Skskdhud Omg So Cute I Adore This. For Both Their Sake I Hope He Doesnt Take Forever To Call Her , Im

Skskdhud omg 😭😭🫣 so cute I adore this. For both their sake I hope he doesn’t take forever to call her 🥲, I’m gonna be keeping an eye on this story for sure, thanks for sharing this story ✨

worth all your while (ch.1) | knj x reader

summary: you know kim namjoon from your work, but running into him outside of seoul tips your relationship into new territory and your world upside down. eventually, you wonder how there can be a million ways to say "i love you," and namjoon, a literal genius, can't manage a single one when it comes to you. or: 5 times namjoon can't make himself say "i love you" but thinks you understand him anyway (you do not), and then the one time he gets it right

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, fluff, light angst, au: famous, but not an idol

warnings: smut, swearing, alcohol, here are the specific smut tags for this chapter: kissing, penetrative sex, fingering, spanking, sex in an airport bathroom (do not recommend, fwiw)

word count: ~5.5k

a/n: idk what to say! i needed to write a fic for yoongi's birthday, but i can't for some reason, so i'm writing this. i hope you enjoy 💜 i'll update chapters probably weekly, maybe bi-weekly, isn't it fun when some things in life are mysteries? the title is from "static" by steve lacy - i love him. thank you as always to the cabal: @ugh-yoongi, @hot-soop, and @the-boy-meets-evil for putting your eyes on this for me. love you all. this is posted to ao3 here if you like to read fics there.

Unpopular opinion: airports are magical places. 

You didn’t always think that, but you’ve changed. Opinion swayed. All it took was one delay on a layover in London for you to start singing a different tune. 

Seoul to anywhere feels like a long flight lately. You love it there, but getting out, back to where you’re from, takes literal days. The short break at Heathrow is welcome, a chance to move around a little before you get on another almost ten hour flight. It seems like a nothing thing, to wander through the concourses and shops after you’ve made it through the customs check. Each time you’re here is the same as the last. Until it’s not. You’ve done it a hundred times: sniff different scents at Jo Malone, look for a bag you shouldn’t spend the money on at Louis Vuitton, talk yourself out of buying duty-free scotch because you know you’d never drink it in front of your mother anyway… Maybe on the way home, you think (but you never do).

“Excuse me.” You’re staring at the Balvenie you can’t really afford, thoughts drifting, when someone startles you. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side. 

There’s a man there, right there. He’s stepped up close so that your arms are practically touching. He’s tall, with dark hair under a beanie, an expensive jacket that’s made to look like it isn’t, and his face hidden under a mask that isn’t required here. There’s something about him, even though you can only see a stripe of his face, that looks familiar. For some reason, neither of you move; he keeps staring at the thousand-pound bottle of scotch, and you keep staring at him. 

“You can’t drink it on the plane, you know?” You say it more than you ask it, and of course he knows. Everyone knows. But you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a little and you think he’s smiling under the mask. He finally turns to look at you. 

“Was thinking I’d get it as a gift,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nice gift,” you remark.

“Yeah…” he replies, turning his attention back to the bottle. “It’s pretentious, isn’t it?”

And at that, you smile. “Maybe a little. Depends on who it’s for.” 

“No one special.” 

“It’s none of my business,” you say, “but I wouldn’t buy ‘no one special’ a hundred-pound bottle of scotch, let alone a thousand-pound bottle.”

The man laughs, and you notice another guy walk up, right next to him. He’s bigger, older, and way too serious looking for your taste. They seem to have a silent conversation and then the would-be whisky buyer turns back to you. “Time for my flight,” he says. “Thanks for the advice.” 

“Anytime,” you nod, still smiling even though you can’t tell anymore if he’s smiling back. Can’t hurt to be polite. 

After he goes, you realize you aren’t going to buy the scotch, either, and it’s probably about time for your flight, too, so you start the scramble to your gate.

One of the bad things about flying all the time is that you feel like you see more than your fair share of delays. And this trip is no different. When you make it to the gate, you can sense the panic before you even see the notification. There’s a particular brand of hysteria that sets in with people when their flights are delayed, and it’s amplified with inter-continental flights in your experience. All of the things that make airports romantic and interesting are the same things that make people think they can behave any way they want and it won’t matter. It's like upon entering, people think they get carte blanche to be raging assholes to the poor airline counter guy who’s just trying to make sure everyone gets where they’re going and probably only makes enough to barely pay his rent. 

So, you know before you’re told that there’s a delay, and you can tell by the level ten panic around you that it’s probably a long one. It’s confirmed when you see the headlines across one of the large televisions at the gate. Big storm off the coast of the Eastern US. All flights are delayed from what you can tell. Yours looks to have a delay of about six hours, but you know from experience it could be more. You’ll just have to wait and see. You’re lucky, you want to get home, but there’s really not a huge rush on your end, so you can wait it out if you need to. 

There’s a quiet spot at a gate with no pending flight, near yours and a few of the other gates with international flights scheduled to leave. You hate sitting, knowing you’ve done it for a half a day already and have another long flight (eventually) in front of you, but you don’t know what else to do and at least you have a couple books in your carry on. 

Maybe thirty minutes passes of you reading when you look up, just to see how things are settling around you as people start to either (like you) become resigned to the fact that they’re not going anywhere for a while, or let their anger hit a fever pitch with the gate agent. 

You see a familiar fancy jacket waiting near the ticket counter, his friend from earlier having an animated chat with a woman who doesn’t seem like she speaks enough Korean to be keeping up. Fancy Coat is watching, looking amused and not chiming in, even though you know firsthand he can speak English perfectly well, and could probably be a help to his travel companion. 

Because you’re one of those people who can never do things as subtly as you think you do, you’re caught out—Nice Jacket turns his head and his eyes lock with yours before you can look away; he knows you’re watching. He tilts his head, eyes widening with what you hope is amusement and not terror that you were looking. Slowly, he brings his hand up and waves at you, then gives you a gesture like he wants you to wait for something before he leans in and says something to his friend. 

You turn back to your book, embarrassed. 

A considerable chunk of whatever willpower you have is used in Not Looking when you hear (and feel) someone plop into the chair next to you. 

“Good book?” Nice Jacket asks. 

“Mmhmm,” you murmur, trying not to make things any weirder than you’ve already made them by staring. It is, in fact, not a good book. But your colleague wrote it, and he’s the special kind of narcissist that will ask you what you thought of it every day you see him until you provide some sort of satisfactory feedback kissing his ass. 

“That guy’s a jackass,” he comments. 

And that gets your attention. You turn to him, a little surprised. “You know him?” 

Nice Jacket nods, eyebrows raised. “Do you not remember me?” he asks. 

“From the duty-free shop?”

He laughs, louder than he means to judging by how he stops himself and looks around self-consciously. “No… I think you’ve interviewed me before…” 

Things begin to snap into place rapidly. Because now that he says it, he goes from looking vaguely familiar to being instantly recognizable. You don’t really keep up with him or his music, but you have interviewed him, when your asshole colleague had passed one of his assignments to your desk, assuming you’d “like that kind of thing.” 

At the time, you’d tried not to let yourself assume the worst about what he meant, and you did the interview over Zoom with no protest to your coworker or your boss. It wasn’t the kind of thing your magazine usually wrote about, but the article was focused on his art collection, and it gave you a good opportunity to learn something you wouldn’t have in a gossip magazine, and a chance to look good for your boss. The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than eight minutes, professional and easier than most of your interviews. Since then, you’ve been in the same room as him a few times at events you’d covered, exchanged greetings and appreciations on both sides for the article, and obviously, you know who he is. 

He’s famous, but not like… idol famous. Stage name RM, he’s a rapper and producer who works with a small collective. You see him in magazines and on TV, his popularity growing over the last few years less for his music and more for his work in art preservation. 

“Oh my god…” you say, closing your book and dropping your voice to a whisper. “Kim Namjoon. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.” 

“Good,” he says with a wink. “That’s the point.” He gestures vaguely to his beanie and his mask and the sunglasses he took off when he sat down next to you. 

“How are you?” you ask, because it’s polite, and that’s what you should do, even though you’re not even sure why he’s sitting here speaking to you. 

“Alright,” he says, but you notice he seems a little amused. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” He raises his hands defensively. 

“No, what? Why’s it funny to ask how you’re doing?” 

Namjoon doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches you with his head cocked. “I guess no one ever really asks me that,” he says. 

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.” 

What’s more ridiculous is that you’re sitting in Heathrow having a conversation with this sort of famous person who you kind of know, but not in a “run into you in the airport and have a casual chat” kind of way. Or maybe it is like that, because that’s exactly what happens. 

You talk about how he’s doing (pretty well but tired from traveling and ready to be settled in his hotel). Then you talk about your asshole coworker and his not-very-good book. You laugh at a story he tells you about said coworker, and you feel your face heat up when he says how relieved he was that you interviewed them instead of anyone else from your magazine, and how much he’d liked talking to you that day. He’s bluntly honest with you about his preference for doing interviews with Korean-language publications, which you completely understand. He tells you that he didn’t mind doing an interview for your small English-language one because you at least greeted him in Korean and tried out a couple questions in the language. 

“It’s my job to make people feel comfortable,” you say flippantly. It’s true, it is your job, and you talk to a lot of sort-of-famous people and their people, so you know that at the end of the day, they’re just people. You get better results and better interviews when you treat them as such. When you tell Namjoon that, you can see him grinning under his mask, you can tell for sure this time by the way the corners of his eyes pinch. 

“That’s a nice way to think of it,” he finally says. “It’s good to be treated like Namjoon and not RM sometimes.” 

“Happy to be of service,” you say. 

Before you can say more, you’re interrupted by his friend, who you now understand isn’t exactly a friend but a manager or a bodyguard or some combination of both. He explains that it’ll be a few hours, that there aren’t any other flight options, and that he and Namjoon can go make themselves a little more comfortable in the airport lounge. It’s spoken like a suggestion, but the way he side-eyes you as he speaks makes you certain it’s more of a directive. Namjoon nods along until his manager tells him, in hushed Korean, that he can’t just sit out in the open talking to strangers. 

“She’s not a stranger,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. 

After a brief explanation that you’re an acquaintance (which is how Namjoon puts it and is a little more generous than you would have been), his manager lightens up, and even keeps his mouth shut when Namjoon invites you to come with them to the lounge. He does, however, insist on walking alongside you when you agree to go with them, making Namjoon walk a little ways in front of you both. Better safe than sorry, you suppose, even though no one seems to be paying any attention to the three of you. 

At the lounge, his manager has a brief conversation with the airline employee at the desk, and then the three of you are whisked through the entrance, past the service desk and the bar, and into a small, private room at the back of the lounge. Namjoon puts his bag down and moves to the coffee machine, pausing to ask if you want anything as he fumbles with the stack of cups there. Cute. The professional in you hates that you even had that thought pass through your mind, but the rest of you doesn’t mind. He is cute, he gets paid to be cute (at least partially), he knows he’s cute. You have eyes, so obviously you see it, too. 

His manager unceremoniously pulls an eye mask and headphones out of his bag, seats himself in the corner, and announces he’s going to try and sleep and to wake him up if anything interesting happens, leaving the two of you essentially on your own.

When you have your drinks, you pull your masks off, settle into loungers in the opposite corner of the room, and start talking again. It comes easily between the two of you—you’re used to asking questions and he’s used to answering them. He’s going to New York for a “personal schedule,” and you don’t ask for more details because you know he wouldn’t give them to you anyway. His whole face lights up when he tells you about an exhibit at the Whitney he’s hoping to catch, about how he’s willing to suffer through the jet lag for a glimpse at a certain Hockney that he probably won’t ever see in Korea. 

Eventually, the tables turn a little, and he starts asking you about your own life. It’s less interesting (in your opinion) than his, but he’s a good listener, and asks good questions. He seems really excited (and remembers, to your surprise) that you’re an arts reporter, asks what you’re writing about lately, asks if you’ve seen anything new that caught your eye, even asks you for gallery recommendations around Seoul. You have a few, and he actually jots down notes in his literal notebook while you speak, claiming he’ll forget which you recommended if he doesn’t write it down. Cute again. 

Hours pass, and you’d swear it’s only been a few minutes. It’s been a long time since you talked with someone like this—leisurely, candidly (or as candid as he can be, anyway). You get food brought to you by an airline employee, and you know it’s an upgrade from what’s being served in the rest of the lounge, but Namjoon isn’t phased at all. You suppose this is his normal, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

“I can’t believe you get special food,” you say when you’ve finished. 

“Special food?” 

“Well yeah, they’re not serving anything other than soup and crackers out there. Maybe carrot sticks.” 

“Oh…” he says quietly, brow furrowed, like he’s really thinking about it. “Do you think I should ask them to bring barbeque to everyone else?” You actually think he means it. So fucking cute, you think. 

After you talk him out of wielding his influence, mostly using the argument that it would be an immense amount of work for the airline staff, you settle in again. He produces a blanket from a cabinet against one of the walls of the room, and it’s an obvious sign this whole experience is totally typical for him. When he hands you the blanket, you can’t help it, you smile at him and probably look a little smitten. You might just be. 

You offer him part of the blanket, and he accepts, pulling it over his lap and asking you if he took too much. (He didn’t). You talk more, and you feel relaxed with him—it’s so easy to forget he’s who he is and you’re who you are. It’s just like getting to know any other casual acquaintance better except he’s stupid good-looking and you start to notice that your faces are a lot closer together than they started out as you talk about Marci Kwon and the interesting work that the Asian American Art Initiative is doing. It was the last article you’d written, and you’re surprised to hear he’s read it. 

You’re saying something about non-hierarchical modes of presenting research in art when you realize he’s not listening anymore, just staring at you intently. You’ve been talking a lot. For a while… Maybe talking too much; maybe he’s bothered.

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

His eyes widen like he’s the one who’s been caught-out this time. “I’m really good,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. 

It makes you beam. “Good,” you say. “I’ve liked talking to you.” 

He nods. “I’ve liked talking to you, too. You have a lot to say.” 

The fact that you can feel his breath on your face when he speaks makes you certain that you’re sitting too close, that something is happening that probably shouldn’t be. It makes you forget that “you have a lot to say” isn’t always a good thing. You think that everything might sound good when it comes from his mouth, that even the worst insult would trickle out like honey. Your heart rate has picked up, you now notice, and you both keep just staring at each other—you don’t know why you don’t move or look away, it’s like you can’t even though you know you should. 

Namjoon’s eyes flick up behind you to where his manager is, and you can hear the man snoring, so you know he’s not aware at all of what’s happening right in front of him. 

“They don’t have cameras in here,” Namjoon says. “It’s why we come here.” 

You nod, nothing to say to that—you’re not even sure why he said it unless…

“Can I kiss you?”

That is the exact moment when every coherent and rational thought you have ever had rushes out of your brain like a waterfall. You’re not even sure how you manage to respond, but this very cute, very smart, very interesting person has just expressed interest in you of all people, and you’d be an idiot not to say yes. 

“Oh my god, please,” you say all in one hurried breath. 

And before you’re even finished, his lips are on yours. It’s soft, more chaste than you’d expected, but it doesn’t stay that way when he nips at your bottom lip and licks into your mouth. One of his hands comes to the back of your neck, fingers teasing at your hair and pulling you closer as you practically melt into him. It’s a good kiss, a fantastic kiss, and all you can think is more, more, more as the two of you try and do your best to be as close as you can over the armrests of the stupid lounge chairs. 

When you part, his eyes are a little wild, and you think yours must be, too. 

“I have to wake him up soon,” he says, looking past you. “It’s almost time for our flight.” 

You glance over your shoulder at his manager who’s still totally unaware of what’s happening around him, and then stand, offering a hand to Namjoon, too. 

It’s a rare moment of boldness, but something’s come over you, and you’re acting with very little thought as to what you’re doing and how stupid it probably is. “Come on,” you say, tugging him up. When he’s standing right in front of you, you put your hands on his chest and raise up on your tiptoes to whisper, “Let’s get out of here for a minute.” 

He wipes across his bottom lip with his thumb, pausing probably to think about what you’re implying, and then he bends to kiss you quickly before he agrees. “Okay, yeah, let’s go.” 

It’s not your fault that you know where the ‘family restroom’ is—you passed by it on the way to the back of the lounge and you notice things, you remember things. 

You hope he doesn’t think you do this kind of thing all the time, or ever, although you don’t know why you care what he thinks since you’re also willfully oblivious to any looks you might be getting from any passersby who see you tug him into the room behind you.

It’s sheer luck that your go-to travel outfit is a fairly basic knit dress. It takes him no time to have you pinned up against the door, lips on your neck, hand rucking up the front of your dress so that he can get a hand under your tights. God, it feels good. He feels good, large and solid and his fingers… fuck. They’re long and nimble and he’s clearly not new to this, but neither are you, so you roll your hips forward and moan at the contact when he slips his hand under your tights. 

“You’re already wet,” he says, surprised, pulling his head back so he can look at you properly, his fingertips skimming between your legs. 

You nod and pull him back in to kiss you again—you only know a few things about Kim Namjoon, but you already know you like talking to him, and now you know you like his lips on yours even more than that. 

“Come here,” you say, and slide away from the door, pulling him with you so that you can bend over the small vanity where you can see yourselves in the mirror above it. He’s been polite, almost too nice for what you’re in the mood for, and you don’t know if he’ll take the initiative, so you lock eyes with him in the mirror and slide your tights down from under your dress, stepping out of them one leg at a time. 

In the mirror, you watch as he tentatively sticks a hand out to feel you again, groaning when his fingertips slide against you so easily. One, then quickly two fingers enter you, slowly moving in and out, and he studies your reflection, like he’s trying to learn what you like. It’s a lot of effort for a one-night stand in a Heathrow airline lounge. He pulls his joggers down; he’s already hard, feels big against your ass and the back of your thigh. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he sighs. It’s apparently not lost on him how you watch him in the mirror, pupils blown, because then he asks, “You want to watch me fuck you?” He winds the fingers of his free hand around a handful of your hair and tentatively pulls your head up so he can look you in the eye through the mirror. 

You watch him focus on you nodding and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth; he drops your hair as he stares. He has to know already how much you want it, but he makes you say it anyway. 

“Tell me you want to see me make you come,” he whispers into the back of your neck, breath hot against the shell of your ear. Behind you, he’s rolling on a condom that seems to have appeared out of nowhere—you wonder if he had one in his pocket ‘just in case.’

You smirk, widen your eyes, and nod again. “Please? Will you fuck me? I want—” You pause to turn your head over your shoulder and kiss him again. “I want to watch you make me come.” 

Holding onto your hip, he pushes his cock, thick and flushed, into you quickly; you don’t have much more time before his flight. 

He groans as he starts thrusting, pulling almost all the way out slowly before snapping back into you. 

“Oh shit…” you whisper each of the first few times he pushes into you.

Your head falls as he fucks you—It’s so good, he’s deep deep deep, and you feel so full, and you might cry it’s been so long since someone’s fucked you like this… But he wants your attention, so he brings a hand up and slaps you lightly along the back of your thigh to get you to look up. 

It wasn’t hard, but you’re barely acquaintances, so he seems to hesitate, looking to your reflection for reassurance. In return, you look him straight in the eye and let out a moan. 

“You wanted to watch, so watch,” he whispers. 

“Do it again... please,” you plead softly as you raise your head and push your hips back against him. 

He lifts the other hand and strikes the swell of your ass this time, harder than the first slap, making you suck in a breath. White knuckles grip the sides of the sink as your skin turns pink, but you’re still smirking and soaking wet, asking for more as he grips your hips to fuck you harder. 

“Harder… I need you… feels so good,” you pant. 

You move to lean on an elbow and bring your other hand down to your clit. His hand follows yours and moves it out of the way as he leans forward to whisper, “I thought you wanted me to make you come.”

“Then do it.”

Namjoon slows the movements of his hips to focus on you, rubbing circles over your clit with his fingertips and sucking on your neck, right against your pulse point, sending shivers along the length of your spine. 

He rolls his hips into her as you grind against him, whimpering quietly, “Fuck, Joon… yes… oh, fuck…” You trail off, not able to focus on anything except his hands and his cock. You don’t even care that you’re already using nicknames with him. 

“Finally got you to stop talking so much,” he teases as he works you nearer to orgasm. 

You’d laugh, okay with being teased, except you’re practically shaking now, close to release, so he puts more pressure on your clit and moves his cock in you a little less deep, hitting you exactly where you need him each time. 

God, you look good together. There’s a sweat sheen on your foreheads, his cheeks are painted with a rose blush, and your eyes are wide, watching yourself with curiosity in the mirror as you start to come. 

You’re close, so close, tightening on his cock as he lets go of your hip and puts a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle the loud cry you make when your orgasm hits. 

Your cunt pulses around him and he drags his hands slowly away from it and your mouth, back to your hips. 

“You ready?” he whispers.

“Good girl,” he affirms as you nod, and that absolutely shouldn’t have you ready to come on his cock again, but maybe you have a praise kink you didn’t know about. You whimper when he starts fucking into you again, resuming his previous faster pace.

It doesn’t take long for Namjoon to come after that, with you babbling nonsense about how good his cock is and begging for him to come inside you. He thrusts into you one last time and releases into the condom, watching in the mirror as you give him a satisfied grin and roll your hips with his. 

When he pulls out of you, he drops to his knees and kisses you where he’d left a handprint on your ass. It makes your breath hitch, feels too intimate for people barely know one another and who’ve just fucked in an airport bathroom. But then he pulls you up to standing, smoothing your dress around your legs. He grabs a bundle of toilet paper and hands it to you to wipe up. 

“Look at you,” you tease, “what a gentleman.” 

He pulls his joggers up and watches you flush the tissue while he discards the condom. You fiddle around for your tights and slide them on under your dress. 

When you’re finished, you lean against the sink and watch him—he’s cute like this: face still flushed, hair mussed, and most of all, he looks as nervous as you’re starting to feel. 

“I don’t do this kind of thing,” you say. Your voice is a little wobbly, and you wonder where any of the self-assurance you’d had earlier when you dragged him into the room has gone to.

Namjoon laughs, bright and dimpled, before he replies. “Fuck, me either. I mean… people sometimes… know who I am and I have to be careful.” The last words come out in a rush. 

“Careful how?” 

He looks fully embarrassed now. “LIke my manager is going to kick my ass when we walk out of here and… well, people back home would have a field day with this if someone saw.” 

You’re not even sure what to say to that. Because of course you know who he is, you get that he’s famous, but the thought of talking about this with anyone just seems… It’s not like it makes you look very good either, so you’d never. It would be professional suicide; you’d never be taken seriously again. You spit out the next words mindlessly, just trying to make it less awkward. “You think this was the ‘something interesting’ we were supposed to wake him up for?” Namjoon just looks at you like you’re nuts before you both burst into laughter. 

When you catch your breath again, you get a little more serious, your voice softer. “I’ll sign something. Whatever we should have done before, we can do it now, you can email me or whatever. God, this is crazy…” You trail off, consequences of what you’ve done starting to sink in. 

“Okay… Thank you,” he says. “I hate how awkward this is. I’m sorry.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling a lot more vulnerable than you can ever remember feeling. Is he sorry that you did this together or is he sorry that it’s awkward? You don’t really know. Maybe it’s both. 

“This was a mistake,” you say without thinking, and his face falls. 

“You think that?” he asks quietly, stepping into your space and reaching out to stroke your arms gently. “Because I really don’t. I know things are complicated with me? But… I liked you when I met you for the interview, I liked you today, and I’d like to see you again. I really wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think anything would come of it. I’m not that kind of guy.” 

“Aren’t all guys that kind of guy?” you ask, wondering if he’s even for real. 

“No,” he says. And you think he’s sincere. “Really. I’ve never done something like this before.” 

You nod, uncrossing your arms and letting your hands slide into his. “So, we should go though… You have a flight to catch, and I guess I have an NDA to sign.” You’re trying to tease, but you think you probably just sound fucking terrified. 

“Can I have your number?” he asks. 

“For the NDA,” you affirm, taking the phone he’s sticking out to you and typing in your contact info. 

“And for a date, maybe?” he says. And when you look up at him, he looks bashful, nervous even, as if you could ever say no to this man with a big brain and a dick to match who has just made you feel at least twelve new things in the last few hours. 

“I’ll be back in Seoul in two weeks,” you say, handing him his phone back. 

He smiles wide at that, and leans in to kiss your cheek. Cute again. 

“I’ll call you,” he says eagerly. “And someone will be in touch about the paperwork… Sorry again.” 

“Not your fault.” You shrug. “But you should head out first so it looks less weird, probably. I’ll freshen up for a minute and then be out in a bit.”

“Right,” he agrees. “Okay. So… I’ll see you in Seoul?”

You can’t help but be endeared to him; the fact that he seems to think you might actually not want to see him again makes you go all squishy inside. “It’s a date,” you confirm.

“Great! Okay… I’m gonna just… go now.” He points at the door, fumbling behind himself for the latch, like he doesn’t want to break eye contact with you. 

“Okay, Namjoon… It was good to run into you and…” You hate that you can’t say anything coherent, your sentence just ending in, “stuff.” 

He laughs and pulls his mask back on. “It was good to run into you and stuff, too.” 

Finally, he’s got the door unlocked, and before he slips back into the lounge he says, “I’m really going to call you, okay?” 

You aren’t sure why, but you believe him when he says it even though you know better, and all the weird feelings you’ve been having about him come together in a bright firework feeling in your chest. Something like hope, maybe. 

“Talk to you soon,” you say quietly. 

And then he’s gone, and you’re left breathless, wondering what you’ve just done.

2 Mins?? Oh this is gonna be so good, excited for the premiere 😈

we belong together | teaser

¡¡ upcoming !! 📸

min yoongi x reader (f)

genre: min twins au (yes two yoongis) | angst and smut

rating: mature audiences only (18+)

word count: tba

summary: before college you and your bestfriend yoongi promised your parents if you were to come back home single you would begin dating to marry as a way to get them to back off your love lives. upon coming back however, although you’re both single, yoongi is in love with someone else and unwilling to let them go. unfortunately, you are left to carry out the hapless promise with yoongi’s twin brother and your sworn enemy min yoojin.

warnings: slow burn; series; eventual smut; enemies to fake dating to lovers; but all precise warnings will be posted once the first chapter is out.

posted: work in progress

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min yoongi min yoojin

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authors note: this story will be coming hopefully soon but i am posting this as a push to get to writing asap!

I’m thinking this would be more of a mini series and once again thats a first for me as i usually write short drabbles/one-shots and i initially began only writing short stories so we’ll definitely see where the wind takes me!

<3

Namjoon, facial hair, domestic bliss. That’s it, the the post 😍🤤

Stubble | KNJ

Stubble (one-shot)

Pairing: Namjoon x fem!reader

Genre: Established relationship; smut; PWP; fluff (if you squint)

Rating: M (NSFW); 🔞

Summary: So Namjoon forgot to shave...

Word count: 2.4K+

Warnings: facial hair kink; body worship; clit play; breast play; BDE!Namjoon; fingering; oral (F-receiving); dirty talk; unprotected sex in an established, monogamous relationship; rough(ish) sex; some manhandling; cussing

A/N: I have several WIPs but haven't been inspired to write or finish anything in the last month. Work has been exhausting and life is just...a little less than ideal right now. But...in an effort to jumpstart my writing brain, here's some horny word vomit--prompted by this photo that Namjoon posted on his insta stories today.

This is also un-beta'd, BTW. And of course, I realized I forgot to put that in after posting. 😖

You awaken, as soon as your body deems itself ready. You reach out to your nightstand, checking your phone for the time. You were pleased at how ‘late’ it was. It was nice to wake up voluntarily instead of begrudgingly, by the sound of your morning alarm.

It was a long weekend and you and Namjoon decided to take it easy instead of making any plans. After a hectic week at work, it was a welcome break for both of you.

You remained laid up on your side, unwilling to take on the day just yet. You feel him stirring behind you. When he nuzzles into your neck, you feel something prickly brush your skin. 

“Ah!” You flinch a little.

“What? What did I do?”

You turn your head back to see him looking down at you, his long hair, framing his face that currently had a slightly panicked expression written all over it. He looked so adorable first thing in the morning. When he opens his eyes and stares at you with that heavy-lidded, glazed look–as if he was stepping out of a dream and into an even better reality.

You studied his face for a bit...until your eyes shifted downward. You hadn't noticed it last night...probably because you were too tired. But in the morning light, it was more evident. You couldn’t help but reach up to brush the stubble he had growing out of his chin and jawline.

He chuckles and leans into your touch. “I was in a rush yesterday morning and thought I’d just shave in the evening. But when I got home from work, I was just too exhausted to go through my whole routine. Sorry if it bothers you–”

“I never said that,” you say softly, still running your fingers on his chin. 

He cocked an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Really?”

“I’ve seen you with stubble before but you usually take care of it by the end of the day so…I’ve never seen grown out like this.” 

Namjoon was always very good about maintaining his facial hair. He preferred a close shave because his hair grew rapidly. This meant shaving nearly twice a day because by the time he got home, he’d be sporting a 5 o’clock shadow. Truth be told, it made him feel uneasy.

“Y-you like this?” He gestures at his face.

“I mean...it's...kind of...hot?” You admitted, sheepishly. He feels you shifting underneath him, already rubbing your thighs together.

He dipped his head to rub his chin against your jawline, trying to determine whether you were just fucking with him. His light strokes sent a shiver down your spine, you couldn’t help but let out a moan.

“What the f—“ He couldn’t help but chuckle in disbelief. “You know, I always shaved because I thought you liked it when my face was all smooth.” You feel his hand settle on your thigh.

You rolled over flat on your back to get a better look at him, cupping his face. “Well, yeah...but it’s also because I love the aftershave you use. That’s why I always feel the need to kiss you and pinch your cheeks. But…I’m really digging this look.”

You didn’t think you had a stubble kink…until now.

You lift your neck to reach up and kiss his lips, then drag your teeth down his chin. At the same time, you use your free hand to guide his fingers between your thighs, to your center, slipping them past the gusset of your panties.

Feeling how wet you were for him, his brows lifted in surprise. “Seriously? Stubble?”

You bit at your lower lip then shrugged your shoulders. “You think my body would be making this up?” You grind against his fingers.

A low growl rumbled up from his chest. In an instant, he took your mouth in a rough, lust-fueled kiss. He pulled away, sinking his head to kiss your neck, his stubbled chin brushing against your skin.

Moving lower he lifts your top up trailing kisses down your chest. He squeezed your breast in his other hand while his lips surrounded a hardened nipple. His mouth was hot, his tongue felt like velvet lashes against your skin. When his teeth bit into the tip, you cried out, your body jerked, the shock going straight to your core.

You clutched at his hair strands. Your legs wrapped around him, tightening, making him feel how desperate you were for him. 

“Joon,” you moaned. 

“I’m here, baby,” he breathed, nibbling across your cleavage to your other breast. His fingers tugged at the wet nipple he’d left behind, pinching it gently until you pushed up and into his hand.

He reached between your legs once more, his fingers delving into your cleft. The pads stroked over your clit but purposely skirted the trembling opening. With your lips pressed to his, you moaned, your hips circling. He fingered you leisurely, building your need, his kisses slowed into a deep fucking of your mouth.

A moment later, your legs were in the air and his head was lowering to the hypersensitive flesh between your thighs.

You held your breath, waiting. The way your body was folded up, you couldn’t see him, until you felt his hot, velvet tongue sliding between your tender flesh.

“Oh, fuck!” Your back arched off the mattress.

You struggled, trying to lift your hips up to his mouth. Gripping your thighs, he held you in place, tasting you at the pace he wanted, licking over and around the slick opening, taunting you with your desire to feel his tongue inside you.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Namjoon purred.

His lips circled your clit, his mouth suckling, the flat of his tongue rubbing across that sensitive pleasure point. The prickling sensation of his facial hair, heightening your need for him at the same time.

“Joon, I want you…please…” You didn’t care that he made you beg. The more you gave him, the more he gave back.

But he made you wait as he savored you, his hair caressing the tender skin at the backs of your thighs that you held up closer to your chest, his tongue massaging your clit with just the right amount of pressure. 

Your mouth fell open when he licked lower, dipping the merest fraction into the trembling clutch of your body. You gasped, dizzy with the onslaught of sensation.

Your fingers dug into your legs. “Oh my god…there, right there…”

He hums onto your clit, sending tremors through you. Your body jerked as he finally gave you what you wanted, his stiffened tongue pushing into your slick heat with a slow, delicious thrust.

“Feel good?” 

“Yes, fuck, yes… just like that…” You gasped.

Pleased with himself, he continued to service you. His mouth was so good and filthy enough to your liking. His tongue wicked in its sensual assault, plunging between your clenching delicate muscles.

Namjoon ate you with such driven focus, so greedy that you writhed, electricity coursing through your body. Your core tensed. You hovered right on the precipice of orgasm.

Then, you screamed his name, your body felt as if it was on fire, your skin hot and damp. Your orgasm shatters you. But he wouldn’t relent, his tongue sliding up to lash your clit. One orgasm rolled into the next.

Sobbing, coming hard and long, you pressed your fists to your eyes. “Joon, I want you in me now.” You pleaded hoarsely, your limbs trembling hard as your core spasmed with yet another rush. 

You felt the mattress dip as he moved, one hand holding your ankles. You heard the snap of his waistband as he shoved his joggers down. He always went commando when he got into bed with you.

“How do you want it?” he asked darkly. “Slow and sweet or fast and hard?”

Oh God…you were in big trouble.

You stared back at him, pupils blown out with lust, and forced an answer past dry lips. “Fast…and deep.”

He came over you, pushing your legs back against your chest until you were practically bent in half while he slid your panties to your knees. Those pilates classes sure were coming in handy now, you thought. 

His cock surged into you, stroking over tissues already swollen and tender.

Folded as you were, your legs bound by your underwear around your knees, it was tighter than usual inside you and he filled you so well. Your sensitive flesh stinging from the stretch. 

Groaning your name, Namjoon swiveled his hips, pulling out, pushing in, working his length deeper. “Is this good for you, baby?” he demanded, his voice husky with desire.

“Y-yes…fuck, yes,” You moaned, needing to move, to take more. But he kept you restrained like this–fucking you with devastating expertise…hard, relentless, leisurely thrusts.

Your fingers grasped at the sheets. Your walls rippled frantically around him, grasping at his cock with insatiable greed. Every pull left you empty, every thick, hot slide injected pleasure through your veins like a drug.

“Fuck, YN…feel so good…”

Namjoon loomed over you. His face was hard with lust as his hot gaze burned through you. His arms strained with need, his torso tensed.

“Can you cum for me one more time, hm? I know you’ve got one more in there for me,” he crooned.

You exhaled in a rush, willing your core to relax its eager tightening. He rolled his hips, stroking into you, his breath hissing as you took more of him.

Reaching for the headboard, Namjoon stretched over you, your legs trapped between you two. Fully exposed and tilted back for his pleasure, You were helpless to do more than watch as he straightened his hips and sank deeper into you.

The sound that left you was a harsh cry, the pleasure so intense it hurt. Your body shuddered at the sensation. Distantly, you heard Namjoon curse. 

“You good, YN?” he bit out, his teeth grinding.

You tried to catch your breath, your lungs expanding as much as they were able.

“YN.” He growled your name. “Are you okay?” He slowed his thrusting, checking to make sure that he wasn’t hurting you or being too rough.

“Yes–don’t stop,” you bit out. Once he got the okay from you, his hips started circling into you again.

“Fuck,” Namjoon uttered, “So tight and wet? All because I forgot to shave?” He was egging you on and you loved every bit of it.

Then he started fucking you again, his hips driving into you in a relentless tempo, his cock plunging and withdrawing from root to tip in rapid-fire thrusts. He powered into you, nailing you straight into the mattress.

You came so hard your vision went dark, your body seized with pleasure so intense you were trapped in it. You were inundated by the surge of your climax. Your skin tingled from head to toe. Namjoon paused on a stroke, grinding into you, giving your body the hard length of his cock to grasp. Your walls spasmed around him in response, gripping him hungrily.

Your body tensed, fighting to breathe.

The moment you sagged into the mattress, completely spent, Namjoon pulled himself out. 

You whimpered, suddenly feeling bereft.

“Hang on.” He shoved his joggers all the way off.

You turn your head slowly at him. He was still hard, his cock slick from your arousal—but you weren’t wet with his.

“W-wait…you didn’t…you didn’t finish yet,” you say in a daze. You were too listless to help when he stripped you of your underwear. Sliding a hand beneath your back, he lifted you and whipped your top over your head.

His lips brushed over your temple. “You wanted fast and hard. But I want to do slow and sweet.”

He hovered over you again, this time settling into your open arms and between your legs. The moment you felt his weight on you, you realized how much you loved slow and sweet, too.

Namjoon’s cock slowly parted your folds. With how wet you were, he was easily able to slide in. But he pushed in gently, taking his time to fill you again. His lips moved against yours, the stroke of his tongue in your mouth turned you on more than the slide of his cock.

He stopped halfway through and pulled back with the same patience, slowly stroking your walls with just the tip, edging you, back and forth with the feeling of emptiness and fullness. It was torturous.

“Deeper, please” you begged. He relented but it was unhurried, so you could savor every ridge of his length, stroke nerves you didn’t even realize you had.

“Faster,” you panted. Slow and sweet was good to an extent but not when he looked like this. You wanted him in his full glory.

“Baby…I said slow.” He whispered harshly in your ear.

You groaned from impatience and arousal it was unbearable. Taking matters into your own hands, you gripped his ass and pulled him in, bucking your hips hard against him.

He lifted his head at your audacity. “What are you doing?”

“I said I want you deeper,” you whined between clenched teeth.

Unable to take it anymore, he let out a low growl and quickened his pace. If he was going to be honest, he loved when you took control–it turned him on to the point of no return.

Consumed by desire, your mouths and bodies undulated in unison, moans and cries of pleasure echoing through your bedroom walls.

“Shit–you feel so good, baby…gonna cum so hard for you…you’d be leaking for days.” His thrusts became more urgent, more ragged as did your moans. Then you felt him jerk and the first wave of heat poured into you. He released a strangled groan the moment you clenched around him. He collapsed onto you as your vision went dark again for a moment.

You laid there for a bit, just the sound of your heavy breaths and heartbeats filling the silence. 

“What the fuck,” Namjoon said, lifting his face to look into your gaze.

You smiled, staring back into those dark eyes gleaming with warm affection. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“I thought I was gonna die there for a moment,” he breathed out.

“Are you sure that I didn’t?” You quipped.

He laughed and plants a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose. “No, you’re still here. With me…” He stroked your cheekbone with his finger.

Your heart squeezes at the thought that the same man who just fucked your brains out could also disarm you at the drop of a hat. “How are you so sexy and adorable at the same time?”

His smile widened and he kissed you again. After a beat he wonders, “So, uh…what would happen if I grew a full beard?”

You twisted your lips playfully. “I’d say…we’d probably top that.”

His eyes widened and he laughed. “Oh shit, hide my razors then!”

You’ve reached the end! Thank you so much for reading!

If you loved it, please comment, reblog, or send me feedback! 📩. I love hearing from readers! If you didn’t like it so much, I would still like to hear about it. Help me become a better writer! 💜

Tagging: @internetjunkdrawer @deepseavibez @itdoesntmatterwhy

The origin of one of my fave couples!! Too damn cute we Stan them

foresight (myg)

It all started with a bad joke and a bottle of Tanqueray.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader Type: One-Shot / Prequel to darksided (no. 2) & blindsided (no. 3,) but can be read as a stand-alone fic. Word Count: 11.3K 😳 Content: SPICY FLUFF (18+ or else - oral (m receiving) and penetrative, protected sex (p in v)); strangers to lovers au; POV switches; discussion of anxiety and negative self-talk; alcohol consumption (primary setting is a bar); tteokbokki; and just the cutest fucking duo. ft. Seokjn and a surprise cameo by reader's cat. A/N: The origin story for my beloved babies, which takes place in 2016 (and uses Korean age, fyi.) I found this photo after I finished writing and nearly fell tf over because this was the Yoongi in my brain; jacket and all, omfg. My actual note (and tags) will be at the end! 💕 Listen to the playlist here. Read Interlude: Sunrise drabble here.

Min Yoongi wanted it on record that he tried.

When Seokjin pushed, and pushed, and pushed Yoongi to ask out that girl, he did. She was someone Seokjin knew from somewhere, and she seemed nice enough. All Yoongi really knew about her was that she was pretty, though he hoped to learn that this was the least interesting thing about her.

If nothing else, Yoongi proceeded out of spite. He wanted nothing more than to shove it in Seokjin’s face that he was capable of being a normal, twenty-four-year-old man. He wanted to prove to Seokjin — and to himself, if he were being honest — that he wasn’t a borderline-reclusive workaholic.

Or, at the very least, he wasn’t exclusively a borderline-reclusive workaholic. He did want to get out and meet new people; just in negligible and infrequent doses.

It had been so long since Yoongi last went on a date that three (3) generations of iPhones had come and gone. Children who hadn’t yet been born were now entering pre-kindergarten, making macaroni art with the motor skills they’d obtained during his romantic sabbatical. It was embarrassing; it was depressing; and it all piled up at his doorstep, barricading him inside his apartment.

There was a vicious cycle at play, making matters worse. It casted Yoongi as the lone sock, swirling and drowning inside his washing machine brain. The plot was as stupid as it was repetitive:

Relentless schedule aside, Yoongi didn’t date because it made him anxious. Then, he’d become more anxious because he wasn’t dating. Ultimately, he’d end up too anxious about his anxiety to address the thing that caused it in the first place. And around and around and around he went.

Why the fuck did people subject themselves to this on purpose?

Asking her out was the simplest part. With a quick text and an emoji — the latter of which Yoongi deliberated over for far too long — he’d knocked the ball into her court. She’d responded within minutes, which he assumed was a good sign. Saturday night, they’d decided, at eight o’clock.

Unfortunately, no part of what came next was easy.

Yoongi had spent the four subsequent days in a tailspin. Spiraling over where to take her, what to wear, and what the fuck to talk to her about. In the few interactions they’d had before, all she seemed to do was pepper him with questions about his career. Like everyone else, she was fascinated by Yoongi: the Concept.

Whether or not she cared about Yoongi: the Person was yet to be determined.

Worse, after three years in the public eye, Yoongi worried that he’d lost track of what once made him relatable. That boy from Daegu — with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly — was traded in for a luxury model. He no longer had to debate between purchasing a meal or a bus ticket home from work because he was now loaded and living in Hannam-fucking-dong.

Ugh.

People looked at him with stars in their eyes, but he could never tell if anyone truly saw him. And even if someone did, what was left to see, anyway? Yoongi doubted that he could pick himself out of a lineup now.

Eventually, after three nights of tossing and turning, Yoongi had landed on something that felt meaningful. He would take this girl to a hole-in-the-wall that he loved dearly, which sat relatively unnoticed in a lesser-traveled pocket of Seoul. It was quiet and unassuming, but had a life of its own.

As far as Yoongi could see, it was the perfect place to find the parts of himself that’d dropped on his rapid, record-breaking ascent. Decidedly unremarkable but worth it, nonetheless. There, she could get to know the person behind the persona. Maybe she’d even come to like who he actually was.

Before heading out, Yoongi had pitched his plan to Seokjin and received a thumbs up in response. Unfortunately, her reaction came from two knuckles down. Her departure followed less than sixty seconds after her arrival. She’d fled so quickly, in fact, that she managed to flag down the very same cab before it could clear the block.

Through her window, she’d shouted out her scathing review: Yoongi was cheap; she would never drink bottom-shelf liquor with him in a glorified dumpster; and she both expected and deserved better because he could access better. Yoongi had stood stunned on the sidewalk as she disappeared — likely forever — in a cloud of exhaust.

Somehow, it felt like that cab had run him over as it peeled out.

To be clear, none of this was painful because Yoongi was disappointed; he wasn’t, not in the slightest. Good fucking riddance. It was worse than that. He felt validated, and he knew exactly how fucking sad that was.

See? Told you so, he’d thought bitterly to himself. Then, immediately, Yoongi criticized himself for being too critical. Hypocrite.

So, there he stood.

If Yoongi followed his instinct and went home, he could rebuild his barricade and watch several episodes of Chopped before passing out alone in his bed. A productive night, despite its fruitless start. But then, he realized, he’d have to answer when Seokjin inevitably called to ask what the fuck went wrong.

Fuck it.

Yoongi shrugged to no one but himself. He then slipped from the sidewalk, through the dumpster’s front door, and straight to the bar. Slumping down onto a leather-topped stool, he rested his elbows against the mahogany countertop and dropped his dejected chin in his hand.

Is this rock bottom? He wondered, Drinking in a bar alone on a Saturday night?

Within seconds, there was a loud crash several meters away. Yoongi jerked his head towards the source of the sound, but he saw nothing. His brows furrowed. All was quiet until a whine erupted from the doorway to the back room.

“Shit, shit, shit!"

Upon standing, Yoongi pressed his hands against the bar and leaned forward to investigate; equal parts concerned and nosy.

On the ground in the doorway, he found shattered remnants of what was once a bottle of Tanqueray. Crouching above the pine-scented wreckage, plucking chunks of glass off the hardwood, he found you.

Yoongi immediately grimaced at your chosen method of disaster clean-up. There was already a bandage wrapped around your finger — with a Hello Kitty pattern, he noted — that confirmed your ongoing battle with clumsiness.

You didn’t need to add to that collection and he couldn’t watch in good conscience while you made that outcome more and more likely.

Mind made up, he crossed quickly to the side of the bar he had no authorization to be on. As soon as Yoongi reached you, he saw the nearby bucket labeled “broken shit.” Then, he clocked the small hand-brush and dustpan resting against it. Wasting no time, he grabbed all three; and without a word, you allowed him to carefully usher you out of the way.

Crouching down the way you had, he began to sweep the broken shit into the dustpan. Too preoccupied to glance up, he asked without looking, “Are you okay?”

When you didn’t immediately respond, Yoongi’s eyes quickly rose to find you with strawberry-pink cheeks and wide, vaguely horrified eyes, and —Shit, was he staring?

Say something. Say anything. For fuck’s sake, Yoongi, at least smile so she knows you’re not angry.

What he landed on looked more like a grimace, he was sure of it, and it didn’t seem to fix that look on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeaked once he finished dumping the glass into its designated receptacle.

You didn’t give him a chance to tell you that an apology wasn’t necessary, opting instead to rattle off your perceived sins at an alarming rate:

“I think I’m the only bartender in Seoul that’s this bad at tending bar. I mean, I didn’t even know anyone else was here — because I wasn’t paying attention — and now you, the patron I’m supposed to be serving, are cleaning up after me. It’s definitely supposed to be the other way around —“

A smile was twitching at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t prevent. Without a door into the so far one-sided conversation, Yoongi had to jump through the window you created when you finally drew a breath. “Have you got a mop?”

Based on the way your eyebrows knit together, you’d been thrown entirely for a loop. You re-opened your mouth, likely to apologize for not following the sudden twist. Yoongi refused to allow further self-flagellation, though.

Classic Yoongi: demonstrating more compassion for strangers than he ever shows himself.

“For the gin,” He chuckled softly as he gestured down to the puddle at his feet. Suddenly and baselessly bold, he shot you a playful look and tacked on, “And for all the words you just spilled.”

The aforementioned eyebrows shot up as your jaw dropped further. Thankfully, it was amusement and not offense glittering in your eyes. Pretty. As you crossed your arms over your chest, you tilted your head and sized him up with a quick glance.

If this was a test, he was determined to pass.

“Maybe,” you hummed.

Yoongi wanted to volley your nonchalant tone, but he couldn’t swallow the laughter bubbling up from his chest. He was grinning like an idiot; there was no denying it. “Maybe?”

Your eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, the perfect overture to the mischief on your lips. When you replied, that microscopic smirk never faltered: “Let’s say, for arguments’ sake, that there is a mop.”

A manicured finger was held up to stop Yoongi from interjecting.

Mystified, his poor brain tried to crunch the numbers. Statically, it made no sense that — out of the thousands of people he’d met in his life — he’d never come across someone quite like you. In a matter of minutes, you’d pirouetted from adorable, to self-depreciating, to coy and confident.

All-encompassing, all electric, you moved through tone shifts far more gracefully than you did through the bar.

And if he’d done the math right, this was the first interaction he’d had in recent memory that didn’t deplete his energy. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Gazing at you, Yoongi began to wonder if this was how extroverts got to feel as they moved through the world. Like it gave back more than it took. Lucky bastards.

Once Yoongi was thoroughly disarmed, you continued breezily, “Hypothetically speaking, would you let me be the one to use said mop? After all, it’s both my job and my mess.”

“Hypothetically?” He repeated, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Your eyes narrowed further as he paused to formulate a counterpoint. Meanwhile, Yoongi’s involuntary smile spread in a straight line across his face.

You’re a goddamn delight, full stop.

“Assuming, for the sake of this argument, that I do concede the mop in question —” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, “— How could I be sure that you wouldn’t hurt yourself? After all, you did just try to clean up broken glass with your hands.”

If this had been a gun fight and not banter behind a bar, you would’ve shot him dead. Like lightning, you quickly unraveled your arms and held your hands at the ready. That effervescent grin of yours might be his undoing instead.

Eyes alight, you threw down the gauntlet: “Gawi, bawi, bo?”

Never before in your life had you played rock, paper, scissors, and lost at every single turn. You’d also never requested a rematch for every loss before, continuing the game into perpetuity; but you had a hypothesis to prove and a perfectly unique smile to make wider.

No matter what you threw, he’d offered a gesture to counter it. If his eyes hadn’t gotten wider and wider with shock as it just — kept — happening, you would’ve simply decided that he was psychic. A mind-reader, predicting your every move before you’d even settled on it yourself.

Spooky.

At the start, his amusement had been more or less concealed. Withheld, even, like it was dangerous to grin with every single one of his teeth. Eventually, though, his shoulders shook the way yours did; and mirth pooled in the corners of his eyes as he wheezed through laughter with you.

You didn’t know him, but still, you couldn’t help thinking: there he is.

At some point during your unending match, he doubled over to catch his breath. Seizing the element of surprise, you’d darted into the storage room before he could’ve stopped you. When you reappeared with a mop and bucket in tow, you’d immediately begun to address the mess you made. It took a few moments of buffering for him to realize what you’d done.

That time around, he hadn’t shouldered your burden for you and thank god for that. First impressions were never your strong suit, and you were already starting from behind. Always too much, you couldn’t be useless, too.

Instead, he’d simply resigned himself to swapped names and spiked blood pressure as you struggled — stubbornly and independently — to dump the contents of that yellow, wheeled mop bucket into the utility sink. Standing quietly out of your way, Yoongi had looked close to proud when you managed to do it all without spilling a drop.

See, you’d thought, I’m verifiably Not Useless!

Once the evidence of your clumsy crime had been disposed of, you’d returned the cleaning supplies to their rightful space in the storage room’s closet. Similarly, you and your patron returned to your rightful places: him on his stool at the front of the bar; you, finally fixing him a drink behind it.

Ardbeg, single malt, neat.

After sliding the glass across the mahagony to his waiting hand, you glanced towards the front entrance. As usual, there were no pedestrians wandering this way; no cars on the street, either. The only quiet part of Seoul — especially on a Saturday night.

The bar routinely bordered on empty, but it had some magical quality to it: Nobody you saw inside for the first time seemed to be there for the first time. This was especially odd because it wasn’t a place anyone went to, just a place they ended up. Nobody’s first choice, it was a last resort only visible to people who knew where to look for it.

Yoongi was the first one to speak, unknowingly putting an end to your mythologizing. You just barely flinched at the surprise of his voice, but he managed to catch it. Then, he conducted a brief yet careful study of your face to determine whether you were simply jumpy, or experiencing some sort of medical event.

A gesture like that, done in passing, shouldn’t have meant so much to you. Really, all he did was look at you. It felt like more than that, though, because it was the second-kindest thing anyone had done for you in months — and it occurred merely twenty minutes after the first-place winner.

Now, that’s depressing.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” He hummed, “I only ever run into Yang Daehyun-nim, though it’s been a minute. Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s still around. You know him?”

“Yes, absolutely. He’s my husband.” You deadpanned and Yoongi nearly choked to death on his drink.

You were, of course, fucking with him. The man in question was swiftly approaching ninety, but he looked twice as old. You successfully maintained your ruse until Yoongi’s tongue breached the barrier of his lips and gathered his runaway whiskey.

Where am I? Who am I? Is that legal?

Yoongi simultaneously picked up the joke and his glass. He raised both with pure amusement on his face, “Cheers to the happy couple, then.”

Never one to raise a toast empty-handed, you quickly dumped what little remained of a nearby soju bottle into a shot glass. His eyes sparkled as he watched you race to catch up; even more so when you leaned in to clink your glass against his.

Oh, so he’s pretty pretty.

“To the happy couple,” you echoed.

With both of your drinks dispatched, you grabbed the bottle of Ardbeg to top him up. Expensive taste, you noted, not the low-rent version you were destined for.

If Yoongi hadn’t shown up to order it, that bottle would’ve continued to gather dust on the top shelf. Like you, none of your regulars had the capital to even glance that high. Granted, the sample size was abysmally small at only three (3) people, but the point still stood.

Until Yoongi mentioned Daehyun, you couldn’t think of a single reason why your employer bothered to keep anything like that in stock. Now, that piece seemed to fit. Still, you were puzzled as to why Yoongi would come to a dive like this to drink liquor like that.

Clearly, the man sitting in front of you contained multitudes.

At the exact moment you asked how long he’d been coming here, Yoongi wondered when you joined the staff. Your respective answers came simultaneously, too. His six years easily dwarfed your eight months.

True to form, you joked that he was more qualified to tend bar here than you were. He said his only relevant skill was cleaning broken glass.

It made you sad in some stupid way to realize that you could’ve met a hundred times over by now. Had more conversations like this, haunted the joint jointly rather than on your own. Truthfully, though, you were at least semi-soothed by the timing.

You were a horrible bartender now, but you’d been even worse before. He might not have survived this long.

Once again, Yoongi set your runaway train-of-thought back on track. “Eight months ago.” He took a sip, then he asked, “Is that when you moved to Korea?”

It was a simple question, certainly not an offensive one. The reason it nearly bowled you over was that no one had ever bothered to ask. Nobody seemed to notice the non-native accent that occasionally appeared when you spoke — not unless you referenced its existence first, that is.

Even then, people forgot. You wished you were confident that they simply got used to it, but you had the sneaking suspicion that nobody really listened when you spoke. After all, no one had a reason to give a shit about you, so long as you kept their glasses full.

The weight of your curiosity caused your head to tilt to the side. You allowed a tiny smile to spread as you asked, “What gave me away?”

“Don’t get me wrong —” He held up his hands to prevent a reaction you’d never dream of giving. “It’s not obvious. You’ve got a better grasp than some of my friends do — which is kind of sad, actually. They’ve lived here their whole lives.”

He gifted you a reassuring smile, then came the true prize: he licked his lips absently before speaking again. You had to clench every single muscle in your body to keep from swooning.

That cannot be legal.

“I noticed it earlier, but you were already embarrassed. I didn’t want to risk making it worse.” Yoongi still looked like he was afraid to hurt your feelings. “When you word-vomit — like you did earlier — your consonants sound like they would in English.”

This linguistic assessment didn’t surprise you; it was dead-on. It didn’t embarrass you, either, but you blushed nonetheless. Without thinking, you mused, “Makes sense that you’re the first to say something. You spend more time overseas than most, right?”

For a split second, you swore you saw Yoongi frown. A little twinge, one you would’ve missed if you weren’t so fixated on his every micro-expression. If you could have, you would’ve hit the rewind button and reverted back thirty seconds.

Was it off-limits, finally acknowledging that you knew who you were dealing with? Did it bother him that you did know, and proceeded to speak to him like the glaring disparity between the two of you didn’t matter? Did it matter?

“You mean to tell me —” He started quietly with a flex of his eyebrow. You feared the worst, even though Yoongi didn’t strike you as the type to make your failure to fawn a problem. “— That the place you lived before wasn’t under a rock?”

As soon as he saw your expression morph from panic to blatant relief, his eyes crinkled until every one of his facial features contributed to his smile. It was difficult to process how an expression that gentle hit you like a punch, but it did, and you felt a bit dizzy.

Professionalism be damned, you cracked open another bottle of soju and filled not one, but two glasses. Yoongi smirked — likely unsurprised by your willingness to drink with him on the clock — and easily accepted the shot you slid his way.

“To the worst bartender in Seoul,” You cheered as you raised it.

He rolled his eyes at your self-depreciation, but followed your lead without any meaningful resistance. Like it was choreographed, you both downed your shots in unison. Straight, no chaser. Just the slight burn in the back of your throat and the very first thing your scrambled brain could think to say:

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

Yoongi was clearly stunned by your sudden maneuver, but you didn’t wait for him to co-sign your antics. You cleared your throat like you were about to say something worth hearing, then you warbled, “Knock, knock!”

You expected him to pause again; or worse, to leave you hanging entirely. It was, frankly, stupid how much of an effect the latter always had on you. You were a demented scientist and your bad joke was a litmus test, ready to reveal on the front-end what kind of person Yoongi really was.

Translation: Tell me now if I’m too much. I’m always too much.

“Who’s there?”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no blink of an eye, no breath taken in between your call and his response. This time, it was you who needed a split-second to buffer.

When your brain finally reloaded, you peeped, “Cargo.”

“Cargo who?” Yoongi asked slowly, growing visibly suspicious about where this stupid, stupid road was leading. Somehow, he looked as amused by you as he did continually bewildered.

Springing the trap, you accentuated your shitty punchline with a sing-song tone and pantomime for emphasis, “Car go beep beep!”

Nobody had ever — ever — looked at you the way Yoongi did when you concluded your comedy routine. As if your teary-eyed grin and raucous laughter were something beautiful; and your presence alone wasn’t killing off one, sorry brain cell for every minute that passed.

“Knock, knock,” Yoongi volleyed with a soft chuckle, and without breaking eye contact.

As if you weren’t too much.

Yoongi needed a minute to take inventory.

When he left his apartment at a quarter-til-eight, he was headed out for his first date in a long damn time. It was Seokjin’s setup and that girl’s letdown. For Yoongi, it was another drop in the bucket; one final reason to commit to life as a hermit.

Troll that he was, Yoongi was ready to crawl back under his bridge; emerging only to pose impossible riddles to passersby who didn’t know to stay away.

His brain had given him an out, but for once, he didn’t take it. So, what did he end up with instead?

You, sitting on the bar, going shot-for-shot with him; and telling your self-titled villain origin story with award-worthy narration.

Equally as enthralling as the story itself was the tangential webs you weaved along the way. As he’d already learned to expect, you apologized frequently for the way one thought trailed off in a direction you didn’t intend. He wished you didn’t; he had no trouble following wherever your mind led you.

You, born here but not raised here, returning to claim a master’s degree in photography and to reclaim what you felt you missed out on. Yoongi loved your foreign take on local foods, even if you hadn’t yet acquired a taste for pickled vegetables.

We’ll get you there, he’d promised.

You, gesturing with hand movements so impassioned they nearly knocked you off balance; right off the bar. He was down to listen to you talk about whatever — for any amount of time — because he could feel how much you cared about — well, everything.

Animated, fully alive, and so fucking refreshing.

Him, with one hand on his drink and the other hovering on the bar top near your hip — just in case your full-body laugh did, in fact, provoke a fall.

Yoongi, who do you think you’re fooling?

So, maybe it was never exclusively about concern for your safety — even though you’d demonstrated from the jump that it was warranted. Yoongi was quickly coming to realize that, when it came down to it, he simply liked having you close. He liked you, full stop.

Every now and then, you’d wiggle where you sat, and the denim of your jeans would brush against his knuckles. It was as innocent as contact could be, but for someone so secretly touch-starved, it was bliss. Is this the kind of feeling he gave up, locked away in his tower? It sure as shit made leaving feel worth it.

He was buzzed, sure, but not drunk enough to blame the warmth he was feeling on the liquor. Any flush on his cheeks would only be partly genetic. The rest of it was all you — and the way you talked with your whole body, and that giggle.

Seriously, what the fuck is that giggle? A wind-chime made out of stars?

“Yoongi?”

It didn’t dawn on him that he was staring until you called his name. Then, it dawned on him that he didn’t care if he’d been caught — not even a little bit. Red-handed, all Yoongi could do was smile up at you as you blinked down at him.

He’d thought it before and now he was thinking it again: You are goddamn delight.

You threw your head back and laughed. Maybe it was the soju, or how fucking obvious he made it that he was infatuated with you. Whatever the cause, the effect was music to his ears. He’d record it, if he could, and play it on loop to appease the butterflies going wild in his stomach.

Unfortunately, he was accurate in his prediction. The sudden movement of your laughter sent you reeling, but before you could fall, Yoongi was quick to intervene. He stood abruptly from his stool to secure you; one hand on your hip and the other — unintentionally — on your thigh.

“Shit — Sorry,” Yoongi muttered, though he was very much still holding you. Oh, fuck, his brain screamed as he glanced down at his hand on your thigh. Heart pounding, his gaze flitted from his touch to your face.

Your mouth was still slightly open, but that could’ve easily been attributed to the fact that you’d so narrowly avoided launching yourself headfirst at the ground. If it wasn’t that, then you were looking for the words to yell to get him to back off.

Those were the only possible explanations; and any minute now, his hand would accept his brain’s signal to pull away.

Any minute now. Any —

Yoongi watched it all happen in slow motion and he still couldn’t believe it when you leaned in. Or when your hair slipped over your shoulder and brushed against his. Or when you kissed him quick and pulled back just to smile from mere centimeters away.

“Impressive reflexes.” You were breathless but you still managed to sigh. Have you had freckles this whole time? “What’s that saying? Not all heroes wear Lewis Leathers?”

Your playful tug at his jacket had no force behind it, but even with his feet firmly planted, Yoongi knew that he was falling. His stomach fluttered from the pinnacle of that emotional rollercoaster and, for once, he wasn’t afraid of heights. He’d kiss you again and follow that thrill all the way down.

Or, he would have, if the bell above the door didn’t chime.

Just as quickly as you’d kissed him, you spun around and prepared to dismount from your perch on the bar. Yoongi’s hand still seemed to vibrate, even when you slipped out from underneath. It was absolutely ridiculous that his body missed you already — automatically — but he couldn’t think of any other explanation.

He wasn’t a violent person by any means, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to throw the incoming patron out on their ass and lock the door behind them.

The audacity. Who does this clown think they are, coming into a place of business during their business hours? For fuck’s —

“Finally!” You squeaked as you stuck your landing. Then, you skipped around the edge of the bar and continued on your way towards the door.

Jesus Christ. Even the way you walk is cute.

Yoongi was initially too preoccupied with watching you to notice the intruder, but when he did, he couldn’t force the exasperated look off his face. That is, until he saw the panicked look on the prepubescent face of the delivery boy.

The poor kid’s eyes bugged out at Yoongi from under the brim of his uniform cap. Immediately, Yoongi felt inclined to atone, to bow. Instead, he offered a mildly apologetic grimace for the heart attack he didn’t mean to cause.

You accepted the bags of food into your arms, beaming like the fucking sun as you glanced over your shoulder to Yoongi. “You said you liked Hongdae Dakgalbi, right?”

Yes. Yes, he did. But his brain was spinning its wheels in the mud because —

What he finally said wasn’t a question, but it certainly sounded like one: “You ordered food.”

Clearly, Yoongi was missing something. He glanced around and confirmed that there was, in fact, an operational kitchen still situated at the far end of the room. He pointed to the small window carved out for taking and producing orders. “What about —?”

“Binna called off,” you shrugged through your explanation. Then, you tilted your head with a coy smile, “Were we supposed to starve?”

Yoongi had questions. A lot of them.

First and foremost: When did you summon takeout and how did you manage to go unnoticed in the process? He was certainly staring at you for long enough to catch it. Or maybe his heart-eyes were getting foggy with age.

Also, we? As in, you ordered food with the intention of sharing it with him? And you paid for it?

When his broken brain snapped back to attention, it registered the fact that you’d settled on top of the stool next to his. You either didn’t notice the smoke flying out of Yoongi’s ears, or you accepted his brain damage for what it was. Either way, you were too excited about the piping hot tteokbokki in front of you to notice the way he still lingered by the door.

The delivery boy was long gone by now; he took the first opportunity to get as much distance between himself and the visibly annoyed person he’d interrupted. Looking at it now, Yoongi’s fingers twitched with a desire to engage the deadbolt. But he didn’t — he, a coward, wouldn’t — so he simply reclaimed the spot next to you.

You immediately held up a pair of chopsticks as you fished out napkins with your other hand. Yoongi stared at them for too long, prompting you to look quizzically up at him. You asked no questions, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why he said it, but he blurted out:

“I’m supposed to be on a date.”

Unfazed by the lack of context, you gently tucked that pair of chopsticks into his useless hand. Yoongi blinked down at them like he didn’t know what to do with them. You went back to unpacking your takeout.

“And I’m supposed to be working,” You chirped, as if what he just said — unprompted — wasn’t completely idiotic. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Yoongi shook his head, praying it would knock his trapped thoughts loose. “I meant that I was supposed to be the one buying dinner.” He frowned down at the spread you’d provided. “If I knew you were hungry, I would’ve —“

“Taken a bite by now?” You teased with wiggling eyebrows. “Come on, Min Yoongi, you know the rules. The eldest eats first.”

Stunned wasn’t adequate. Entranced? His mouth hung open, primed to speak, without a single, coherent response on the horizon. Mystified, at the very least. You were always one step ahead of Yoongi, dancing off in a brand new direction.

How on Earth did you do it so easily? How were you so effortlessly bold when he couldn’t even blink without deliberating over the idea for days?

Yoongi wasn’t even jealous the way he would’ve expected to be, meeting his non-neurotic foil. He didn’t want to steal that spark for himself, or try to mimic your fearlessness. If he could just continue to witness it, that would be enough.

You threw him off again when you plucked a small piece of tteokbokki from one of the cardboard containers below and gently maneuvered it into his unwitting, waiting mouth.

Game over. Min Yoongi is done for.

“There we go,” You cooed with a smirk. Then, those chopsticks grabbed a piece of tteokbokki of your very own. You smiled adoringly down at it, winked up at him, and said, “Now we’re off to the races.”

After several minutes of deeply contented, quiet chewing, you turned slightly to gaze at him. You didn’t say anything at first; you simply watched and let your lips curve slightly into an understated smile. Yoongi didn’t care if that was all you did because — for once — he felt seen.

Eventually, you did speak. Your voice was soft, barely casting a ripple through the silence. “Can I ask?”

Your eyes scanned over his face for permission. Yoongi had no idea what your question was, but he doubted that he was capable of saying no to you. Fire at will.

“About the date you’re not on,” You clarified.

The one I was supposed to be on, or the one I might be on instead?

“Why aren’t you on it?”

He didn’t know how to explain any of it without sounding pathetic. He knew he’d rather die than have to relay his earlier misfortune to Seokjin; somehow, though, Yoongi didn’t hesitate to respond to you. Like everything else about the past few hours, it felt laughably easy.

“She’s a friend of a friend,” He began as soon as he wiped excess gochujang from the corner of his mouth.

“He basically harassed me into asking her out because I, uh — I don’t get out much. And I know a lot of people say that, but I really do mean it. You can probably guess as much from my frighteningly translucent complexion.”

Your mouth hitched up at the corner when he joked, but you didn’t laugh. In some odd way, he was grateful that you didn’t — not just because you didn’t enable his self-depreciation, but because you seemed too invested in what he was saying to interrupt him.

Nobody had ever looked at him quite like that before.

He cleared his throat, then he pressed on, “So, I did — and that part was fine. After that, though, I don’t think I slept at all. For, like, days. Now, I think I was just dreading the whole thing, but while it was happening, I figured I was nervous. Rusty, you know?”

Yoongi looked down at his hands, which fidgeted autonomously with his chopsticks. “I put way too much thought into the whole thing — I always do — even though I had this feeling that nothing was going to happen the way I planned.”

He paused, poked mindlessly at a lump of rice, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t intentionally held. Nothing had happened the way he planned, but if it did, who would’ve hand-fed him tteokbokki because they were too impatient to wait?

You dropped your chin in your hand as you continued to watch him. Wordlessly, you reached out with your other hand. Yoongi noticed just in time as you gently removed a piece of lint that had stuck to the tip of his jacket collar. Your eyes followed it as it floated off towards the floor.

Yoongi couldn’t see anything but you.

“You picked this place,” you murmured. Slowly, your eyes drifted back up to his face; he froze solid. The only thing moving was the pounding heart in his chest. “Must mean a lot to you.”

He wanted to be brave and tell you that it meant even more now. He wasn’t brave, though, so he swallowed that thought down with a mouthful of soju.

“She was not a fan, as it turns out. Hated it so much, just from the sidewalk, that she jumped right back in her taxi — yelled at me through the window that she deserved better than to drink bottom-shelf liquor in a dumpster with me.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and he wondered which part of that statement bothered you the most. Having your place of employment referred to as a dumpster would be a reasonable sore spot; one he probably should’ve avoided. Fuck. Could he rewind thirty seconds and omit that part?

“Well,” you frowned, “Joke’s on her. This dumpster has exactly one bottle on its top shelf, and it was apparently reserved just for you.”

He could kiss you. He really, really could.

You shifted on your stool, though, and stared out into the middle-distance at nothing in particular. Deep in thought, too, judging by the way your frown curved even further.

“It’s kind of funny, in a shitty sort of way. She more or less told you that you’re not enough, and people love to tell me that I’m too much.”

It was Yoongi’s turn to frown. Who in their right mind could look at you, experience the goddamn magnet that you are, and willingly detach themselves from you? The thought alone made his jaw clench.

There hadn’t been a single second since he met you — albeit, not that long ago — where he didn’t want to see and know more of you. Where he didn’t beg those seconds to slow the fuck down because the night kept moving faster than he wanted it to.

So far, no amount of time felt like enough.

“You’d think it would be nice, being everyone’s favorite new toy,” You laughed, to Yoongi’s surprise.

Looking genuinely amused, you glanced over your shoulder at him. “And I guess, for a minute, it really is. You do your silly song and dance; and everyone loves you — until they don’t anymore. Eventually, your tricks get boring; you burn them out; then they take out your batteries. You get shelved pretty quickly.”

There was a flicker of genuine hurt in your eyes, but you were smiling when you picked your glass up off the bar and raised it. “To always being the wrong amount!” You giggled.

“Nah.” Yoongi shook his head. He grabbed his drink, touched his glass to yours, and winked, “To being just right.”

One way or another, you spent most nights watching the clock, holding your breath, and waiting for midnight.

On New Year’s Eve, it was hope that bloomed bright in your chest like fireworks. When those final seconds dissolved, it meant closing one chapter and opening another. Something bigger, something better, something blank for you to fill in. A year in fresh white paper, with every color at your disposal.

Ten — nine —

For the rest of your midnights, it was relief that finally allowed you to unclench your jaw and drop your stiff shoulders. Closing time. Freedom to clean up, clear out, and drag your tired, little body back up to your apartment.

Thankfully, when your work hours were over, there were only three flights of stairs separating you from your bed, your cat, and your Netflix subscription.

Eight — seven —

Tonight was an outlier, a statistical anomaly. As the short hand inched closer and closer to twelve, your pulse picked up its pace. For once, it wasn’t relief and it certainly wasn’t hope. It was distinctively dread forming a pit in your stomach.

Even more than that, it was a telepathic plea shooting out from your brain that begged, and begged, and begged for more time. Five more minutes, just five more minutes.

Six — five —

You felt stupid, of course, because you knew that neither of you would turn into a pumpkin when the clock struck midnight. There was no spell, just two strangers who happened to be in the same bar at the same time, with bad jokes and a bottle of Tanqueray.

No bomb would detonate, no one would drop dead. When it was over, you’d simply go home, and Yoongi would go home and then…

Four —

That “and then what?” had you frantic. What if this moment ended and nothing followed? What if the magic didn’t survive the night?

You couldn’t take that disappointment; you knew that much. Gripping tight to your last first night, you tore your eyes away from the clock and looked at Yoongi.

He didn’t notice you staring because he had also become fixated on the clock ahead. His brow furrowed just slightly as he observed it, and you wondered what it meant.

Three —

You knew what you hoped it meant.

For all you knew, though, he might’ve been begging that hand to move faster. The end all, be all of justifications to say goodnight and go. To drop the moment in the bin with the spent, citrus garnishes on the way out; and then crawl back into that bed he spoke so fondly of.

The way you did whenever four zeroes lined up in a row like cartoon cherries on a slot machine. A personal jackpot any other midnight, but the farthest thing from a prize now.

Two —

No. You refused to believe that.

In the reality you’d chosen, he was strapped into that rollercoaster car beside you. He felt his stomach flip the way yours did as you stared down at the path ahead. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you were sure that you weren’t up there alone.

So, when the countdown was over, you took a deep breath and stated, “I’m calling a time-out.”

In actuality, it was more than a statement. It was a shout and it startled him so badly that he flinched.

As soon as he resettled on his stool, Yoongi’s neck could’ve snapped with how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wider than you’d seen them at any point in the last four hours. Those once-knitted brows shot up to kiss the blonde strands brushing against his forehead.

You envied them, as stupid as that was.

“You’re — what?” He peeped.

Even louder than before, you blurted out your explanation. “I’m stopping the clock!”

You might’ve been the sole American in the entire neighborhood, but you could guarantee that you still knew less about football than Yoongi did. Knowing all of that didn’t stop you from making your worst attempt at a metaphor, or throwing your hand out to mime your way through it.

“Flag on the play — or whatever, I don’t know.”

At first, his expression didn’t change and you began to panic. Maybe you could duck down behind the bar and he’d eventually forget that you were hiding there. Then he wouldn’t see how pink your cheeks were; how the hope in your eyes bordered on desperate.

Shockingly, you weren’t delusional. You’d simply underestimated him.

Yoongi glanced down at his watch — already two minutes into Sunday — and then back to you. “Wow. Would you look at that? Only a minute til midnight.”

You could kiss him; you really, really could.

“Do you want to, uh, hang out? With me? Like, not here?”

Yoongi was smirking slightly at your stammering, just enough for you to notice, but you didn’t faint the way your body wanted you to. Instead, you doubled down.

“I live in the apartment upstairs, and this isn’t a proposition — it’s also not, not a proposition — but I need to lock-up here, and I still want you with me when I’m done.”

He blinked rapidly like you’d once again shook him off your tail. You watched in slow motion as his smirk dropped, and his brows dipped back into thoughtful wrinkles at the lowest part of his forehead. It hurt, physically somehow, that there was something to consider.

Were you really this egregiously wrong in your conclusions, or had he finally hit his quota with you and decided that you — this — were too much, too soon?

You wanted to explain yourself, to say that you were just offering for him to come up and sit on your couch with you. Because you wanted to keep this night alive and keep talking for as long as you could. Because this was something and you knew it.

You opened your mouth to do so, but he was the quicker draw.

Yoongi looked genuinely conflicted and you believed him when he said, “I don’t think I can. I have to be up in four hours to —”

“It’s okay!” You chirped. Stupid little bird, flying headlong into a window. You smiled and prayed it looked genuine, but Yoongi didn’t look convinced. Still, you breezed, “Raincheck, then — maybe.”

Maybe when you take the trash out later, you can heave yourself into the dumpster with it.

Deciding that your disappointment shouldn’t be his burden, you grabbed the takeout containers from the counter and whisked yourself over to the trash bin to discard them.

In a magnificent showing of restraint, you didn’t stuff yourself inside it, too. Instead, your tidy tornado kept spinning, picking up every glass you encountered and shoving them hurriedly into the dishwasher below the bar.

Are you suddenly Employee of the Month? Why is this the moment you choose to actually do your job?

With your hip, you nudged the dishwasher door closed much more clumsily than usual. Then, you began wiping down the counter at warp speed; damn near scrubbing a hole straight though the wood.

Why are you so frazzled? Are you really this sensitive after being politely turned down by someone you just met? This is what they mean when they say you’re “too much,” and you know what? They’re right.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Yoongi asked because he was lovely.

You were, as it turned out, as bad an actor as you were a bartender. Your reassuring smile was more unsettling than anything else, but you hoped that — maybe — the shake of your head was enough to dispel the concern from his face.

In case it wasn’t, you quipped, “You’ve already done more than your fair share of cleaning tonight, I think. Thanks again for that, by the way. I ran out bandages, so…”

Your sentence petered out when you finally looked up and locked eyes with Yoongi. His expression was indecipherable and, only for a moment, it made your hurried hands stop moving.

“So, I’m glad you came in,” You finished through an exhale, quiet to the point that it was hardly audible. You hoped he heard you, though, as loudly and clearly as you meant it.

Straightening up, you dropped your bar rag into the “dirty shit” bucket underneath the counter. You quickly wiped your hands against your jeans, laughed with no real joy behind it, and hid your wobbling voice behind a poorly imitated French accent, “Et voilà.”

Yoongi was still staring, still unreadable. For a few moments, you simply looked at one another. Neither one of you made a sound — at least, nobody spoke. There were gears grinding in his head, judging by the look on his face, and you swore you could hear them from across the bar.

“I guess I should — um,” Yoongi eventually muttered as he gestured to the door. He briefly glanced at it, but you doubted that he registered what he was looking at.

Oddly, it wasn’t awkwardness that seemed to have him short-circuiting — not as far as you could tell. It was like his brain was moving faster than it could form words, leaving his mouth open with nothing to say.

You nodded. You knew where he was going with this, and you didn’t want to prolong whatever he was so visibly toiling with.

“Yeah, of course,” You squeaked. Somewhere, the world’s tiniest violin began to play as the corner of your mouth hitched up. “I’ll see you around, I hope?”

Then, Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the phone in his hand. If he heard your question, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, deep in thought, he mumbled, “I need to — fuck, okay —” Urgently, he looked back up at you and said firmly, “I’ll call.”

He dashed out the door before you realized the problem with his plan: he had no way to call you.

You’d been so caught up in each other that you never thought to exchange phone numbers. Not only was he now gone, but he hadn’t actually said goodbye.

Seems kind of fitting that yours is the only fairytale without a happy ending, huh?

You occupied the borderline between being a hopeless romantic and a masochist, so you immediately decided that, if you ran, you might catch him before he was truly gone.

Kiss him or kick him, it didn’t matter — you just couldn’t let it end like this.

You skirted around the bar and darted to the door, throwing it open and shocking the bell above it. You were already out on the sidewalk before it had the chance to chime. It was the only sound, and it echoed through otherwise dead air.

Similarly, you were the only person on the street. Judging by the dark windows lining the road, you were the only proof of life in that little corner of Seoul. The lack of visible stars was likely due to light pollution, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they dipped out on you, too.

No matter how many times you looked up and down the street, Yoongi didn’t appear. So, you closed your eyes like an idiot, and wished on a star you couldn’t see that he’d be there when you re-opened them. Standing on the other side of the street, laughing, and asking how you’d missed him on your thirty previous scans.

But he wasn’t.

Yoongi had disappeared like smoke right through your fingers; exiting your night as abruptly as he’d entered it.

You weren’t inclined to stand on the sidewalk all night, stunned by your complete failure to see the plot for what it was. You slipped from the sidewalk, through the front door, and locked it behind you. And once you did, you stood there with your hand on the deadbolt for several moments — just in case.

When no one came to knock, you turned all the lights out and flipped the sign in the front window from open to closed. From there, you made your way to the back of the storage room. Finally reaching the stairwell door in the far corner, you unlocked it slowly like the wait would make a difference.

As you climbed the three flights to your apartment’s entrance, the night’s events formed a whirlpool in your mind. The playback settled it: there was simply no way that you were this wrong — not about this.

Clearly, you weren’t clairvoyant to the extent that Yoongi seemed to be. You hadn’t seen it coming when you nearly fell backwards off the bar, but he did. He’d kept his hand close all night like he sensed you’d need it. Just like he sensed every rock, paper, and scissor.

Even still, it felt like a premonition every time you turned to look at him at the same time he did; and you couldn’t put a finger on it.

That something was more than simply chatting with a person stuck in your close proximity — more than commiserating and drinking simultaneously. That was the nature of your job: circumstantial friendship. Not uncommon, not designed to last beyond last call.

This, though? Cosmic interfere or craziness, maybe, but not nothing. You weren’t superstitious and you didn’t necessarily believe in fate, but the odds of all of this had to be shockingly low.

It felt cinematic, in a way, or straight out of a dream. You would have believed it either way if the pinch of your fingers on your forearm didn’t debunk both theories. It was all too perfectly timed to be a coincidence, though, you knew that much.

Out of all the nights you’d worked at this bar — and all the years he’d been a customer — this was the one time your paths had crossed. And when they finally did, he found you right when you needed him. The same, you hoped, could be said for him.

Too Much meeting Not Enough, proving perfect balance. It was just right, but the ending didn’t fit.

Sure, he knew where to find you — but that was assuming he wanted to. With his quick and wordless departure, your confidence in that assumption wavered as you unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside.

The ball’s over, Cinderella. Sorry about your shoe.

When his third call went to voicemail, Yoongi was ready to launch his phone down the alley.  

There was no fucking way that Seokjin — of all people — was asleep already. This could not be the night that he turned off whatever game he was playing and went to bed at a reasonable hour. Seokjin was rarely reasonable. As it turned out, he wasn’t reachable, either. 

Yoongi growled, kicking the nearby dumpster. He thought that some explosion of physical activity might take the focus off his anxiety, but it didn’t — it just made his foot hurt. 

“Fuck!”

He didn’t even want to make the plans he was now trying desperately to reschedule. He didn’t like fishing; he liked his friend, and his friend liked fishing. So, Yoongi agreed to share the cost of renting a boat that he would have to leave at five o’clock in the morning to catch.

If it's 00:17 now, I have three hours and forty-three minutes until —

The unexpected chiming of his phone stopped Yoongi’s pacing before he could wear a trench into the concrete. “Finally!” 

“Do you always yell at people instead of greeting them?” Seokjin scoffed. As expected, Yoongi could hear some sort of video game blaring in the background.

Typical.

“Hyung, I’m so sorry, but I'm not going to make it back in time. Can we re-schedule this fishing thing?”

Yoongi felt awful for having to ask in the first place, but he felt even worse as he anticipated Seokjin’s reaction. Yoongi swallowed disappointment and stewed in it. Seokjin was quite the opposite, and Yoongi didn’t want to ruin his night. 

To Yoongi’s surprise, he did not get yelled at the way he expected to. Instead, he got Seokjin’s juvenile, sing-song voice directed right into his ear, “Ooh, staying with Hyunjoo, are we?” 

Yoongi, having completely lost the plot, paused for a moment before asking, “Who?” 

“What?” 

Oh, fuck, was that her name? It’d slid out of his brain the second that abuse slid out of her mouth.

Quick to avoid that conversation, Yoongi sputtered, “I’ll give you the story tomorrow, hyung, but I really need to go. Can we push the fishing thing to another day?"

“Oh, I forgot to book the boat, so don’t worry about it!” Seokjin cheered and Yoongi was this close to following through with chucking his phone like a grenade. “Have fun with —” 

Not inclined to wait another second, Yoongi hung up and turned to sprint up the alley towards the bar’s entrance. When he reached it and found the lights out, he skidded to a stop so forcefully that he almost fell over. What the fuck? He tugged at the door handle just to make sure he wasn’t missing something. 

Didn’t he tell you he was going to make a phone call? 

Fuck! He'd said I'll call. He didn't say that he was going to call Seokjin, and he sure as shit hadn't clarified that he was going to do so right that second. There'd been no explanation, no “please wait because I promise I’m coming right back for you" — just a mad dash out the door to get rid of the only thing standing between him and more time with you. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Yoongi never indulged in unadulterated rage because he decided a long time ago that it took more effort than it was worth. In that moment, though, he felt the overwhelming urge to punch himself right in the face. How did he fuck it all up this badly?

Instead, Yoongi scrubbed his hands over his face and begged his brain to figure out a better plan. He couldn’t just call you because he was too busy making googly eyes at you to ask for your number. He couldn’t pick the lock because it was illegal — and because he didn’t know how.

Unable to do anything else, Yoongi threw his head back with every intention of screaming at the sky. But before he could let his frustration rip out of his mouth, he saw it: his saving grace. 

Mere moments after he sprinted up the alley, Yoongi was tearing back down it like his life depended on it. The end of the iron emergency ladder sat too high off the ground for him to comfortably reach it, but — thankfully — he had garbage at his disposal. Without a second thought, he stacked whatever semi-sturdy trash he could find to bridge the gap between him and your fire escape. 

With all the strength and recklessness of a lovestruck teenager, Yoongi threw his twenty-four-year-old body upwards and grabbed hold of the nearest rung.

Maybe you overestimated that strength a little bit, eh, Yoongi?

He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up enough to swing a leg up, too. Groaning triumphantly, he hooked the bottom of his shoe on the lowest rung. 

From there, it was easy enough to reach the first landing. When it came time for Yoongi to tackle the other two, he picked up the pace — and he didn’t give a shit about how sore he’d be tomorrow. 

Finally, finally, finally, he reached his destination. Unfortunately, that fleeting moment of relief was replaced by fear as he stooped down to knock on your window. Staring back at him through the darkness was a pair of big, yellow eyes.

Yoongi shouted as he stumbled away from the window. He knocked over a planter on his way down, landing on his ass with a crash and a grunt. Adding insult to injury, that black cat looked positively smug as it stared down at him.  

It was quiet when you called out — in English — from another room. “Toph, did you break something? I thought we talked about this, bub." As your voice grew closer, you switched to Korean, "You can't ruin my stuff until you start contributing to this household.”

What's the incubation period for lovesickness?

Yoongi heard footsteps headed towards whatever room he’d failed to break and enter. He saw the light as it flicked on, and then he saw you — wearing a fluffy, tan headband with little, round ears at the top —with a bare face glistening as if you’d just finished tending to it.

Oh, fuck. Is lovesickness terminal? 

If your eyes opened any wider, they might’ve fallen right out of your skull. They would’ve landed where Yoongi did — in the mass grave of pepper sprouts he’d just outright annihilated. But they stayed beautiful where they belonged, and you simply gawked at each other. 

Yoongi spoke first despite not thinking first. “Toph? Like, Beifong?” 

Your shock gave way to the biggest, brightest smile and Yoongi was thankful it didn’t blind him. If it did, he would’ve missed the way your cheeks went pink to match the tips of your ears. Whatever the shade, it was his new favorite color.

Just bury me in this potting soil, doll. I'm dead. 

“Yoongi,” You started with a giggle that turned into a hum when you pursed your lips and tilted your head. Your eyes narrowed and then you asked, “Any reason why you chose the fire escape over the door?” 

The what? 

Sensing his confusion, you leaned out the window and pointed. Yoongi’s eyes followed the invisible line from your fingertip until they located an awning, which sat mere meters away from his impromptu stepstool made of trash.  

Inwardly, he winced. Outwardly, he turned to you with a lopsided smile. “I was checking out your little garden."

Yoongi cleared his throat, now wincing outwardly, “And, uh — then I killed it, a little bit. I promise I’ll replace everything as soon as the shops open. I am so —” 

“Cold? I bet,” You interrupted with a smirk, “Come inside then, Min Yoongi. Just don’t break the window too, alright?” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

Immediately, he was on his feet, furiously dusting potting soil off the back of his legs. When he suspected that he’d gotten it all, Yoongi turned around and glanced at you over his shoulder. Even without a question, you knew what he was asking; you signaled okay with your fingers and a giggle. 

With more care than he’d ever shown in his life, Yoongi crawled through the gap you created when you ducked back through the window. Once he had his feet underneath him again, he quickly toed off his shoes and plucked them off the tile.

As soon as he was upright again, you took his wrist in your hand — oh god, your skin is so criminally soft — and led him through your kitchen to the living room. 

Gently, you set his shoes down on the mat beside your front door. Then, you turned back around to gaze up at him. Looking at that face of yours, Yoongi forgot every word he’d ever learned. It was just his hammering heart beating in time with yours, until: 

“So, this is where I live.”

You were close enough that Yoongi could smell the toothpaste on your breath when you spoke, but still too far. You must’ve thought so, too, because you shifted your weight to your other foot and wound up slightly nearer to him. 

Yoongi hummed in reply, though he could barely hear it over his pulse pounding in his ears, “It’s nice.”

He didn’t actually know if that was the case because he’d spent every second so far staring at you, but he had faith that you’d prove him right.

More quiet, more anticipation disguised as quickening breaths.

Like a magnet, you drew him in. Yoongi echoed every tiny move you made towards him until the distance was gone; and he could feel the heat of your body mere centimeters from his.

This close, he could see flecks of gold in your irises that he hadn’t noticed before. Yoongi knew he shouldn't have been surprised. If he'd learned a single thing tonight it was that hidden treasures were par for the course with you.

“Yoongi.” 

It was baffling how you could sound so shy, even with desire blowing your pupils wide. Just as confounding was the fact that Yoongi knew, without question, that you felt it, too — that this new and perfect something was the start of everything.

“Please, just kiss me already.” 

That wasn’t an opportunity he’d ever expect to turn down. 

You were already breathless, weightless, and floating in fucking space when you finally crossed over the threshold into your bedroom.

Because, fuck, that man took your oxygen with him whenever his lips left yours. Without even trying, he’d fashioned himself into a ventilator that you really might suffocate without.  

Thankfully, whenever he pulled away, he didn’t stray far. Even as you both stumbled towards your unmade bed, tripping over obstacles — up to and including Toph, whose favorite spot was between your ankles — there was always one hand on your hip and another lacing fingers through your hair. 

As you moved, you couldn’t help thinking of the leftovers you’d brought home from work before. All single-use encounters, wastes of time that you normally didn’t care to recall. Though he may end up being the last, Yoongi wasn’t the first person to have you in this position.

He was, however, the only person to rescind his tongue just to comment on the tiny, design details of your shit-box apartment. 

“How did you —” He paused to moan into your mouth when your teeth gently claimed his bottom lip. “Find a place with — oh, fuck, you taste like spearmint – original crown-molding in this —” The back of his knees bumped into the edge of your mattress and suddenly, he was sitting. “Neighborhood?” 

There was no way you could ever explain Min Yoongi’s duality. He was unequivocally, fatally hot — and simultaneously, he was the most endearing, grandfatherly person you’d ever encountered. Somehow, this mind-boggling man turned architectural factoids into dirty talk.

You might orgasm on the spot if he brought up your built-ins, and you didn’t know or care what that said about you as a person. 

“I’ll show you the blueprints later if you want,” you giggled while Yoongi ‘s cheeks flushed. Before he could find a reason to feel embarrassed, you tilted his chin up in order to kiss him properly. As you did, you murmured against his lips, “But if you take those jeans off, there’s something else I’d like to show you first.” 

Your little finger was near to his throat as you held his chin captive, so you felt it when it when he growled. Against your knuckle, in your chest, and in that growing ache in between your thighs. There was roughness in him that you’d only seen snippets of, but you’d bet that you could pull it out if you tried.  

Maybe not now while you were both masking nerves, but eventually. 

When Yoongi made to stand, you backed up to give him room to do so. You were already on your knees when his belt came off, unbuttoning his jeans before the leather even hit the floor. As you pulled that zipper down — slowly and carefully — you glanced up at him from under your lashes and watched the breath catch in his chest. 

It wasn’t the first time you noticed how fucking beautiful he was; in fact, that thought had been looping through your mind all night. But there was something new in his expression as he observed you taking his cock into your hand.

Something reverent, like he believed he should be the one on their knees.

A few languid, kitten licks at the tip, and his eyelids fluttered. They screwed shut entirely as you ran the flat of your tongue along the vein underneath. When your mouth finally enveloped him fully, his head drooped backwards as he groaned. 

Your name would never sound better than it did exhaled from Yoongi’s chest. 

More often than not, fellatio felt like an obligation. A quid pro quo, you always figured, though none of them kept up their end of the deal. But with Yoongi buried in the wet heat of your mouth, it was a gift you might never get tired of giving. Every breathy moan and involuntary twitch felt like a prize — and still, neither came close to the way it felt when he looked at you. 

In those fleeting moments when he could focus, of course. 

“I’m fucking dreaming,” Yoongi groaned, bringing his hands up and scrubbing them over his face. “Shit. Perfect figment of my imagination, that’s the only explanation for you. Where the fuck have you been my whole life?” 

You hummed as you let him slip out of your mouth. In turn, it prompted a flurry of expletives to slip out of his. Tracing a feather-light line from hilt to head, you smirked up at him, “Waiting at a bar for you to show up, Min Yoongi. You sure did take your time.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” He laughed, “I already plan to regret that for the next — I don't know — forever?”

He dropped his hands from over his eyes and held them out to you. “Come here, angel. You’re too far away.” 

As soon as you were back on your feet, Yoongi enveloped you in the warmth of his arms. You were halfway to melting when he kissed you; dead and gone when he laid you back against the mattress; and downright astral projecting when the weight of his body was added to yours.  

Not to be dramatic, but is heaven a place on Earth? 

With your head resting comfortably on the pillow, you gazed up at Yoongi as he addressed the tied waistband of your sweatpants. It wasn’t until that knot came undone that you realized: if he’d come home with you earlier — before you’d swapped out your street clothes for shapeless knits — he would’ve had a prettier present to unwrap.  

Lace over your hip bones instead of cotton briefs. A black, balconette bra that made your tits into something worth looking at; not lackluster bareness that barely registered under your paint-stained t-shirt.  

Unintentionally mimicking him, you covered your face with your hands to conceal the way you were blushing. You didn’t even dare to peek through your fingers at him while he dragged your sweatpants down over your legs.

That is, not until you heard the world’s softest chuckle and it hit you like a bus. 

“Pretty girl,” Yoongi hummed. He left a chaste kiss on the top of your left thigh, and you whimpered. So sweet, so brief that your skin still tingled when he moved to mirror that kiss on your right thigh. “Where’d you go, baby?” 

Baby.  

That settled it. Min Yoongi was trying to kill you.

Nobody kissed you that carefully, not ever. No man, no woman, no one in between or beyond spoke to you that softly; turned you to putty in their hands with gentleness alone. Not like he did.

You were going to love him — you already knew it — and that stupid, four-letter word just sealed your fate. There wasn’t a single thing that you could do to prevent it, even if you wanted to. So, your options were limited to one:

Leaning into the fall. 

You reached out with the hand that once covered your face and grabbed him by the shirt to pull him closer. Once he was within range, with the tip of his nose bumping into yours, you stared him dead in the eye and told him just how badly you needed him inside of you. 

It took no time at all for the two of you to cast aside what remained of your clothing. Hand-me-downs mingled with designer items that exceeded the cost of your rent, and you didn’t give a fuck. You discarded your inhibitions in that heap, too, sitting up on your knees as he rolled a condom down his length. 

Yoongi’s return to you was marked by his hands cupping your face. He kissed you until you were no longer breathless, until you felt the rush of air filling your lungs. You followed his lead back down to the mattress where he rested on his side; and without any need for instruction, you draped your right leg over his hip. 

It was the closet you’d been to him, but it still wasn’t close enough 

“Is this okay?” Yoongi broke the kiss just to look at you.  

The fondness in his eyes was competing with concern, but that didn’t surprise you. Considerate to a fault, he’d no doubt been thrown for a loop when you went from zero to one hundred in merely half a second. “I can —” 

Oh, I bet you can.  

But you couldn’t wait. Impatient, through and through — and thoroughly dripping — you shook your head.

Your hand left its place on his bare bicep and dipped down to wrap around his cock. There were two individual heartbeats hammering in sync as you guided him to your cunt, though it sounded a lot like one. 

“Like you said earlier,” You sighed as he pushed into you. “Just right.” 

Six years later...

tagging: @mgthecat @jihopesjoint @jaejoontrashpanda @taebaelove @cyanide-mustard @xjoonchildx @borahae-k @i-purple-buff-bunni @pamzn @myimaginationsrunningwild @nonbinary-demonbrat @yoongiphoria @sstarryoong @xcherrywaltz @btschimeyplanet @persphonesorchid @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @goodsoop @jkoofier (couldn't tag)

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likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a comment below, PM, reblog, tags, etc. tysm for reading ✨

a/n: holy shit. just, holy shit. i've spent less time on literal thesis papers than i did on this. i'm so thankful for everyone who blew up darksided and blindsided — i really hope this provides context for how these two got together, and how tf they love each other that much. i will not apologize for the sexual cliffhanger because this smut wasn't going to be included, initially! this was going to end at the bar, lol.

also, this is an ode to those very special (very impermanent) nights with someone new that feel like perfect lifetimes in just the span of a few hours. in my experience, they never went anywhere (which i think made them more special, in hindsight) but i wanted to write a fic where things didn't stop there.

anyways, i'm very tired of writing words now, so please enjoy and let me know what you think 🫶🏻

---

I’m so glad I returned to come read this 😮‍💨 that was so heavyyyy!!! But good heavy. They’re so in love and it’s so endearing to see how natural and beautiful they care for each other. I want that 🥹. The passport conversation was so funny 🤣, but the coming back for wallet had me rolling please. Definitely an unconventional gift she gave him but it held so much value and said everything they both needed to say. Such pure romance, I’d side for this couple 🖤🖤🖤🥰

worth all your while (ch.4) | knj x reader

chapter summary: you've been with namjoon for 100 days and you both have surprises up your sleeves for each other. this is pure, sickening fluff and some smut. like... tooth-rotting, ridiculous fluff. i'm almost ashamed.

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: smut, fluff, light angst, au: famous, but not an idol

chapter warnings: just copious amounts of fluff. like WAY too much fluff. smut, face-fucking, handcuffs (but soft), edging, penetrative sex, unprotected sex

chapter word count: ~5.5k (total 23.8k)

a/n: hello, im almost embarrassed about all the fluff. it's really over the top in a way that i don't normally write. thanks to my friends, @ugh-yoongi and @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over, i appreciate you both!

previous chapter | next chapter | read on ao3

It’s been almost one hundred days since you ran into Namjoon at a random duty-free shop in Heathrow. Time has passed quickly, and it’s gone like this:

It’s been wintery days slipping into spring. The snow on the peaks melts, the cherry blossoms and wildflowers begin to rise out of their hibernation, the world around you comes back to life. You and Namjoon hike together as the trails thaw, you run a little bit when the sun comes out, and you realize both that he’s in way better shape than you and that he pretends he isn’t so that you feel better about it. It’s pretty nice.

It’s been slow days (and long nights) filled with you and Namjoon defiling every single surface in his apartment, his studio, your apartment (sorry Jimin), a couple of alleyways, the backseat of the car his company always sends for him, and exactly one public park bench. 

It’s included anxious days of you asking for, and getting permission to tell Seokjin, your mom, and your sister about Namjoon and what he’s starting to mean to you. Seokjin, who is in deep with his girlfriend and seeing everything through rose-colored glasses, is ecstatic. Your mom asks when you’ll give her grandchildren, your sister asks how you “scored someone so far out of your league, for real.” 

(And then she asked if you could get her an autograph. Namjoon said yes while you had her on speakerphone, because he’s endlessly kind. In turn, that led to you throwing your hand over his mouth, him licking your palm in retaliation, and then the two of you forgetting your sister was on the phone in favor of making out on his sofa while her protests were muffled, phone lost between the cushions beneath you.

That was the time you learned he didn’t actually mind being bossed around a little. He said he sort of liked how you stopped him from speaking, cheeks pink and voice soft. Later, you had him underneath you, hands bound carefully to his headboard as he begged for you to do something, anything to give him a little release, and you told him how good he was in approximately sixteen different ways before you gave in. After, he thanked you for edging him so thoroughly, and thanked you for finally letting him come, and thanked you again with his tongue in a complete role reversal. 

You still don’t know when your sister hung up, but you did find a text from her the next morning letting you know that you were “disgusting and mom would be so disappointed in you.”) 

It’s been days of being taken by surprise. Jimin and Taehyung weren’t part of your disclosure plan, but they know about him now, too. One weekend—according to Namjoon, who is much better at keeping track of these things than you are, it was around day sixty of your… situation—they said they were going to Busan to see Jimin’s family and would be gone until Sunday night. Namjoon had come over approximately five minutes after your roommates left, and the two of you, with every good intention, had ordered pizza and flipped on a movie. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all, because there was almost no time before he had you on your hands and knees, gripping the back of the sofa, and trying not to moan or whine or scream too loud. Then you heard the keypad at your apartment door and couldn’t figure out in your one-orgasm-in-already brain why the pizza guy would be trying to let himself in. The shriek that Taehyung let out when he pushed the door open let you know that it was not, in fact, the delivery guy. 

Jimin forgot his wallet. 

They’d made it all the way to Seoul Station to catch the KTX before they’d realized. “We were all the way there,” Tae whined, now seemingly undeterred that you and Namjoon were absolutely naked and mid-fuck. Namjoon pointed out (with a weak laugh and his dick softening inside you) that he was the only one in the room not making it all the way anywhere that night. Taehyung had high-fived him over your head for getting you there first at least and followed that up with, “Man, you look so familiar,” while you and Jimin stared at each other, both a little mortified.

“I’m still fucking naked,” you said, trying to get anyone to understand the gravity of the situation. Jimin grabbed a throw blanket and tossed it to Namjoon, who really was just doing his best given the circumstances. Once you were both dressed and your roommates had booked tickets on the first morning train, you introduced them properly to Namjoon and shared your pizza with them while they asked endless questions about your relationship. It was… memorable.

And mostly, the days have passed with date after date after date: movie nights at his place, dinners at quiet restaurants with private tables, picnics on temple grounds and in parks, and taking in small concerts of artists he knows from the darkest corners of backstage. Whatever you do now, you find time to talk. You have a lot of things in common and a lot of things to teach each other. Conversation generally flows pretty freely with you, and when it doesn’t, you find you don’t really mind being quiet with him, either. Sometimes, there are late nights where he is somewhere deep in his own thoughts, writing lyrics and chewing on his pen while you read with your head in his lap and let his fingers tease at your hair.

Those nights are your favorite. 

Ever since he’d told you around a mouthful of hotteok that he wanted to spend each day with you, it had pretty much happened. He doesn’t even let work obligations deter him. 

He’s decided the best sort of torture is to show up at art show openings and gallery events when he knows you’re working. Namjoon must be a glutton for punishment, because he claims to like only being able to look at you from across the room, making casual conversation with you like you’re solely professional acquaintances, brushing his hand across your hips when he passes you in crowded exhibit spaces and hoping only you notice the way his fingertips linger. At first, it was distracting, and it still is, but you like the way he gets your heart racing just from being in close proximity, the way he flashes you his dimples when he thinks he can get away with it… You think you might like the danger of being caught. 

(There was one particularly close encounter: you were backed against a wall outside the restrooms of a small museum, Namjoon had you caged in close, close, close and was telling you all the really interesting things he’d been thinking about doing with you when you came over to his place later. Your whole body felt hot, particularly the skin under your ear where he was speaking low and raspy, breath brushing your cheek, your neck… And then your boss had come around the corner, and the only thing saving you was her 100 mm heels which told you she was coming just before she could spot you. Namjoon jumped away and fussed with the button of his suit jacket. “I’d love to continue this conversation another time,” he said quickly, flashing you the same kind of staged smile you’d seen him give to strangers thousands of times. 

But when you did end up at his place later, there was no conversation to be had. Your knees hit the floor at the same time his dress slacks did, and you gave him exactly the scene he’d laid out for you in the museum, eyes teary and pupils blown as you swallowed him down and let him fuck your throat until he came. No talking after, either, since your throat was raw, but he made you tea with honey and ran you a bath with lavender salts and made sure you didn’t have to lift a finger for the next 24 hours.) 

So, it’s been almost one hundred days since you ran into Namjoon at a random duty-free shop in Heathrow. This fact is not lost on you, not one little bit, because he’s been a complete nervous wreck since the beginning of the week. He called you on Monday to see if you remembered that it was coming up this weekend, rambling about how important it is, how he’s going to make sure you have the best day, how he wanted you to know he hadn’t forgotten. 

It would have been cute, like practically everything else he ever does, except… You had forgotten. So his phone call on Monday kicked off five days of sheer panic for you, begging Jimin to help you find a gift, scrambling to get your Saturday assignment covered, and calling your mother to see if she had any advice. 

(Her advice was to pretend you hadn’t remembered, not buy a gift, and see what he got you first so that you would know the right ballpark. It explained a lot about why she’d been single for so long.)

“Baby?” 

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Theoretically, when does your passport expire?” 

You sigh. “We’re not leaving the country, Namjoon.” 

“Too much?” He sounds somehow disappointed and relieved at the same time. You can almost picture the look on his face, the way his nose crinkles a little when he hears or says something he doesn’t like. 

“Too much,” you affirm. 

“Okay.” You hear him take a deep breath. “Hobi, she says that’s too much.” 

In the background, you hear Hoseok cackling, and you try your hardest not to join him. It’s not that you think there’s anything about what Namjoon is doing to laugh at, it’s just that he’s so fucking adorable that you feel like you might burst. That affection is crawling and scratching at the inside of your chest and it has to come out somehow. 

“I bet you’ll think of something perfect,” you say. “I just want to spend it with you. Doesn’t matter what we do, you know?” 

There’s a pause; you know he’s turning your words over in his mind. Then he lets out a long sigh. “You’re so right. Just us. Maybe I’ve been overthinking it when it should just be simple.” 

“Simple,” you agree fondly.

“Okay, gotta go, but I’ll see you tonight?” 

“See you tonight.” You like him so much you could cry. 

When it’s been 99 days, Namjoon shows up at your apartment unusually early. It’s a Friday morning, and he’d told you not to make plans. Apparently, he’s enlisted your roommates for help, which is an unnerving development because they know too much and there’s no way they should be able to contact your… friend at will and vice versa. 

Taehyung wakes you up before eight in the morning promising coffee and something that sounds like, “a good dicking, but not from me, of course.” You roll out of bed at the idea of coffee and make your way to the kitchen, where you find both of your roommates with shit-eating grins on their faces and Namjoon with a nervous one on his. You can’t think of a time you’ve seen him dressed this early—he is decidedly not a morning person, preferring to stay up until just before the sun comes up and wake up sometime near noon. When you do see him at this hour, it’s usually when he’s naked and sleeping with a little bit of drool coming out of the side of his mouth. It’s much cuter than it sounds. You can fully admit to yourself that you’re pretty far gone for him if you think he’s adorable, sexy even (in a way), when he’s a snoring, drooling mess. 

“Hi,” you say, after realizing you’ve just been standing in the living room staring at him. “Should I get dressed?” 

Instead of answering, Namjoon takes a few steps closer to you and shoves his arm out, producing what appears to be a plant. “This is for you,” he says. “I know it’s not a ring, but I wasn’t sure I would pick one you liked, and I didn’t want to fuck it up, so... I got you this instead.” 

“It’s a bonsai.”

He smiles softly. “Yeah, a Chinese Elm. It’s easy to take care of, I promise. I can help you. This one is twelve years old, so he’s pretty established.” 

“Oh… Okay. Thank you.” You’re not sure what to say—no one’s ever given you a tree before. And it definitely wasn’t what you’d been expecting for a gift. 

Jimin is practically squirming on his barstool, like he’s about to jump out of his skin. “Tell her what you told us,” he says. 

Namjoon flushes pink immediately, and his voice drops a little. “I asked them if they thought it was an okay gift. It’s supposed to symbolize devotion.” 

You think you forget how to breathe momentarily. All of a sudden, the little tree in your hands seems a lot heavier and more fragile than it did before. 

“It’s perfect...” You know you sound totally done for, reverent even. But it matches how you feel. 

He leans in and gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Glad you like it. We’ll have to think of a name this weekend.” He no longer sounds nervous, but excited about naming the tree, and it’s the newest topper to the list of endearing things about Kim Namjoon. 

“Coffee first, though?” you ask. “Please, coffee.” Because if you’re being honest, this is all a lot to process pre-eight in the morning. 

Taehyung and Jimin snicker and you remember you’ve had an audience this whole time. “You promised coffee,” you whine, directed squarely at Tae. 

Namjoon has that, too. A perfect, still-hot americano from the place you like by his apartment, which you know because it’s in one of their fancy branded glass travel mugs with the wooden lids that you always ogle but never buy because they’re stupid expensive for what they are. “To-go cup,” he says. “So you can drink it in the car.” He hands it to you, so you have a tree in one hand and your precious drink in the other, and then he turns you around by your shoulders and sends you back to your room. “Pack a bag for two nights, nothing fancy, no passport needed.” And then in a rush, he adds, “If that’s okay with you.” 

When you look over your shoulder at him, he looks soft and hopeful and exactly like the kind of person you’d follow to the moon and back. “Okay, two nights. Nothing fancy,” you repeat. “How long do I have?” 

“As long as you need,” he says, knowing full well you rarely take as long to get ready as he does, so it’s not that much of a concession. Still kind, though. 

You shower, get dressed, and do your skincare, all the while thinking about the man sitting in your living room, speaking in hushed voices with your roommates. Practically one hundred days and you still don’t really have a name for the thing between you—you don’t call him your boyfriend, you don’t talk about the future much, neither of you have said “I love you,” although you’re starting to feel like it’s going to roll off your tongue at any moment, which is terrifying at only three months in. 

There are books and movies where this kind of thing happens, and one of the partners is always worried about where the other one stands. Sometimes, you think the idea that you don’t even know what to call him when you talk about him should scare you. But it mostly doesn’t. Whatever the feelings are between you, they feel solid. There’s a tiny nagging feeling that you don’t know for sure if he’s only seeing you, but even that doesn’t seem like too big of an issue. Partly because you don’t think he’d really have time to date anyone else, but mostly because he gives you what you need regardless of what he might be giving to other people. So, you think, would it really matter? 

And then you see the tree sitting on your desk, the tree that supposedly means devotion, and you have a passing thought that it might be nice if he were devoted to you. And if you were to him. And if you only were to each other. And maybe your 100 days is the right time to tell him that. 

Maybe. 

You grab the envelope you’d had sitting there on your desk since Wednesday, your own strange gift for Namjoon, and you shove it in your purse. Just maybe you’ll give it to him, you think.

The drive as you leave Seoul is nice, as the buildings become more spread out and the landscape gets a little more verdant. You still aren’t used to the idea that someone just… drives him around, and by connection just drives you around, but it’s nice to share headphones with Namjoon in the backseat and watch the scenery pass and not have to think about anything. You think you’re close to falling back asleep as the minutes pass, with the white noise of the road and Nujabes in your ear and Namjoons fingers tangled with yours on the seat between you, his thumb tapping out an indistinct rhythm against your own.

And you definitely do sleep, waking with a start when the car pulls to a stop. Namjoon just woke up, too, you can tell by the blurry look in his eyes and the half stretch he gives like he always always does when he first comes to after sleep. You love knowing that about him, love all the little ticks and quirks that are so distinctly him all blending together into a person you care about, a complete person you might be starting to love more than you love each of the small pieces of him.  

“Where are we?” you ask quietly, looking out the window. 

“Nowhere,” he says. “Or… somewhere, but I don’t know what the town is called? There’s not much of a town anyway.” 

“Pretty,” you note as you open the door to see you are surrounded by trees. “Trees everywhere.” 

“It’s nice, right?”

“Really nice.” 

You’re a little wide-eyed as you look around. Because you don’t have a car or too many local friends, you don’t leave Seoul often. You definitely don’t go to places like this where the air feels thinner and lighter and the sun is blocked and dappled by leaves and needles instead of buildings. When you turn around, you see that on the other side of the car there is a house. A small house with a flat roof, a deck that’s bigger than the house itself, and seemingly endless windows. 

“A friend owns this place,” Namjoon says, coming to stand beside you. “Thought it would be nice to get away for a couple days.” 

“It’s beautiful.”

“Glad you think so,” he whispers. His breath against your ear makes you shudder and you don’t even pause anymore to wonder why he still has that effect on you. 

When your bags are inside, the driver leaves with a promise to come back Sunday midday to bring you back to Seoul. There’s a brief moment of worry that you don’t have food and your phone doesn’t have service and there’s no way that even Yogiyo makes it all the way out to where you are. You can’t even hear another person. 

“Joon-ah?” 

“Yeah?”

“What if we get hungry?” 

You can hear the smile in his voice when he answers even though you’re in the front room of the small house and he’s back in the bedroom. And as he tends to do, he gives you a simple answer to a simple question. “Then I think we’ll eat, baby.” 

“We didn’t get food.” 

Namjoon pads down the hallway toward you, rubbing his glasses on his shirt like a heathen who doesn’t care at all if he scratches the lenses. He probably doesn’t—you haven’t even been able to count how many different pairs he has. “No, we didn’t. But that’s because I already took care of it.” 

He walks past you into the kitchen and opens the fridge, which is already stocked. You follow him and peer over his shoulder. “All my favorites. Lots of fruit!” You’re a little bit excited—fresh fruit is expensive and indulgent and you don’t let yourself buy it too often for your own apartment, and Namjoon lives off of delivery, so he never has much around, either. 

“That’s right.” He gives you a smug grin as he closes the fridge, then turns around and pulls you in close. “All your favorites.” 

“You’re very thoughtful.” 

“I want,” he says softly and without breaking eye contact, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, “to give you everything you want.” And even though it’s a little cheesy, you really, really believe him. You’re pretty sure the two of you aren’t talking about fruit anymore. 

“Good,” you say, giving him your cheekiest grin, “because I have a long list and it starts in the bedroom.” You drag him, laughing, behind you back to the room to get started on your unwritten list. 

In the morning, you wake up earlier than you normally would without the usual darkness of Namjoon’s bedroom to shield you from the sun. It’s nice though, the warm light easing you out of sleep, casting pretty shadows across the floor. 

“Morning, baby,” he mumbles into your hair. “Sleep okay?” 

You did. You slept better than okay after a long night of sex and laughing and talking and eating your beloved fruit on someone else’s sheets. “Mmhmm,” you murmur, crowding into his space even more, wrapping your arm over his torso. “You?”

“Always sleep well with you,” he says. 

It’s not always actually true, and you know it, but statements like that are more about how you feel about things than about how they really are. It’s nice he feels that way about it, about you—you’re on the same page, and that’s so much more than you’re used to having in relationships… or whatever this is. 

That’s the moment when it really strikes you that you don’t quite know. But you want to. There’s a small voice in the back of your head that tells you that it’s okay to hope, that you wouldn’t be waking up naked next to him in a beautiful house in the woods on your one hundred days if he didn’t at least sort of feel the same way you do. So, you decide to make good on your thoughts about devotion and your maybe presumptuous and probably embarrassing gift idea. 

“Hey,” you say, sitting up on an elbow. “Happy one hundred days.” He’s beautiful in the mornings, you think, with his sleepy smiles and his messy hair, and his endless planes of golden skin. Namjoon may not be a morning person, but the mornings certainly love him. You love him in the morning, and the other times of the day, as well. It’s overwhelming. 

“Happy one hundred days.” He leans over, kissing whatever skin on your arm he can reach without fully sitting up. It must be obvious (or he just knows you too well already) that you’re a little lost in thought, because then he taps a finger on your temple. “What’s on your mind?” he asks. 

“I got you something, but I’m not sure it was the right thing to get… It’s not a tree or a ring or anything.” 

He laughs, affectionate and warm. “I don’t need a tree or a ring. I’m sure whatever you got is perfect.” 

“It’s kind of weird,” you say. 

“Well, I can be kind of weird, and we met in what most people would think was a weird way, so I’m sure it’s perfect.” 

You roll your eyes with no malice, and as you get out of bed to go get your gift, he gives you a little slap on your backside. “Hurry up,” he teases. “It’s cold without you.” 

(It’s not—he’s the warmest person you’ve ever known.)

It doesn’t take long for you to get the envelope from your bag, and you clutch it tightly when you hustle back to bed and settle against the headboard. It had seemed like the right kind of idea, like it would make a statement at least. Jimin had smirked at you when you told him what you were planning, and all he said was, “That’s not a traditional gift,” which you definitely already knew. It really had seemed like a good idea then. 

But now that it’s time to explain yourself, you’re more than a little nervous about it. 

And you know you look and sound anxious when you hand it to Namjoon with only a quiet, “This is for you.” 

He sits up and grabs his glasses from the nightstand, then slides the envelope open carefully and pulls the paper out to read it. You watch his eyes scan the page while you pick at the duvet nervously, twisting it around in your fingers and trying not to just snatch it back and tell him to forget it. You’re almost sure you could distract him successfully. 

“Baby,” he says, finally looking over at you, eyes meeting yours about the rim of his glasses. “What is this?”

“Uh… well, it seemed like a good idea last week… It’s… you know… I’m… uh… clean,” you say, making a vague gesture around yourself, hoping he can figure out what you mean. 

“I see that,” he says. And you see the smile starting to form, his left dimple making its presence known. It’s only mildly reassuring, given the way you feel like you’re laying a lot on the table.

“And I thought you should know, because uh… I don’t want to do this with anyone else. I don’t know what this is, but I think I really want it to be something. And you’re the only person I want this kind of something with right now…” 

Namjoon just watches you fidget, he doesn’t say anything in return. The silence is near literally killing you; you think your heart may have stopped a while ago. 

“This is so embarrassing… Please say something,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say a word, but he drops the letter on the floor beside the bed, and pulls you unceremoniously into his lap, then kisses you hard and deep. There’s not even a second for you to process what’s happening, but when he licks into your mouth and squeezes your hips, your brain finally kicks in and you realize this isn’t the bad reaction you were dreading. He tugs on your bottom lip when he pulls away and it makes you whimper—you’re always at his mercy lately. 

“We,” he says, before kissing up your jaw, “are definitely something.” He nips along your pulse point and then lands a soft kiss over the spot. “And I’m sorry that you weren’t sure. Because I am very sure that this, with you, is the only something I want right now, too.” 

“That’s really good,” you say, still a little surprised both with your own boldness and his manhandling of you. 

Squeezing his arms around you, he pulls you higher up into his lap, kissing you deeply, making soft sounds from the back of his throat like he’s trying to talk to you through the kiss—it feels a little like the thing you’ve been afraid to say, a little like love. “I am, too, you know. It’s only been you since we started this,” he says quietly against your lips. 

You’re not exactly surprised by that admission, but it’s really nice to finally hear him say it. “Lie down,” you whisper, lifting your hips up to let him slide down and lay flat against the mattress, and moving a pillow so it sits under his head. 

Namjoon does what he’s told, of course, watching your every movement, looking at you like you’re the only other person on the planet as you settle yourself on top of him, slowly moving back and forth along his length. Your hands grip the headboard above him as you move, and his rest on your hips, keeping you tight against him. You’re wet for him already, sliding easily over his cock. And all you can see is him—looking blissed out and overwhelmed, the same way you feel inside. It’s a little like the first time again, with the anticipation and the newness and the very beginnings of infatuation, but with the addition of something more. 

Each time you sit fully back, you let out a soft whimper, settling into a rhythm that’s already making you want more, harder, faster… everything. 

“Baby, I—” 

“I know, me too,” you say, and you lift your hips to grip him and then carefully, slowly, lower yourself onto him. It’s unbelievable how good it is to really feel him completely, nothing between him and you.

“Oh, fuck…” He’s clearly a little overwhelmed by it, too, unable to choke out much more than the occasional curse and fragment of your name. 

You start to move again, grinding against him. And even though you’re technically touching him where it matters most, you still want more—to hold his face, to feel that he’s real—that this isn’t all some insane dream you’re bound to wake up from at any moment. So, you lean forward and lower yourself until you’re carefully holding his jaw. Your thumbs settle into where his dimples should be, and you slide your tongue along his, kissing him just the same way you’re riding him: deep, slow, and with every ounce of meaning you can muster. He lightly pulls your bottom lip between his teeth again when you break the kiss, and when you let go of his face, you move your hands to his and lace your fingers together on either side of his head. 

You don’t move from that position: foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in hushed whispers of pleasure, fingers interlocked… It’s everything. 

And this... You need a picture of this moment. His eyes closed, lips parted to let quiet moans out, his cheeks flushed... Nothing and nobody are perfect, but this has to be as close as you think you might get in this lifetime. 

“Feels so good like this…” he half-sighs and half-moans, eyes still closed in bliss, and you know you’re both getting closer to the point where you won’t be able to take it slowly any longer. 

You squeeze his hands in yours. And since you’re already being more honest than you think you’ve ever been with someone, you put your lips by his ear and add, “Never thought it could be this good…” 

Namjoon smiles in return—a little wicked, a little enamored—and he thrusts his hips up into you, eliciting a loud curse from you as you press down at the same time. 

“This is just the beginning,” he promises as he fucks into you, deeper and harder, just like you want—never letting go of your hands, never taking his eyes off of your face. 

It’s only seconds between when your thighs tighten around him and your lips crash back into his, whining into his mouth as you kiss him and come with a shudder. 

He lets go of your hands and wraps his arms around you, like he’s trying to get you even closer  to him as you ride him through his climax, his head buried in your hair, as close as you can possibly be. 

You stay there as your breathing steadies and your heart rates begin to drop back to normal, the steady thrum of his in perfect time with yours. Eventually, you turn your head and kiss his cheek, before rolling off of him and onto your back next to him. Your hand finds his again, and you stare at the ceiling, holding hands and breathing in relative silence until you finally speak. 

“I’m scared I’ll always want more with you,” you say, still painfully honest, like he’s both the object of all your affection and your living, breathing diary. 

“That’s okay,” he says, turning to look at you. “You can take what you need, baby.” 

He says it like it’s simple, like it’s obvious. He says it like there’s no other way to say it, no other option on the table. It’s a lot to offer—letting you have carte blanche is more than anyone’s ever given you, and it’s a lot of responsibility. 

You lie quietly next to him and think about how it might be okay, because you’ve let him have it with you, too, even if you haven’t said it. 

You think about how it didn’t even feel like a choice to lend out your heart as you fell hard and fast for the man next to you. 

You think about how hopeful you are that it will work out, that you won’t have to take it back because of how kind he is, how generous he is with you but careful at the same time… 

And you almost laugh out loud when you think about how very you it is of the two of you to have had a heartfelt conversation about what’s going on between you and to come away from it only knowing that there is something, still untitled, there. 

Before you fall back asleep in the too-warm room next to a too-warm Namjoon, the last thought you have is that you’re pretty sure you’ve never been more afraid or more in love, and you wonder if with him, those will always seem like two different names for the same thing. 

the lick it series

summary — it's in the ups and downs of life that you can find someone to make your toes curl. genre — smut, established relationship au rating — 21+

cater to you

pairing — kim seokjin x reader summary — Seokjin likes to get pampered by his partner. He's also a fan of the ponytail trope. He thanks heavens everyday for dating someone who knows what he likes. release — feb, 5th

no rose petals

pairing — min yoongi x reader summary — Min Yoongi is a man that knows how to plan a date night. but he can't get too mad when his date deviates from those plans. release — feb, 6th

salty treat

pairing — jung hoseok x reader summary — a boring date night at the movies always has a chance of getting more interesting. but Hoseok needs to keep it together before they get caught. release — feb, 7th

too daring for you?

pairing — kim namjoon x reader summary — Namjoon can't keep your roleplaying idea off his head, so he'll make sure to surprise you with it when you least expect it. release — feb, 8th

champagne & suds

pairing — park jimin x reader summary — a romantic trip is only complete with a nice bottle of champagne and the comfort of a bathtub. release — feb, 9th

blue waters

pairing — kim taehyung x reader summary — you can always count on the fresh breeze of the Maldives to inspire young hearts for some exhibitionist shenanigans. release — feb, 10th

cherry flavored

pairing — jeon jungkook x reader summary — You bet with your boyfriend that he can't handle more than five minutes of your tongue, but Jungkook never turns away from a challenge. You'll make sure to keep him in his place. release — feb, 11th