he says, eyes all pupil as he stares down at your glistening cunt. He slaps it once, as though to give it a high-five in appreciation of its service; your hips jerk up, a shocked hiss escaping you, and his returning smile is all teeth, making him look positively angelic before he drills devilishly back into you with a ruthless thrust. The new angle is even more intense than before, allowing him to stroke your g-spot as he pistons into you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse, teeth rattling in your skull.

“Right there, huh?” he says knowingly. Somehow, he quickens his tempo, eyes darkening as he watches your tits bounce while he plunges into you, hands digging into the meat of your thighs, pushing them closer to your chest; it’s all you can do to continue staring up at him, completely fucked out, just taking it. “Don’t be shy, YN. Let me hear how much you like it,” he growls. “Let the neighbors know how good you’re getting fucked right now.”

You don’t even need the coaxing. Seeing him working above you is mesmerizing, launching you into another stratosphere of being entirely; moans pour from you, throaty and unfiltered as you grab onto his slick, heated skin for purchase. Your fingernails scrape up his back, coming up to grab a fistful of his silky, sweaty strands.

Yoongi groans, and the sound shoots straight to your clit as he bares his teeth—apparently, he enjoys it when you tug on his hair.

“Shit.” His fingers dig into your skin as you gasp, breathless; you want this man lodged so deep inside you he comes out the other side—if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he already had. “Your pussy’s so amazing, YN,” he groans, face falling forward as he reaches out a hand to begin rubbing your clit again with precision. You squeeze your eyes shut as your thighs quiver; you’re dizzy, overwhelmed by how easily he’s unraveling you, your body a tapestry only he knows how to weave.

His next question catches you off-guard.

“Think Benny could fuck you like this?”

“N-no,” you gasp, cursing again as Yoongi continues to pound into you. You’re close now, body bouncing wildly against the mattress, his question whirring in your head as his pace turns absolutely punishing. You can hardly breathe for the pleasure, your fists clenching into the sheets. “There’s—fuck. There’s no one else for me, Yoongi. Only—only you. It’s always been you.”

“That’s right,” he says, leaning over you. You lose yourself in him, in how good he fills you up.

“You gonna come on my cock for me, baby?” he whispers, lips brushing against yours. “Gonna show me who this pussy belongs to?”

There’s one suspended second in which seem to you float outside of yourself, your soul drifting up to look down on your body from up above. You can see it all clearly, now—see how you’re caught on a precipice. Understanding washes over you that it’s too late to rewind the clock; too late to take anything back. You’re in too deep. All that’s left is to try to prepare yourself for the inevitable free fall.

When you return to yourself, you meet Yoongi’s gaze, taking in his lopsided grin as he looks down on you—and it’s over. Time resumes, and you’re catapulted straight over the edge of reason and into oblivion. Throwing your head back, you let yourself to succumb to what feels like endless waves of pleasure; a strangled sob escapes you, garbled and throaty, as Yoongi fucks you through it.

“That’s it,” he hisses, refusing to let you come down from your high. Your pussy convulses around him, sucking him deeper and deeper, your lips pulling in and out with every thrust. “Shit. That’s my girl.”

Your heartbeat jumps several paces at the fond, fucked-out way Yoongi praises you—how you feel, how you look, how sweet you are for him. At last, you slump down onto the mattress, boneless and utterly spent—but you know Yoongi’s not done.

And after a moment, you realize that neither are you.

You don’t know where you gather the strength from; vaguely, you wonder if maybe you don’t. Maybe Yoongi’s just attuned enough to your mind and body that he can sense when you want to lead him somewhere, and he’s willing to follow.

Just take what you fucking want.

You tilt your pelvis, and he lets himself slide out of you; lets you roll him over until he’s laying back on the bed and you’re situated on top of him, straddling him, hands planted on his chest. When you shift forward, his proud cock catches at your entrance.

You both groan; you’d only have to lift a bit to fully sheathe him inside you. But you don’t—you still need a second to regroup and come down. You take moment to look down at him, admiring the way his sweaty hair fans out on the comforter, and how his creamy chest is flushed a bit pink with effort. 

What a relief, that the many roads you’ve walked in life brought you here, to this moment with Yoongi.

What a relief, to be his soulmate.

What a relief, to know deep in your bones that you are in love.

All at once, your chest feels unbearably heavy; you can sense it on the horizon, the tidal wave of emotion threatening to engulf you. To pull you under. You love him. Suddenly, he can’t be close enough. You need him pressed against every inch of you, the desire so fierce it rips a growl from your throat, and you lunge forward, linking your hands under his armpits and tugging until he’s sitting up, facing you.

You wrap your legs around his hips, seated in his lap, eye-to-eye and noses grazing. The urge to confess everything to him is almost overwhelming; you’re brimming with everything unspoken. In lack of words, you communicate it all with the way your fingers trace up his hard chest and then over his shoulders, drawing him impossibly closer; and maybe he, too, is saying something when he leans forward to place a chaste kiss to your shoulder, before gazing up at you in tender supplication.

You kiss him, slow and deep, as you lift above him, and you’re not sure if his groan is from your lips or the feeling of sinking back into you a second later. You expect him to begin fucking up into you, continuing the furious pace from before, but to your surprise, he grips onto your hips, forearms visibly veiny as he concentrates on guiding your rhythm. He rocks you slowly, agonizingly against him, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock dragging through you. You’re dizzy with how full you feel; how snug the fit is from this angle.

Eventually, Yoongi’s hands begin to roam; he cups your breasts, then brings his fingers up to brush at your hair before tracing them down again to caress your shoulders; your neck; the curve of your waist. All the talk from before is replaced, at least for now, with quiet gasps and contented sighs. It begins to scare you, how good the building pressure feels. You’re terrified of when it will end. You never want this to be over.

“I knew you’d take me so good,” Yoongi whispers against your lips, hand coming down to give your ass a quick spank again. “You do, don’t you?”

You watch him greedily as he throws his head back, looking utterly debauched, and you feel certain in this moment that you’re the only one who’s ever seen him like this. Yoongi’s many things to many people, but this Yoongi—this one’s just for you.

“You feel so fucking tight, YN.” His voice is as rough as the way he’s bucking up into you now, his motions beneath you becoming sloppier as he groans. “Shit. I’m gonna—I’m close.”

The words are like an incantation, speeding up your own second release; you grind down into him, clinging desperately to every nonsensical, filthy word he murmurs under his breath as you both hurtle towards climax. When you slide a hand down between your bodies, stroking your clit, a look of pure distress flashes over his face.

“Jesus fuck, keep doing that,” he groans. “Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside,” you pant instantly, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. “Wanna feel you fill me up, Yoongi, please.”

“I will, baby,” he promises, and you feel your core muscles clenching again, milking his cock as your crescendo of pleasure approaches its crest.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice strained and needy—and that’s all it takes. The second you lock eyes, thunder crashes over you, and you’re dragged into a white-hot surge of pulsating pleasure; it feels like a euphoric drowning. Your body goes soft and pliant, allowing Yoongi to latch on and use you for a few more thrusts before he groans, filling you with hot spurts of cum.

Stars burst behind your eyes as you allow yourself to collapse onto him, his arms a strong, sweaty cage around you as he peppers your face with mindless kisses. After a moment, he rolls you over until you’re both laying side by side, Yoongi staring at the ceiling, and you staring at him. You’ve fallen asleep beside this man every night for months now, but this feels novel. There’s not an inch of your body that doesn’t feel warm, sated, and secure.

“Stay there,” he murmurs once his breathing slows, his raspy voice lulling you out of your reverie. Untangling himself from you, he swings his legs over the mattress and gets up—heading, you assume, to the master bathroom you didn’t notice until now. You prop yourself up on your elbow, admiring the compact muscles of his back as he moves, your gaze skirting down to check out his—

Oh.

“Meeyooee, you whore!” you burst out, the image of the small, black 7 tattoo on his asscheek now forever seared into your mind. Sejin had beckoned Yoongi back down to the party before you’d been able to see the booty in Paris, and though you’d had every intention of continuing that conversation, you’d crawled into bed and passed out before Yoongi got back from the party.

It’s hard to muster up the strength to think, let alone move, while you’re still coming down from your delirium, but you’re considering getting out of bed to text Daehyun when Yoongi reappears carrying a soft looking hand towel, shooting you an impossibly soft smile as he climbs over you. With careful movements, he hooks an arm underneath your knee to bend it up, pressing your thigh closer to your stomach and exposing your core again. There’s nothing salacious about the gesture; wordlessly, he goes about toweling up the mess he made, now dripping wetly down your thighs. Butterflies alight in your stomach, sleepy but still noticeable, at his silent tenderness. He maneuvers your legs as though they’re fragile things—as if they have to be handled with great care.

When he’s finished, he gathers you up in his arms and lays back, kissing your forehead. A bone-deep exhaustion passes through you, as if you’ve spent the past hour commanding Yoongi’s warships to shore.

You’re docked now, you want to whisper. You’re home, and safe for the night.

But you don’t say a word. Instead, you fall asleep to the feeling of your boyfriend’s thumbs tracing idle patterns into your skin.

When Yoongi wakes up, the bed is cold. He blinks groggily, confused, until he makes out the sound of water running in the bathroom.

Seconds later, you appear, your bare figure etched in silvered moonlight. You look resplendent, like some sort of diaphanous creature—a goddess come to life, or an angel plucked from a dream. You pad lightly across the floor, and he reaches for you. Were the world his, he would sepulcher you both in this moment—fold the world up at the sides like a flower blooming in reverse, and trap himself here with you, forever. No need to leave. No need for reality to leak in and tarnish what deserves to be kept pristine. Perfect. He squeezes his eyes shut and commands himself: remember this. Remember her.

Never let yourself forget.

And he won’t. Yoongi doesn’t break his promises, and he vows to himself that he will remember, no matter what happens. When he needs to—when he’s lonely, or unsure, or missing you—he’ll recall this night and that for a few, glimmering seconds, here in the dark, everything was good.

His next words rise in his throat unbidden, like a brilliant, pillared fire, as he watches you. He speaks before he has a chance to think.

“Do you want this?”

He can’t believe how simple the words are, how easy they are to get out: it feels good, at long last, to speak the question you’ve both been dancing around into existence. Because now that he’s had you, he knows he can’t endure any more stalling. The ellipses you two have created together need to reach a conclusive ending, the period at the end of the sentence, the happily ever after, the end. He needs you to be sure. You two have pried open the last lock keeping you separated from each other, and anything less than absolutely everything would feel like a betrayal, now.

Yoongi watches your eyes go wide, twin lanterns beaming out at him through the shadows, and for the first time, he begins to worry that the woman he wanted to be his future might choose to become a chapter of his past.

“Do you?”

“That’s not what I asked.” What aren’t you getting? He doesn’t want you to think of him right now. He needs you to choose, and to do what you want. It won’t work any other way.

“I spent a long time worrying it would be wrong of me to ask you to remain my soulmate,” you say, voice soft and quiet as you reach for his hand. Your fingers look so small in his palm. It’s preposterous. It’s the worst thing in the whole wide world.

“It made me sick,” you continue. “It made me feel like a monster. How could I ask you to give up your freedom? If you weren’t chained to my side and forced to be with me, you could do so much more. You could spend a night in the studio without worrying about me. You could visit your friends and family without having me along. It’s not fair for me to ask you to give that up. Right?”

Yoongi blinks once, slowly. It’s like watching a slow motion train wreck he’s helpless to prevent, only it’s his heart caught on the tracks, about to be run over. All of the dark thoughts he’s been holding at arms length swoop in like a cauldron of bats, cloaking him in their shadow. He wants to reach for you, because you’ve become the person he seeks out for comfort, but then he remembers he’s already holding your hand.

Her fingers, he thinks. They are devastating.

You’re still not sure, and it’s not enough.

Just take what you fucking want, he’d told you, but what he’d wanted was for you to want him. He’d spent so much time trying to make you understand—trying to get you to believe in the power you hold over him. Because he knew if you were going to do this—if you two were going to be together—he couldn’t have you doubting how much he wants you. That was important. You had to know, and then you had to believe it, so that you could feel safe enough to trust him and want him back.

And that’s just it. He wants to be wanted so badly by you that you refuse to accept any other option. He wants to be wanted selfishly; wants to be coveted; he wants to be yours. For a while, he thought he was. Don’t you get it? You’re the only person in the universe who could actually want him for him—for who he really is, and who he’s shown himself to be to you. With you, he’s not Suga. He’s not Agust D. There are no pretenses or walls up between you.

But you’re still unsure.

It’s not enough.

“Yoongi.” Your voice gets impossibly lovely when you’re scared—and it breaks his heart, this realization that you’re scared to break his. You lean towards him, and for a moment the scent of spicy vanilla lotion overpowers his senses, ushering in a tide of nostalgia unfit for the seriousness of the moment. Yoongi closes his eyes, sinking into a tidal pool of buried memories—of your laugh, shrill as a hyena’s, as you chased Jungkook around the dorm when he’d spilled sauce on your pajamas; of the way you’d stuck your tongue out at him on the airplane, right before a chunk of hail pelted you in the eye; of those early July hours he’d wasted trying to decide whether he wanted to understand how you worked to make it easier on himself, or maybe just wanted you—until his head clears.

“Don’t,” he whispers, because he needs a second. He needs to elongate this moment before the glass truly shatters; before everything he’s spent the past months building—everything he’s tried so hard to protect—crumbles to dust in his fingers. 

He walks to the bathroom, just to splash some cold water on his face. Just to give himself a moment.

When he returns to the bedroom, the nascent morning light spilling in through the curtains, it’s to find the bed empty.

You’re gone.

A/N: SORRY (NOT SORRY) IN ADVANCE FOR THE ENDING, BESTIES. Please just trust me.

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Last Chapter (Finale!)