Im So Glad I Returned To Come Read This That Was So Heavyyyy!!! But Good Heavy. Theyre So In Love And

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!

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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. 

AHHHHHHH it’s finally here!! Not at all what I was expecting this was such a surprise. The thigh choker detail evoked such a visual I did not prepare for sksksks. Also yes long hair Yoongi has been a menace, like I don’t know what this man got going on in his life but he really said came with the violence 😩😭 I love that they talked their shit thinking they were gone do shit but Yoongi said bring that shit hereeeee🤧. It’s been a min fr appreciate all the updates and not forgetting this request 🫶🏾

Hi hi hope you’ve been doing well!! With your requests being open/closed I wanted to send a req for whenever you feel like reading it for potential inspo:

Yoongi x alt-ish fem reader? I’m talking bout thick muscular thighs, locs, tattoos, septum piercing and maybe uses They/She (?) 🥺👉🏾👈🏾 damn I projected. Drabble, headcanon, one shot, whatever you feel or don’t feel like doing. Much love and excited for the new updates 💋

.* REQUESTED ꨄ︎ — alt bae

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✧drabble✧

❥pairing: yoongi X alt!reader // black!reader

❥genre: smut

❥summary: yoongi’s not just a pretty little face to sit on…

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❥!!warnings!!: a mark/bruise

❥other warnings: face sitting [GRR WOOF WOOF BARK], oral (fem receiving), yoongi got that NyQuil tongue

❥word count: 975

-inspo: requested + Yoongi’s long hair

-author’s note: wdym this was an outlet for me to fantasize about long haired yoongi?… and making a longer fic with yoongi X alternative!reader sounds so good rn…

Thank you for requesting, hottie @nonbinary-demonbrat !!💗🫶🏽🎀 I hope you enjoy the way I went with it, I would love to hear your feedback! I kept redoing it because I didn’t know if you would like it or not, so I struggled but I think this was the best route I made for your insert. Thank you so much for being so active on my blog and enjoying my works, I am happy to have you!! Kisses! 🧸

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“I’m gonna put this pussy on your face by midnight…” You promised him.

He licked his lips and laughed. “Oh, really?”

You nodded. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. It’s just that you’re saying it like you’re gonna turn me out if it happens.”

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Yoongi’s hair feels soft and silky beneath your fingertips. Long, fluffy… curling around his pierced lobes and making him look a different type of handsome nowadays.

This was the ultimate face card that deserved a pussy to sit on it. You took matters into your own hands to fulfill that purpose, and Yoongi wasn’t going to turn down a total bombshell.

He’s talking alternative wear with platform boots, tattoos splattered in random places on your brown skin, a pierced septum, killer eye makeup, loc’d hair that you would decorate in dangly silver pins… And thick, muscular thighs that caught Yoongi’s attention every time you wore a skirt or tight clothing.

He wished to be suffocated by those thighs. So having you bet on his face between them before the night was over had him wanting to uphold his side of the bargain.

He had the tongue game for it and was cocky about it. You couldn’t have heard about his ex-partners fearing his oral skills, otherwise you wouldn’t have that bold look in your eye. He loved your confidence and sick style, but you were going to be a mess by the time he was done with you.

“They don’t know what they’re in for,” Yoongi had thought as he followed you up to someone’s room, sneaking glances at the back of your short skirt and the choker heart accessory squeezing the flesh of your upper left leg.

You believed you were going to ride his face and get your quick little nut because you found him cute with his curly hair.

But no. Yoongi’s been told that his tongue is better than any dick. Yoongi makes squirters... He found you equally as hot to bless you with that special privilege. You were going to get all of it and walk away needing more.

So, you’re struck dumbfounded when he speaks in that deep, soothing voice of his to tell you to relax as he’s kissing over your clit. His hands are gripping your ass cheeks underneath your skirt and swaying you back and forth, your pussy already dripping over his mouth from the slow, fluttering pecks.

You don’t get impatient until he kisses down further and teasingly slides his tongue between your folds. Yoongi’s grasp is too strong to let you move as you please, for he has to have you where he wants you during this. It makes you even wetter how skilled his muscle is while you’re on top and clouding his senses.

Yoongi opens his mouth more to lick your sex like he means it, rubbing whimpers and needy whines out of you whenever he presses harder than the stroke before or tastes lower to your entrance. He has your hips jerking against his chin and your thighs closing in on the sides of his head from barely starting.

“Oh, shit, Yoongi!” You cry out. He grumbles beneath you, blunt nails digging into your ass as he sucks on your nub. All you can see is his eyes shut in a focused trance and his nose against your mound. His hair is splayed out too beautifully on the bed to not tug on it for anchorage.

Yoongi has your cunt glistening with spit by time he encourages you to grind, his palms caressing down your thick thighs so that his fingers can hook into the choker accessory on your leg. You obediently move your hips back and forth on the flat of his tongue. Skin prickling in sweat. Fingers tangled in Yoongi’s pillowy curls. Your noises sound like you’re being murdered now, as the man flicks in tandem with your grinding.

You lean forward to put your head to the headboard, spreading your knees out further to get grounding on the bed as you begin to ride his tongue like that. A smack to your ass cheek and a snap of the leather on your thigh makes you go faster.

Yoongi’s dick is as hard as a brick in his jeans as you allow yourself to get nasty with it, not letting the man catch his breath while you hump his face. He’s in fucking heaven between your thighs, so he doesn’t care…He just wants you to lose yourself and rethink about that cockiness you had earlier.

The continuous snapping of the metal and leather on your leg and his stiff muscle fucking you like a dick makes you cream and squirt at the same time, it running down Yoongi’s mouth and chin, wetting his neck and band tee. He had you leaking.

Put that pussy on his pretty face, you did. But it almost cost you your entire existence.

And Yoongi has the nerve to sit up without a word, wiping his glossy skin and ruffling his tousled hair. Licking his lips as if he had himself a quick little snack. You should’ve been happy that Yoongi wasn’t pushing for more, since your body started to shut down and your breathing slowed. Yoongi forgot to mention that his tongue was also homemade NyQuil.

“You have to fuck me now, oh my, Yoongi,” you beg. “Or let me give you head.”

Your teary eyes are all droopy that it makes him grin. He got you. He tongue fucked you into oblivion. Sure, he’d like to overstimulate you into a crying fit or actually fuck, but now you’re yawning and lying back on someone else’s pillows.

Yoongi rubbed his fingers over the heart-shaped bruise he made on the skin of your thigh from snapping that choker, soothing you on your way to sleep.

“Next time.”

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Who knew hot tubs could be so dangerous 🥵 holy hell this chapter was amazing. I love love love how they’ve reached a point where they can be so open and easy around each other. Shoutout to Jungkook’s growth in here too. Lmao also I love how I’m in the same boat of if Jimin and Tae are both dominant with reader I wonder what the dynamics are between them~ interesting~~~ Yoongi baby I love you but pleaseee the back and forth uncertainty is killing meeee 😭😭 but I also sure hope someone takes care of our girl soon before she melts or explode from everything that happened. Also very curious on if she’ll text Channie back anytime soon..ugh wonderful chapter I’m so here for everything

The More The Merrier | Unorthodox 24

Rating/genre: M (18+); smut 💖, fluff, light angst; Idol!AU Pairings: Reader x Jungkook, Reader x Jimin, Reader x Taehyung, Reader x Yoongi, Taehyung x Jimin (in the series: Reader x OT7, Taehyung x Jimin, and more) Summary: Things get a little hot in the dorm's hot tub. Warnings: Almost smut, voyeurism/exhibitionism, touching, a lot of suggestive talk, use of ‘good girl’, ‘angel’ and ‘baby’, mxm kissing, reader wears a bra and panties, mention of use of 'sir', noona kink, reader picks up Yoongi lol, mild alcohol consumption Word Count: 7.9k Posted: February 23, 2023

Series Masterlist - chapters with smut are marked with a 💖 if that’s all you’re looking for!

Through the huge glass doors, you watched the guys hurry to pull the top off the hot tub. The chill had already gotten to you, wrapped up in your towel, just your bra and underwear underneath, despite the fact that you were still standing inside in the warmth of the dorm, only opening the door to step out once they were ready and climbing into the piping hot water themselves. 

You tip-toed out, trying to touch as little of the freezing deck as possible before slipping off your towel and leaving it aside to climb in with them. The contrast was startling, causing you to squeak as you lowered yourself in. 

They passed around the drinks they’d brought out and soon you were easing back into a corner, letting the bubbling water tickle up to your shoulders as you took a little sip of your wine. With each of them in a corner as well, the hot tub felt spacious. But you tried to imagine them all in there together, shoulder to shoulder and the thought made you smile. 

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the hot tub. We never did use the one outside of your guys’ room on the trip,” you noted, looking at Jungkook. 

“Well, not with you,” Jimin replied right away, giggling with a wide grin when you flicked your gaze to him.

“You really had hot tub parties without me? Come on.”

“Mhm, just once. You were a little busy,” JK added, prompting you to quirk an eyebrow. 

“It was the first night I came to your room,” Tae said before taking a sip of his drink.

“Oh, I see…” You nodded, watching them closely. “The night you had some 'talk'... right?” you said, somewhat remembering the conversation you’d had with Jimin the next morning, and making the boys laugh.

“It is funny thinking about that chat now, isn’t it, hyung?”

“Yeah,” Jimin mused with the youngest, smirking as he shook his head. “We had no idea.”

“Wait, tell me. What was said in this ‘chat’?” You glanced at Tae who was just listening unbothered, a little smile on his lips as his eyes moved between the three of you.

“It’s just funny because, like, none of us knew what to do with you. So all we kept saying is that we liked you and you seemed cool–”

“It was so obvious that we were all attracted to you. But nobody really wanted to outright say it. Especially because we knew Taehyungie was with you at that very moment,” Jimin continued, laughing at the thought as he was telling it. “And it wasn’t exactly a mystery what the two of you were up to.”

The words made you feel hot in both an embarrassed and excited way – the way it always seemed to be now, talking so openly about this sort of thing. But it was strange to think about that night, how you and Tae had gotten physical for the very first time and all the guys just knew. That had not been on your mind at the time.

You smiled through your momentary bashfulness as he caught your eye, sending you a shameless smile that practically made your heart skip a beat. How did the faint glow of the lights from inside reflecting off the water and his skin make him look even more stunning than normal?

“I mean, I did say that I was into her,” Jungkook corrected before turning his head back to you. “But I was the only one. Probably because I was the one who had actually talked to you about it. Not that those were the most coherent conversations either but…at least you knew I was into you.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” you mused, bringing your drink to your lips. It was crazy to think about how much had changed over the course of a few weeks. How uncertainty had given way to what was currently going on. “Back before we had 8-person group chats about who is having sex with you,” you continued, giggling at your reality that you weren’t yet quite accustomed to the idea of. 

“I mean, it went really well,” Jimin urged, giggling as well. 

“So well, right?” You shook your head in awe. You kind of still couldn’t believe that it had been that simple of a conversation. You were almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We should be able to communicate that well by now. But it really is a new level of openness between us,” Jungkook said, lacing it with humour. 

“It’s commendable, honestly,” you said as you scooted closer to Tae, the few minutes you’d gone without touching one of them, already feeling like too long. 

He pulled you easily into his lap, arm around your waist, his drink poised in his other hand as he took a careful swig. 

“It’s very nice not having to overthink things,” you said, feeling the relevance of the statement as you relaxed back against his chest with the knowledge that it wasn’t going to make either of the two feel weird. 

As if he couldn’t help it, Tae’s nose nuzzled at your neck where your hair was pulled up, tickling you enough to erupt goosebumps along the tops of your shoulders and make you careen away with a smile. 

“Tickles,” you told him softly. 

He didn’t care, doing it again and pressing a quick kiss to your neck, making that heat come back to your skin. 

When you looked at Jimin, he was smiling, leant back casually in his spot, his glass dangling from a loose wrist. Jungkook was smiling too, though he looked away, over to Tae, once you caught his eyes with yours. The situation reminded you of the pool on the boat. It reminded you… that he’d seemed to enjoy it. 

But you need a bit of clarification on something. Just in case. 

“Umm..” you sounded out, turning smoothly in Tae’s arms so you could bring your mouth right to his ear to whisper. “Is what happened earlier a secret? Or is it ok if others know?”

He pondered a moment, looking at Jimin who was now listening to something Jungkook was saying. It sounded like they were still joking about the group conversation that they’d never expected to have. 

“Like, me watching?” he whispered back and you nodded. “I don’t care but we should check with Jiminie too.”

You nodded once more, twisting back around before reaching for Jimin’s arm, gathering his attention with the touch. As soon as he looked at you, you were switching into his arms instead, being received happily as he moved his drink to his other hand and smiled widely at you, his whole face lighting up. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you leaned in to quietly ask him the same question to which he just responded by nodding and speaking out loud that he didn’t mind. 

You pulled back only a couple inches, admiring Jimin’s pretty face, letting a thumb trace along his jaw. The way you were looking at each other, how close you were; It was more intimate than what Jungkook had seen between you and anyone else so far and you were very aware of that fact. But you weren’t sure how to let that dictate your actions.

“I think I owe you for that anyways,” Jimin said, low enough for his voice to take on a huskier quality than you were used to. 

Through a smirk, you hummed your agreement, unable to stop staring at his gorgeous mouth, so available to you with the way he’d tilted his head back against the curve of the hot tub, all cool and casual, waiting for you. He was sending you that look, those flirtatious eyes, with a little flick of his tongue over his lips. 

It only took another few seconds for you to give in, caressing his cheek as you pressed your lips to his, which opened immediately to kiss you back so nicely that it practically gave you chills. 

The others weren’t talking now; a fact you became starkly aware of as you pulled away after a few perfect moments, watching Jimin’s eyes open to take you in once more. 

“Isn’t it weird for you?” Jungkook spoke up and when you turned in Jimin’s lap, he was focused on Tae, looking genuinely intrigued by just how into it his friend seemed to be. 

“Seeing them?” Tae asked without his expression changing at all, just his eyes shifting from you to Jungkook then back to you. Then he shook his head in the most unworried way, the small smile lifting back onto his lips as he spoke: “Weirdly, not weird.”

“Huh,” Kook sounded out, apparently a little dumbfounded. 

“Don’t you find it kind of hot?” It was Tae speaking once again, eyes sparkling mischievously at Jungkook over his glass as he took another sip. 

You simply watched from your spot on Jimin, head leaning back against him as an arm held around your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over your ribs. 

Kook’s eyebrows pushed up slightly. “Do you? Find it hot?” 

“How could I not?” he responded after another moment as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Jungkook was smiling, now as entertained as he was curious. “So, that day… on the boat. When you told us to kiss in front of you?”

“I was… testing a hypothesis,” Tae admitted with a boxy smile, making you giggle too as you watched Jungkook roll his eyes.

“Great. I’m a test subject.”

“Oh, was it so bad?” you piped up teasingly, kicking your foot out to tap against his leg under the water. 

“Hey, it was a success. I’m learning a lot about myself, apparently.” Tae shrugged.

“So, wait– would you… watch them do other stuff?” Jungkook got out slowly, his eyebrows now drawing together. 

The way Tae’s face opened into a smile so smugly was so entertaining and you realized that Jimin and you probably looked somewhat similar. 

“He kind of has,” you spoke up when Tae didn’t answer, just a hint of hesitancy in your voice. 

“Really?” Jungkook’s eyes widened as he looked between all three of you, going as far as to sit up in his seat to lean forward a bit. “Woah, I just– ok.”

You chuckled, watching the words processing in his mind. 

“Like, just, it’s one thing knowing that you’re involved with the other guys. But I can’t imagine actually…seeing it,” he said, bringing his hands out of the water just so he could talk with them. 

“It’s ok, Kook. Just because we’re finding this voyeuristic thing hot doesn’t mean you have to,” you assured.

“See, but now I’m curious,” he said with a little shake of his head before swiping back the hair that fell into his eyes. “Like, why? What is it that’s appealing?”

“It’s just a different kind of… excitement, I guess,” you offered, not really sure how to explain. It was pretty new to you too. 

“I like the idea of her feeling good. And the idea of him feeling good. It doesn’t have to be me doing it for it to be enjoyable, I don’t think,” Tae explained as the words came to him, seeming like he was genuinely trying to be articulate and put together his thoughts properly. 

Jimin’s grip on you shifted, shuffling you so you were turned a bit, able to see his face better. “Honestly, as soon as I thought about you two together – and then we were also flirting at the time as well… I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I was just instantly into it.”

You smiled in understanding; it was similarly stuck in your head since the moment he brought it up on the boat. “It’s a bit of a thrill, maybe? Double the chemistry… double the attraction.” You bit your lip, debating whether to continue with your next sentence before giving it. “And, to be honest, the thought of watching is, like, really hot for me too. So, I get it.”

“You watching us?” Jimin said after a moment, a slight sultriness to his voice in your ear. 

Nodding, you got a little shy once again. It wasn’t something the three of you had addressed, at least not all together. But obviously it took up space in all of your minds. “I just… yeah, I think I would find it super hot.”

“So, you guys haven’t…?” Jungkook asked carefully, watching your expressions closely with his big eyes, while Tae looked down at the water with a little smirk. 

“Not since…” Jimin responded, trailing off because obviously Jungkook knew. The kiss. The one kiss from however many months ago. 

You watched the youngest nod, feeling frozen yourself, not wanting to overstep, not wanting to make anyone feel weird. But also there was something. A rush coursing through you; obviously more than just the one drink you’d had. And maybe they could feel it too, based on the way the conversation had developed. 

“Well, what if… I went over here?” you said casually, extricating yourself from Jimin’s arms to float over to Jungkook, curling up sideways in his lap, arms looping around his neck, then looking over to send the other two a cute little smile from your new spot. 

Jimin was smiling widely, a bashful look on his face as he eyed you. “Then my lap would be empty,” he stated simply, tilting his head and waiting a moment before looking over at Tae. 

Tae’s eyebrow quirked up, shooting you an amused look before he was sliding over on the seat and muttering: “Can’t have that.”

As soon as he was close enough, Jimin was pulling him easily onto his lap, turning so they could both lean back while still being able to see you and Jungkook. Tae was smiling – perhaps a bit shyly – now, his arm draping comfortably over Jimin’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin.

You couldn’t help your own smile with all the little butterflies in your tummy at the way Jimin encircled Tae’s waist, holding him in place. 

Jungkook’s grip on your hip tightened, prompting you to look at him. He appeared exhilarated, his lip pulled between his teeth, chewing on it gently. It would’ve been terribly cute if it wasn’t for the way his eyes were sparkling, looking back and forth between yours before dropping to your lips. 

Before you could really think, you were leaning in to kiss him, softly sucking his lower lip into your mouth as he hummed in satisfaction. Your body pressed up against him as you pulled yourself in, the feeling of his soft warm chest and big strong arms turning you on far too easily. Not that you weren’t wet already simply from the conversation and all the related places your mind couldn’t stop wandering. 

When you pulled back a bit, he caught you once again, kissing you deeper, hot tongue tasting yours as he adjusted you in his lap so your ass was right over his crotch, able to feel him a bit more than you were expecting. It made your stomach flip. If he wasn’t too into the voyeurism side of things, perhaps there was a bit of an exhibitionist inside of him. 

You were a bit breathless, looking at him a little stunned when he smirked at you. But he ended up a little stunned too when you both turned your heads to find Tae and Jimin wrapped up in their own kiss, Taehyung’s big hand gripping around the back of Jimin’s neck. 

Holy shit. They looked so good, torsos flush now, their mouths moving smoothly together as Jimin deepened the kiss, prompting Tae’s mouth open a little more. Now, you really couldn’t breathe, feeling both like you should look away – even despite the conversations that had been had – and that it was impossible to do so. 

Involuntarily, you squirmed in Jungkook’s embrace, tongue flicking out to lick your lips as you watched them far too desperately. 

“It turns you on so much, huh?” he whispered against your cheek, nose nuzzling your temple. 

“Maybe,” you responded, fighting the urge to turn and retreat into his neck to hide. Because it was even hotter than you had imagined. Your body felt like it was buzzing with electricity as you watched them pull back, still caught up in each other as Tae pressed his lips once, twice, three times more against Jimin’s. 

When they separated, they both started smiling as they watched each other before both breaking into cute little chuckles, finally looking around and noticing you and Jungkook. 

“So, I was right,” you breathed out with a soft chuckle of your own, sure that they would know what you were very clearly referring to. It just made them both smile wider. 

“You like watching?” Jimin asked, now looking at you far more dangerously. “Not surprising considering what a little freak you are.”

“A freak?” you mused, feeling your cheeks warm. “Woah, I don’t know if I’d say that. And we haven’t even had sex yet.”

“You guys haven’t had sex yet?” Jungkook asked, pulling his head back a bit in surprise. 

“Well, not sex sex.”

“I think you’re a freak too,” Tae chimed in, lifting a pointed eyebrow at you when you rolled your eyes. “And we have had sex.”

“What – watching people makes me a freak?” you asked playfully.

“And other things.”

“Pff, other things.” You just shook your head, knowing that you’d barely even started to explore anything kinkier with any of them. But you stubbornly didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d kind of pegged you right. You weren’t a freak per say but there were definitely some things you liked or wanted to explore more of. 

“I know something you like.”

You turned to look at Jungkook, suddenly wary of what was about to come out of his mouth. 

“You like being told what to do.”

“That’s true,” Jimin agreed.

Then Tae was joining in: “She likes being called a good girl.”

“O-kaaay!” you sounded out with an awkward huff of laughter, beginning to squirm once again as if you were about to escape out of the hot tub but Jungkook just held you tighter, his big smile too sweet for how they were all making you feel – incredibly turned on. “That’s– that’s enough, yep.”

“Yeah, you barely have to do anything to get a little ‘yes, sir’ out of her,” Jimin said. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth screwing up. Once again, here they were, talking about you right in front of you, embarrassment and desire swirling around inside of you as a result. It didn’t help that one of Jungkook’s hands was now resting on your inner thigh, close enough for it to draw your attention while still being innocent enough. 

“Oh, are you calling all of us ‘sir’, baby?” he asked, squeezing your thigh a little as he looked at you, feigning slight annoyance. 

“Of course she is. So submissive, it’s cute.”

You narrowed your eyes at Jimin but he just laughed. Yes, you were naturally submissive. But to that extent? Your stomach was twisted up in knots, so much anxious energy running through you but you also liked it so much, it was insane. 

“We should ask hyung if she calls him that too,” Tae suggested mischievously, just making it worse. 

JK’s hand brushed closer to your core but when you looked at him, he was still watching the other two with a wide smile, finding this too amusing. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” you tossed out with a weak little shake of your head. 

As if they couldn’t even hear you, Jimin continued: “I think she’s more of a brat though, honestly.”

“Hey,” you said defensively even though you knew he wasn’t wrong. 

“Definitely,” Tae said in his low voice, the words penetrating into you as he caught your eye. His hand moved up slightly to curl softly in the back of Jimin’s hair and you could see the way the older one enjoyed it, leaning into the touch.

“Woah, I am very well-behaved,” you fought back, proving their point, the inevitable smirk playing on your lips. 

“Yeah, when you want to be,” Jungkook added, sliding his hand up further until he was playing lightly with the edge of your panties, forcing your breath to catch in your throat. 

“I’m not the one being bad right now,” you said through gritted teeth as if that would stop the others from hearing. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered in awe, catching your eye as his finger slid under the fabric and into the slippery wetness that had accumulated. 

“Y/N…” Jimin said in a warning tone, garnering your attention. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, what’s going on, noona?” JK teased as his finger grazed so lightly over your folds, making you clench as you held back a whimper. 

“Really?”

“Is Kook touching you, angel?” 

It must’ve been terribly obvious with the way you were leaning into him, brows knitted together in anticipation as one hand slid to his shoulder to grip it tightly.

Biting your lip, you nodded. His feather-light strokes switched to fingertips circling your entrance as you let out a long breath that turned shaky at the end. You could feel him clearly under you, erection pressing into the back of your thigh and you wondered crazily if he would let you ride him right here right now and in front of his two best friends. 

Surely, there was no way. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for. But then again, you hadn’t imagined him touching you like this at all in front of them prior to a few minutes ago. 

“Why are you so wet, baby?”

“I–... Just everything, I don’t know,” you mumbled out, allowing yourself to actually hide in his neck this time. 

“You’re all wet just from us talking about you?”

“And the kiss,” you admitted quietly before you were gasping at Jungkook’s fingers beginning to draw faint circles over your clit. 

“Mm. She likes when he kiss, Taehyung-ah.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, the way he was eating this up, happy to find some way to torment you. Ugh, it was so good. 

“Maybe we should kiss again.”

Regrettably, it made your head turn, coming face-to-face with two smug smiles. 

“Come here,” Tae whispered as he turned back to Jimin, pulling their lips back together. 

“Oh, fuck,” you breathed out, watching them as Jungkook gave you a little more much-needed pressure though he was still going tortuously slow, your legs instinctively closing around his wrist at the intense feeling. You had become so sensitive over the course of the night, your body being keyed up further and further after what happened in the living room followed by the topics that had been covered out here on the balcony. 

Jungkook leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of your open mouth before moving along your jaw. “Do they look good, baby? You like watching them together?”

“Uh-huh.” Your head tilted, letting him kiss down onto your neck as you continued to watch, seeing the way Tae’s hand was sliding down from Jimin’s hair to the side of his neck then moving around the front of it, clasping around it gently as he’d done to you once upon a time. 

Then Jimin was letting out a low hum in his mouth, pulling Taehyung tighter by the hold he had around his waist. 

“Kook,” you let out a quiet sigh as you tilted your hips slightly in search of more. 

“Jealous?” he taunted. “Want a hand around your neck too?”

That hadn’t been what you’d expected him to say – not at all. But it earned a little pathetic sound from you, your one hand moving to his forearm to force him to give you more pressure where he was swirling over your clit, another needy moan falling from your lips.

“Don’t be greedy, noona,” JK hummed as he held back against your tugging.

Jimin grabbed Tae’s wrist but you weren’t sure if he was keeping it there or about to remove it. You hadn’t really thought about who of the two of them would be more dominant. And this wasn’t really making it any clearer. 

After another moment, they were pulling back. Right away Jimin was letting out a little giggle. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” Tae agreed under his breath, looking between him and you. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Me neither,” Jungkook said though he was looking right at you, the hand that was around your waist moving to clasp around the back of your neck, squeezing slightly and just adding to the already tantalizing sensation. 

“Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes closing, your head falling back against the side of the tub as your back arched with pleasure. This was too fucking much – you needed to come. Preferably in front of all of them. Perhaps even with all their hands on you. Jesus Christ, what had gotten into you?

“You look so pretty, baby,” Jungkook cooed, the words immediately being echoed by the other two who had apparently refocused on what was happening on your side of the hot tub. “Such a good girl.”

“Does Kookie feel good?” Tae asked sweetly as if he wasn’t pushing you for an answer he already knew. 

All you could do was nod, a thin affirmative sound coming from your throat.

“Speak up, baby,” came Jimin’s voice, just as obnoxiously honeyed and confirming your suspicion that the two of them together would be plain deadly for you. 

“Yes,” you voiced, stubbornly frustrated at having to actually speak when all you wanted was to sink into the feeling. You heard all three of them giggle – the menaces. The very hot menaces. Another pathetic sound came out as his ministrations sped up, that blazing hot feeling starting to build inside of you. 

The patio door opened with a crack of the seal, Joon, Hobi and Yoongi stumbling outside loudly as they all immediately began to complain about the cold air on their skin, towels being tossed aside so they could quickly get in. 

Right away, you were sitting up, look of shock on your face as if you’d just been doused with ice water. Jungkook’s hand moved, gripping to your thigh instead, making your empty pussy ache. 

If Jimin and Tae didn’t want to be seen cuddled up as they were, that was too bad because it all happened so fast that Tae didn’t even move, Jimin arms still held around him as they watched the new arrivals, expressions attempting to quickly recover as they both stuttered out a greeting. 

“We were drinking inside but figured this would be more fun,” Hobi said cheerily as he climbed in, immediately ‘ahh’-ing at how hot the water was on his legs. 

Yoongi caught your eye as he waited for Joon to get in in front of him, hopping a little bit in place, clearly trying to avoid the cold deck on his feet. “I know you said I ‘wasn’t invited’,” he began, using his hand not holding his whisky glass to do air quotes, “but I don’t give a fuck so...” He finished off his declaration with a little shrug and a flat-lined smile. 

You scoffed lightly, turning yourself forward in Jungkook’s lap to allow room for Hobi to come sit beside the two of you while Yoongi took the corner diagonal to you and Namjoon sat next to him. “The more the merrier,” you said, somewhere between sassy and flirty. Mostly you just found yourself funny. 

The surprise of their appearance had been enough to briefly shake you out of your wanton state but now that your adrenaline was winding down once more, all you could think about was how horny you were, your core practically throbbing. And how you were essentially in a big steaming bathtub with six incredibly hot half-naked men. 

When you made eye contact with Tae directly across from you, it didn’t help. He was staring you down in that way he did, where he seemed to want to devour you. And, fuck, you really wanted him to. But you couldn’t very well get out all of a sudden as soon as the others arrived.

Jimin looked at you a moment before letting a smirk take over his face. “Ah, Hobi-hyung,” he said suddenly, immediately making you nervous. “We have a question for you.”

“No,” you said quickly, moving forward to reach for him, hand coming up to signal him to keep those troublesome lips shut. “No, no. No question,” you said more lightly as if that would cover up your tiny outburst. Then you chuckled, a little awkwardly in your giddiness and embarrassment, whacking at his shoulder before floating back to Jungkook’s lap. 

Instead of swiping at you in retaliation (that would require him to take a hand off Taehyung after all), he kicked at you, tapping at your shin before quickly changing plans and running his foot along your calf instead. Just to drive you a little more insane.

Hobi was watching you with a startled expression, eyes round and cute as they flitted back and forth between you and the boys. “What? What is it?”

“Nah, he’s just kidding,” you said, placing your hand softly on his arm and shaking your head, ignoring Jimin as best you could. 

“Ok…” Hobi sounded out, still smiling widely though it was clear that he was lost.

“Did we interrupt something?” Namjoon asked but it was also through a joking smile indicating that he had no idea how right he was. 

You didn’t really know how to respond and clearly neither did any of the others because you all just started laughing, getting a little awkward, a little blush-y. Your inclination was to say ‘no’ but you were also really against lying, even if it was in a scenario like this where it would make things a lot simpler to just brush them off. 

“We were just bugging her. That’s all,” Tae loosely explained through his amusement.

“Well, that doesn’t have to stop just because we arrived,” Yoongi noted. 

“What are we bugging her about this time?” Namjoon asked, settling back into his seat, a gorgeous arm coming up to rest along the side of the hot tub. 

“Hey…” you said cutely, shooting them more looks. Everyone was in a very teasing mood tonight, it seemed. 

“Oh, I was just about to ask her who her bias was before she met us,” Jungkook spoke up. And for a second, you thought he was going to do a good job of changing the subject. But then you just ended up pulling back to send him a glaring look. “Because you never actually told me.”

“Yeah, because it’s not important,” you said pointedly, clearly flustered by the prospect of sharing that nugget of information. 

“Oh, come on, YN-ah. None of us are going to care,” Joon urged and he looked so cute doing it that you almost wanted to give in. 

“If it’s not ‘important’ then it shouldn’t be a problem to share it,” Taehyung said, copying the exact emphasis you’d used. He achieved his goal: your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“Oh my god, why do you even want to know? Everything is different now because I actually know you!”

They all seemed to answer at once: a chorus of various versions of ‘just say it’, ‘it’s fine’, ‘we don’t care’, ‘it doesn’t matter who it is’ filling your ears and making you laugh and throw up your hands in an attempt to quiet them.

“You guys are so annoying.”

“And you’re being a little brat.”

Your eyes darted over to Tae who was looking like he was thoroughly done with you. You still found it dangerously attractive, even as he embarrassed you in front of the others, his words forcing your cheeks to warm instantly. 

It was interesting, seeing the others react to the words. Jimin was smiling, way too entertained. Hobi laughed beside you and you could feel that Jungkook was chuckling too. Namjoon had his eyebrows pushed up, clearly not having expected to hear those words. And Yoongi was watching closely with a slight furrow in his brow, blinking back and forth between the two of you. 

You scoffed. “Fine. You want to know so badly?” Stalling, your head shook slightly, the next words getting caught on your tongue because you knew it was time but you weren’t ready to say it. As silly as the whole thing was. 

They all stayed quiet, waiting.

“Um… my bias… is Yoongi.” Gaze falling to your fingers skimming the top of the water, you tried to let the words fall from your lips lightly – it was no big deal, like you’d all agreed. But it felt like exposure. Because obviously that meant you were most attracted to him, that you saw something in him that now you couldn’t pretend you didn’t.

You could have lied, sure. But you were no good at that, right?

They reacted pretty much how you’d expected: a little stunned, a little confused, a lot amused, breaking into laughs, and even more so when Jungkook playfully pushed you off his lap. 

You floated in front of him, your smile turning to a feigned pout at him as you spun and placed your hands on his knees. 

“Yoongi-hyung? Yoongi’s your type?” Namjoon asked surprised just as you felt yourself getting pulled back by Taehyung, who had apparently slipped off of Jimin’s lap into the middle seat so he could have you to himself. 

“Actually, no. Not normally,” you admitted with a stressed little huff of laughter, your head leaning back on Tae’s shoulder and tilting slightly to look at Joon. The new position meant you were now quite close to Yoongi beside you and the fact wasn’t lost on you, especially right after your admission. 

“Pass her over, Taehyungie,” Hobi joked, motioning enthusiastically with both hands towards Yoongi, making the others laugh.

At the same time, Jimin was picking up where Namjoon had left off. “So, then what is your normal type?”

There was a lot going on but you were just chuckling, trying to settle all the excitement rushing through you. The group of you hadn’t hung out with quite this kind of vibe since weeks ago when you’d played drinking games on the villa deck. “Like personality-wise, I usually go for someone that’s, like, the life of the party. Really confident, outgoing–”

“Oh, Yoongi-yahh,” Jungkook exclaimed, prompting the others to join in on the joke. 

“Hyung is always the life of the party.”

“Practically a party animal–”

“Stooop,” you said lightly, barely being heard over all their teasing and chatter. When you glanced at Yoongi, he was smiling widely, listening to the chaos. 

Jungkook and Jimin continued the loudest, building off each other, even when you went to shove them, breaking them into giggles. 

“하지마. 하지마 – I know that one,” you added cutely, settling back in Tae’s lap, figuring that would get their attention.

That just made them laugh more, switching from poking fun at Yoongi to poking fun at you and your ‘adorable’ Korean attempt. A few of them broke into Korean for a second, losing you immediately but they seemed to still be talking about you from the way Tae held you tighter, letting one hand come up so he could squish your cheeks as if presenting you to them, his voice taking on a baby-ish quality. 

“Oh, I know that one too,” you said excitedly upon hearing one of his words, twisting around in his hold to try and see him. “You called me cute.”

He smiled with all his teeth, eyes crinkling. “I did, you’re right. Look at you, smarty pants.”

You turned back around, proud.

“So, he’s just your type physically then?” Jimin asked, reminding you how you’d even gotten here in the first place.  

“Uhh,” you immediately sounded out, your voice going a bit higher despite trying not to sound nervous. You shrugged as you continued: “I mean, clearly, you’re all my type physically. I don’t know if I really have just one thing I like…”

“Yeah, but who’s like the most your type?” Jungkook asked excitedly. 

“No one,” you insisted before you could even think properly about the question. 

“So, it’s someone,” Jimin immediately threw out and they all broke into laughter once more as you turned to him and swatted at his chest a few more times, only stopping when he actually grabbed your wrists to restrain them. 

Tae straightened you out on his lap, away from Jimin’s grasp. It wasn’t on purpose, you were sure, but the way he pulled you harder down onto his lap, the slight bulge pushing against you, just worked to remind you that you still needed release. 

All their teasing, even if it was a distraction, was only putting you even more into a flirtatious mood. You wanted to be kissing someone again. Actually, you wanted to be more than kissing someone. 

You held onto his arms around you, wiggling your ass down against him subtly, looking more for your own stimulation than for his. When he held you even tighter, manipulating you down to rub your core against his groin, you knew he was in a similar boat. 

A second later, he was letting one hand drop to your lower stomach, close enough to tease, the action hidden by the water and darkness, and right away you were clenching, thighs closing to force pressure as best you could. 

Thank god the conversation had continued on, the others now bugging each other about their own types – things that you would’ve been very interested to hear about if the man under you wasn’t doing such a great job of pulling your attention. 

You knew you shouldn’t; Tae probably knew that as well. There were three new people in the hot tub that hadn’t expressed being ok with whatever idea he was toying with. But it was like your body was running the show, painting over all your rational thoughts with need.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” Yoongi said suddenly, standing up and not looking back as he wrapped himself in his towel. 

“There’s more right here,” Hobi called to him, pointing to the bottle the four of you had brought out.

“Whisky,” was his only reply before he disappeared through the patio door. 

You didn’t want to move – you really didn’t want to remove Tae’s hands from you. Nor did you want to subject your hot tub-adjusted skin to the winter air. 

But something was compelling you to go with Yoongi. Probably the slightly tipsy part of you that remembered that you’d kissed two nights ago. The part of you that felt a little addicted to the crumbs he gave you.

It only took you a few seconds before you were standing and slipping from the hot tub as well, Tae’s hands hanging on you until he couldn’t reach anymore. 

“Hey, where are you…?”

“Just gonna get a drink too,” you told them quickly, smiling over your shoulder as you quickly wrapped up in your towel and shivered your way to the door. 

Inside, you scurried down the hall, leaving behind little wet footprints. It’s when you were passing Yoongi’s room that you noticed his door was closed. Wait – was he in there? 

You approached, seeing the light through the crack. Nudging the door open a bit, you sang his name before switching, knowing he’d find the title endearing, even if he didn’t show it. “Oppa?”

He was standing in front of his bed, drying off more fully when he heard you, head turning to you. 

“What are you doing?” you asked with a small pout, walking to him with a hand outstretched. “Come back out.”

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” he asked, letting amusement fall over his features as he tilted his head to his room which you hadn’t been in until now.

Ignoring his question, you walked to him, grabbing both his hands, leaving the towel to fall to the floor. Then you were tugging, walking backwards to get him to come with you. “Come onnn,” you urged cutely, smiling up at him. 

He tried to be a statue, leaning his weight back to counter your attempts. “Y/N…”

“Oppa…” you mimicked, using more strength as you continued to try. A harder pull sent the both of you stumbling a little, his body running into yours a bit until you had to catch each other, knocking your tied towel down and making you both chuckle at your mutual clumsiness. “We’re going back out,” you said through your laughter. 

“I just… I don’t know,” he mumbled a bit awkwardly but he was still smiling, trying to pull his arms from your grasp.

“You don’t know what? Come have fun with us,” you pressed again, finding yourself a bit annoying. But the contact, the playfulness, the closeness was all too exciting to stop. 

He looked away from you as if over your act but you could still see the smirk pulling at his lips. It was always so damn cute when he tried to half-hide how amused he was by you. It only egged you on. 

Switching your tactic, you stepped closer to him suddenly, taking him around his hips and doing your best to lift him, which made him stop fighting all together, his big hands bracing on your shoulders as his only option.

He wasn’t super heavy and you were actually able to get him to his doorway, only being stopped when he grabbed onto the doorframe and used it to halt the two of you.

“Ok, ok, Y/N-ah. Put me down,” he said, chuckling.

“No, I gotcha,” you strained, trying once more to get the two of you out into the hallway but he was getting heavier and mixing that with the fact that your laughter was taking up your air, you were going to soon need to catch your breath. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he chastised just as you finally gave in and let his feet hit the floor.

Still, you didn’t let go, standing up straight to give him another stubborn look. “I’m strong enough,” you said with a huff.

“I know,” he placated, his hands coming to rest a bit warily by your elbows. 

It was strange being so close like this, him in just his bathing suit, you in just a soaked bra and pair of underwear. But you liked feeling him, your hands now pressed against his lower back.

His torso was warm against yours, his chest and shoulders so pretty and smooth from up close, save the small scars on the left side. Nothing, still, compared to his face, framed perfectly by dark locks, cute little lips turned up almost imperceptibly, a bit of a flush over his whole face, from the laughter or the play-fighting. 

“You didn’t want me in the hot tub and now you need me there?” he asked jokingly, clearly trying to display how foolish you were acting. 

"Yep." Grinning, you took a step back, him coming with you, but his hand quickly jumped to grip the door frame once more. “Fine,” you said finally, letting go of him before you could think about how much you didn’t want to. “Not gonna force you,” you sighed a little dramatically.

When he didn’t move away immediately, you both blinked at each other. It made you very aware of the air coming into your lungs, rising your chest, and how quiet it was in the house without anyone else moving about. It made you very aware of how almost-naked you were, how your nipples were hard under your bra from the now-cold dampness of the material. How he could probably see them through it. 

Something twisted in your stomach – the feeling of wanting him so badly but not feeling like you should. 

He was looking at you more closely now, the remnants of silliness and teasing nowhere to be seen. When he tilted his head a bit, his mouth opened like he was about to say something. But then it closed again, his gaze breaking away from yours.

You blinked up at him, eyes widening slightly in curiosity, willing him to look at you. Could you ask without asking? 

No, you couldn’t read his mind. But there was something between the two of you – you were so sure of it. 

His hand came up to your jaw as he leaned in and then his warm lips were pressing against your cool ones. It was almost timid but within a second, your arms were reaching for him, linking back around his torso to pull him to you, telling him yes. Telling him please. 

Unfathomable energy vibrated through you as he kissed you deeper, turning you both suddenly until you were pressed up against the width of the door frame, his body holding you firmly against it. So much of his skin on your skin.

Even if you’d been sure of it, you hadn’t been expecting it. Part of you felt in shock, your body moving with the motions before your mind could catch up. Your hands slid up his back to hold him closer without so much as a thought.

Now, you knew: he was undoubtedly attracted to you. 

This kiss wasn’t like the other kiss. If that one had been a breath of fresh air, this one sucked it all out of you, leaving you totally breathless. Your toes curled at the way his tongue brushed against yours, hungry without being sloppy, deep and needy – and way too short. 

His head turned away, hand dropping, as soon as he lifted his mouth from yours, leaving the two of you practically cheek to cheek as you both caught your breath, you blinking over his shoulder but not registering anything.

Then he took a step back, his face scrunched up slightly, and you let your grip loosen, suddenly nervous at his reaction despite him having been the one to kiss you. “씨발–”

You recognized the word without him even fully finishing it, muttering it almost too quiet to hear.

He didn't look at you, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. 

From your spot against the door frame, you watched as he stepped further into the room, eyes still cast down as if deep in thought. “What? What is it?” you asked softly. Something could not go from feeling so right to so wrong that quickly. 

“No, nothing. Go back out,” he directed gently, motioning with his hand down the hallway. 

You watched him for another slow second, his head still hung awkwardly forward. “Yoongi–”

“It’s all good,” he said with a bit more behind it, finally looking up at you and giving a sure nod. His hand found the edge of the door, holding onto it as if ready to press it shut. 

“Ok…” you said, not trying to hide your uncertainty as much as he clearly was. You began to move, backing up from his room towards the balcony door. “Goodnight then,” you said purposefully awkward, shooting him an obviously suspicious look involving a rogue eyebrow, hoping playing it up would help.

It got a tiny huff of laughter from him, which brought a tiny amount of relief to you. “'Night, trouble,” he chided just as he began to close the door, and it helped a little more, warming you in your chest as the butterflies in your stomach whirled around. 

When it came out like that, you definitely liked your nickname.

A/N: ok i really didn't know whether this is smut or not smut haha. i feel like the whole thing is very suggestive and like smut-adjacent but very little actual action occurs so... idk haha. i feel like it packs the punch with excitement though?? i don't know, i had the best time writing this and trying to figure out how to make this flow and feel natural :P let me know if i succeeded! ❤️

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Next Chapter

Series Masterlist

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...

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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 🫶🏻

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Wow. Where do I even start?? I’ve been patiently waiting for this story ever since I read the teaser and I was NOT prepared for this 24k masterpiece!! First of all 24k, okay hun go awfff, I’m so thankful to the friends who talked you off the edge to finish this fic!!!

This was such romance I’m debating if I want to go have my main character moment in NY now lmao, like you didn’t have to go so hard and make my little artsy heart happy for this. The awkwardness of when they first talk?? I wanted to scream it’s so funny and so realistic like actually yes this is what people are like in real world. As a public transit rider myself ngl I do have my moments of imagining all the regulars I see w/ me *insert Debby Ryan hair tucking meme*, but alas my life is unfortunately not written by the amazing you :((. The tackling on of body issues w/o going explicitly and the reader saying “I can handle it” without the pity or “I’m sorry” had me sending you many kisses, I would say that was written well in giving reassurance to someone opening up to you without the toxic positivity or invalidating them by saying “but you’re *insert compliment*”

Also also my little Queer heart has never felt as seen as reading this, as a little Panromantic Demi/Ace it’s refreshing to see/read such a wholesome romantic story that doesn’t invalidate and also not sweep under the brush but constant support and reassurance! Especially when Jimin talks of his ex and says like she’s not a bad person just maybe didn’t feel wanted like Yes let’s talk about how relationships have friction and it can be difficult without making it traumatic if that makes sense?? I think you did amazing showing a different spectrum in Jimin and Yoongi that’s not just one side of sex repulsed (which is completely valid cus it be like that). Also my poor anti capitalist Yoongi taking on like 37 jobs, poor dude!! 😭 the bike scene had me like, y’all deadass having this convo in the bike lane?? Vhope, closet? Bye was not prepared 💀 Of course it would be them skskgf

But no seriously here’s a bunch of bouquets for your hardwork on this beautiful piece, appreciate every single word you wrote on here, I’m definitely treasuring this story and will be one I come back to frequently 🥹🫶🏾💐💐💐💐💐💐💐

the shape of your body (explicit)

genre: fluffy slowburn smut

pairing: jimin x reader

summary: the same day you finally manage to speak to your months-long public transit crush, you end up seeing much more of him than you bargained for.

word count: 24k 🙇‍♀️

contains: explicit sexual content~*~ (after a slow burn lmao) - new york city grad school AU, strangers to lovers, reader is an art student, public transit thirsting, jimin is a dancer and a nude model, namgi and vhope as side characters, basically everyone is gay (they're ART STUDENTS in NEW YORK CITY it's called realism 💅), a smidge of member x member side character relationships, jimin is biromantic demisexual 👀, conversations about body image issues/past relationship struggles/demisexuality and libido, soooo much making out, a couple "failed attempts" at sex, accidental voyeurism (but not how you think lmao YOU'LL SEE), showering together non-sexually, and: fingering, clit stim, nipple play, come eating/sharing 🤭 an attempted blowjob, face sitting, & protected sex (multiple rounds 🥵)

A/N: asjdshgkdfjgs i can't believe it's done 😭 there were so many times i thought i would never finish this fic !!! i have too many friends to thank for talking me off of SEVERAL ledges where i was convinced this whole thing was trash and that i should just stick to short porn or perhaps simply never write again. i'm so glad i saw this one through because there are concepts in here that are deeply important and personal to me wehhh 🫠 i sincerely hope y'all enjoy this one!! thank u for enduring mostly radio silence while i was in jimin lockdown, and of course, happy early birthday to mini, the light of my mf life 🥰💜 (oh and LDOMLT ch 8 is coming next so buckle tf up bitches 👀)

an eternity of smooches to @haliiimede for beta reading and just generally being the best fucking person on planet earth ✨

read on AO3!

~*~

You’ve taken the subway thousands of times since moving to New York.

Morning rides, squeezed nearly to death between commuters in suits blinking back sleep and school-uniformed kids scream-laughing and paper coffee cups gripped tight by winter-numb fingers.

Long trips with your sketchbook on your lap, riding the line all the way to Pelham Bay Park and back, to surface above ground out where there’s a little more space to breathe, until the setting sun floods orange glow between the buildings just before you descend again.

Late nights coming home, Namjoon’s head thudding back against the train window behind him as he dozes off, one arm thrown around your shoulder to ward off any drunk creeps, his free hand interlaced with Yoongi’s on his other side.

It’s always been the three of you, first in friendship, and now that the two of them have figured out they’re something more, you don’t mind it. But when it’s late and you’ve had enough drinks to feel warm all the way through, to melt something open inside of you, and you glance over to see a loving flicker of eyelashes exchanged as Namjoon leans down and presses a kiss to Yoongi’s temple, you can’t help it.

There’s a little bit of an ache there, right behind your ribs. Sometimes.

But mostly, when it comes to the train, you take the 6 to school. You go through the motions this morning the same as you always do: headphones around your neck, bag slung over your shoulder, immediately dropping into the first empty seat you see as the train doors shudder closed and the car starts to move. Six stops down, 51st street to Astor Place, five days a week, you know it like a heartbeat.

You just wish you knew him, too.

Subway Boy, as Yoongi affectionately labeled him the time you got two pitchers of margaritas deep and made the mistake of confessing to your roommates about your crush— if it can even be called that. Can you truly have a crush on someone you know nothing about, not even their name?

Well, you know a few things.

He must live further north than you, because on the days you see him, he’s already on the train when you board at 51st.

He must like music, because he always has a set of fancy bluetooth earbuds in.

You’re pretty sure he’s an athlete of some sort, because he’s usually carrying a gym bag—and because during this summer’s heat wave, the one and only time you’ve seen him wear shorts, you nearly fainted at the thick, defined muscles of his thighs.

He has an affinity for jewelry, delicate silver always glinting through the multiple piercings in his ears. At odds with this, he seems to prefer to dress comfortably, and you’ve seen him in enough branded school t-shirts and sweats to figure he must also be an NYU student, though you can’t say for sure if he’s undergrad or graduate.

You deeply hope you’re not crushing on someone who still needs a fake ID to drink, but there’s no way to be certain.

Most importantly, you know that he is absolutely stunning. Elegantly handsome, with expressive deep brown eyes, skin like glass, and round cheeks and full lips that flush frozen pink on particularly frigid New York days. His hair has changed colors a few times over the months that have passed since you first took notice of him, but it’s currently a honey blonde, and long enough that he often reaches up to card a hand through it. He does it now, pushing loose strands back to expose his forehead as he frowns down at his phone.

On days where you share the same car, you notice very little else that happens on the ride, thoroughly entranced in Subway Boy’s beauty and his mystery. The train could probably catch fire and you’d miss it entirely.

Today happens to be one of those days, and excitement glitters in your bloodstream as you realize he’s seated across from you. The rush of seeing him always feels like its own reward, some kind of cosmic sign that the day is going to be a good one.

And then the train stops moving.

There’s an audible reaction from a few people in the car, and you glance up a moment later when a voice buzzes over the intercom. You’re able to make out “attention passengers” and very little after that, just the basics about some sort of unforeseen interruption of service and that the train should resume moving again soon.

You sigh, knowing very well that the MTA’s definition of ‘soon’ does not often align with typical human expectations. Figuring you’ve got some time to kill, you reach into your bag to retrieve your sketchbook and the first pencil you can dig out of the bottom.

“What did they say?” A voice, quiet and deep, surprises you before you can even flip to your in-progress page.

You glance up to find Subway Boy staring at you, forearms braced on his knees as he leans forward into the gap between his seat and yours. He’s got one bluetooth earbud pinched between his fingertips and a confused look on his face, having clearly missed the announcement.

Heat floods your face at the feeling of his eyes fixed on you, and it takes you a second to form a response. “Uh— I didn’t get most of it. Something about unforeseen interruption. And that we’ll be moving again soon.”

A muscle works in his jaw as he rolls his eyes. “Typical.”

“I don’t think they know what ‘soon’ means,” you murmur, mostly to yourself as you tear your gaze away from Subway Boy and return to the sketchbook in your lap, rifling through to find your latest half-finished drawing. When you hear him huff a laugh, you have to bite down on the hopeful smile that threatens to shine across your face.

“Definitely not.”

You force yourself to keep your eyes on the page, assuming Subway Boy must go back to his music when he falls silent after his last comment.

With featherlight flicks of your pencil, you start to add a little depth to the quick study you were working on last night, Yoongi’s half-peeled tangerine that he left abandoned on the coffee table when he stepped out onto the fire escape for a smoke.

Subway Boy’s voice catches you off guard a second time. “Are you drawing?”

You bite down on your lip again, a nervous habit, and you nod as you tilt the page so he can see from across the car.

“Wow.” You wonder if you’re imagining the way his voice seems to soften a little. “You’re really good. Are you an artist?”

You can’t help it— your gaze flits up to meet his again. It’s nearly overwhelming to lock eyes with your Subway Boy and hear him compliment you, like something out of a wild daydream. “I guess so,” you remark, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a small smile as you say it. “I’ve certainly paid NYU enough money in my attempts to become one.”

“Know the feeling,” he scoffs, but his eyes smile back, pulled into crescent moons.

“What did you pay them for?”

“Currently, a dual MFA/MA in dance and… teaching dance. Really went all-in on the dancer thing.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen automatically. You’ve wondered— and yes, occasionally drunkenly speculated with your roommates— what Subway Boy’s line of work might be, but you have no idea why dancer never occurred to you. Because now all the pieces suddenly fall together in front of you: the toned muscles that flex beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt, the natural grace he exudes, not to mention his perfect posture.

Of course he’s a dancer. It makes perfect sense.

It occurs to you, a beat too late, that a wide-eyed ‘oh’ is not the most normal response to a truly innocuous answer to a question asked of a random stranger.

But the smile in his eyes doesn’t falter. “I feel like I see you on this train a lot.”

Your stomach flutters like butterfly wings, and you have to look away, back down to the safety of your sketchbook. “Really?”

There’s an extra pause before he speaks again. “Man, sorry. Think I misread that. Now I feel creepy. I promise I’ve only noticed you a normal amount.” Your eyes snap back up to find him wincing slightly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“No, no, I’m— it’s not—” you stammer, trying to recover. “I, uh— me too, I have too. Noticed you. A normal amount. I… I don’t know why I just pretended like I didn’t.”

Subway Boy leans forward, head dropping down with a genuine laugh that shakes his shoulders, and you can’t help but laugh too, out of sheer embarrassment. He’s beaming when he rights himself again, and it sends a thrill buzzing through you, all the way down to your fingertips still clutched tight to your pencil.

“That makes me feel better,” he admits. “At least we’re both creepy.”

As if the universe itself is intervening to save you from any further humiliation, the train shudders back to life and begins to move again. The sigh you breathe is a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.

“That’s definitely a new record,” you say shyly as you move to shove your things back in your bag. “Maybe the MTA actually looked up what ‘soon’ means.”

His focus is tracked over your shoulder when you look up again, and his eyes dance left to right to chase the patterns in the subway tile as you pull into the next station.

“Guess it’s a miracle,” he says softly, not making eye contact.

“Must be,” you murmur back, letting your gaze drop to the floor, unable to hide your smile now.

He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you, but the warm flush stays in your face for the rest of the ride. When the train pulls into the Astor Place station, you and Subway Boy get to your feet simultaneously, so quickly that your bags knock together as you pull them over your shoulders.

“Sorry,” you say in unison, immediately sharing an exhaled laugh at the synchronicity of the moment.

The doors slide open and he gestures for you to go first before following after. It’s a surprise— he’s never gotten off at Astor before, and when he doesn’t take the option of heading in another direction but instead falls into lockstep next to you, you seize the opportunity.

“Astor Place today, huh?” You hope the observation still falls into the category of ‘noticing a normal amount’.

“Yeah, first day of a new gig. What about you? Class?”

You nod. “Pretty standard stuff. But we start a new unit today, so that’s fun.”

“You in grad school too?”

“Yup, MFA in studio art.” You can’t help but tease, just a little. “Only one master’s degree for me, I’m such a slacker.”

His eyes squint again as he smiles. “Hey, I’m just glad you’re not, like, eighteen.”

“I thought that too!” You keep talking before you can stop yourself. “I mean, when I was… noticing. I distinctly remember thinking, like, please let me not be thirsting over a straight-up child right now.”

“Ahh...” Subway Boy trails off, and you can see a faint pink starting to blossom in the apples of his cheeks. “You were thirsting?”

You can’t help but scrunch your nose up slightly, resisting the urge to full-body cringe at your own stupid mouth. “We are now officially both creepy.”

He fidgets a little with the strap of the dance bag slung over his shoulder. “Hopefully I’m living up to the hype.”

You’re grateful to reach the art building before you can dig your grave any deeper. You nod your head in the direction of the glass doors as you slow to a stop, and he does, too. “This is me.”

“It’s actually me, too,” he remarks, glancing up at the building as if to double-check. “But I have a little bit, so I’m gonna grab a coffee I think. But it was nice to finally talk to you. Not that— sorry, that was weird. Take out the finally. It was good to talk. Meet a fellow starving artist and all.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment, until you finally work up the courage to ask the question. “Do you have a name?”

“Oh!” His eyes widen, more heat-blush coloring his face. “Yeah. Park Jimin. Probably could’ve led with that.”

You give him your name, and his voice is like music when he repeats it back.

“Well, good luck in class,” Jimin says with a nod. “And hopefully I’ll see you around sometime.” A smile toys at the corner of his mouth, and then he pauses as his words seem to catch up to him. “Well, I mean. I guess I know I will. On the— train— yeah, I’m gonna go before I say any more stupid things.”

“Bye Jimin,” you giggle, and he gives a shy departing wave before he spins on his heel. As he walks away, you can’t help but notice the way he drops his gaze and shakes his head, like he’s thoroughly embarrassed by his social performance.

And just like that, Subway Boy has a name— one that loops in your head as you float to class, barely feeling your feet touch the floor. Park Jimin. It’s sweet like him, warm sunshine in your veins as you shoulder open the door to the studio, grab a seat, and start to get set up.

A voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin as Kim Taehyung leans in, having occupied the seat next to you while you were off in la-la land. “Know what the new unit is?” You start to shake your head, then realize it was a rhetorical question when he waggles his eyebrows and continues. “Life drawing. Ready for some naked people?”

You roll your eyes and grab at the strings of his gray beanie, pulling it down over his fluffy hair and eyes in one swift tug. “Bro, we are literally in grad school. Stop acting like a virgin.”

“Like you weren’t thinking it too,” he grumbles to himself as he shoves the hat back up his forehead.

You shoot him a look as your professor signals the class to settle and launches in. It’s the same routine as each unit you’ve rotated through in your graduate studio, so you only half-listen, mostly distracted by Taehyung tearing open the paper wrapper of a red heart-shaped lollipop and popping it into his mouth. His latest oral fixation in his millionth attempt to quit vaping.

You lean down to dig into your bag, trying to ignore the sound of hard candy clacking against teeth as you fish out both pencils and charcoal to give yourself options. You pull a couple of each out of their cases, glancing up in an attempt to refocus on the professor, who is still talking.

It takes a second for your brain to process the image in front of you. His shy smile has been replaced with a serious, professional expression, but there’s no questioning the familiar face, the posture, the silver jewelry, the way he reaches up to run a hand through his hair. Subway Boy Park Jimin is standing in the center of the room, wearing a short black satin dressing gown.

Your jaw goes slack. It feels like it happens in slow motion as you watch Jimin’s strong hands move down to undo the sash at his waist before he shrugs off the flimsy fabric and lets it fall to the floor. And then he’s not wearing anything at all.

You lose your grip entirely on your handful of pencils, and they hit the studio floor with a clatter that certainly feels deafening, each one choosing to roll off in a different direction.

Taehyung glances over at you, brow slightly creased. The lollipop tucked in his cheek impedes his speech slightly, but not enough that you can’t understand him. “Now who’s the virgin?”

You crouch down, praying that maybe you can gather your things unnoticed, but it already feels like every pair of eyes in the room is burning a hole in your back. To his credit, Taehyung at least helps a little, extending a sandaled foot to kick any pencils he can reach over towards you. You scramble around the room to chase after the rest, and you can’t bear to look up and see if Jimin is watching you or not. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Fighting the urge to army crawl out of the room, you grip both hands tightly around your materials as you return to your seat, then tuck everything into the tray of the easel in front of you. You’re a professional, you tell yourself. It’s not like it’s your first time drawing someone nude.

It’s just your first time doing it when you happen to have a crush on them.

But it’s fine. You let out an exhale to ground yourself, then pick up a pencil. It’s just a body.

You vaguely recall hearing your professor explain that you’d be moving through ten quick-sketch poses to begin with, each held for only a few minutes, before switching to a few longer sessions for the rest of class. As you were too busy chasing your pencils around the room, you’ve missed the first pose entirely, and you have to work quickly to get a very rough outline of the second before Jimin moves again at the professor’s instruction.

He switches so fluidly from one pose to the next, and you have so little time, it’s enough to get you out of your head just trying to keep up. You find yourself falling comfortably into a flow state, focused on little more than lines and shapes in front of you and the act of reproducing them on your page. It’s an exercise you know well, and the repetition of it soothes you.

The studio is quiet, save for the scratching of pencils on paper and the soft classical music your professor has switched on.

By the time you finish sketching the tenth pose, it feels like you can breathe a little easier, and your professor offers Jimin a quick break just as you lean back to admire your work. You do your best to quickly duck behind your easel as he stretches, then reaches for a bottle of water set on a nearby table.

Taehyung removes his sheet of sketches and sets it aside before leaning in, pressing his face against his easel to match yours. “He’s cute. Bet he gets like, infinite ass-pussy. Just the absolute most.”

“Shut up, Tae!” You jerk your foot out to kick the leg of his chair, and a boxy grin stretches over his face as he giggles. You stare daggers back. “You’re too damn horny today. Like you didn’t just get your ass eaten in the supply closet last week.” The rumor had spread through your cohort practically overnight— probably started by Taehyung himself.

The menace in question shoots you an over-exaggerated wink. “And I’d do it again, too.”

You roll your eyes. “Nasty.”

The professor claps to get everyone’s attention again, and you peer around your easel to watch as Jimin resumes his place at the center of the room. You settle in for the first of a few longer, more detailed sketches, trying desperately to keep your cool about it. But Jimin is unquestionably gorgeous.

He turns to the side for the first pose, arms wrapped around his muscular torso and eyes downcast, fingertips and thumb resting over his neck and chin as if to cradle his own face in his hand. After a long stretch of time where you manage to get most of a sketch done, the professor cues him to move into a second pose, and he faces the back wall, reaching up to drape his arms over each other, crossed wrists resting delicately on the crown of his head.

You could easily see him as a statue carved out of marble, and you try to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat as you attempt to translate his beauty onto your page each time. You have to hold in several sighs as you work on outlining the strong, toned muscles of his back and thighs— not to mention his perky ass. You can’t help but wonder if the rest of the class is struggling silently, too.

You’re beginning to think you might survive after all when the professor asks Jimin to move again and he does, shaking his body out slightly before reaching to grab a provided stool and shift it to the center of the room. He takes a seat, abdominals flexing as he leans back on his hands and unabashedly lets his legs fall open.

Fuck. You nearly snap your pencil in half.

You try desperately to keep it together as you start your third sketch with unsteady hands. The minutes tick by, and you aren’t aware of Taehyung’s eyes on your paper until you hear his stupid whisper again. “Why aren’t you drawing his dick?”

He’s not wrong. There is a noticeable blank spot at the center of your page. “I’m getting there,” you huff. “Worry about your own sketch, Tae.”

“Girl, you are literally doing detail shading on his legs and he doesn’t even have a penis. What is he, a Ken doll?”

You grit your teeth and refuse to dignify Taehyung with a response. Fine. You can do this, you tell yourself. Don’t think. Just look and draw. It’s not a big deal.

With a hard swallow, you trace your eyes down his body, and… well, you don’t know what you were expecting. It’s just a soft penis resting limp between his legs, framed by an extremely regular pair of balls. Nothing scary, though you can’t quite will the heat back out of your face, can’t manage to silence the recurring thought that makes your stomach drop— it’s cute.

You resist the urge to smack your head against your easel as you finally fill in your sketch’s dick.

You somehow manage to survive the rest of class, but relief still floods your veins when your professor signals for everyone to wrap up what they’re doing for the day. Jimin starts to come alive again from the fixed pose, tilting his head to one side until something cracks audibly in his neck. You tear your gaze away for fear that his eyes might find yours, and shove everything into your bag as quickly as you can, not even caring what ends up where.

“Where’s the fire?” Taehyung questions beside you, but you ignore him.

You zip your bag up and sling it over your shoulder, then make a beeline for the exit, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the floor. It’s only once the studio door swings shut behind you that you feel like you can breathe again, and you have to keep yourself from outright sprinting to your next class.

~*~

The rest of the day rushes by in an overwhelming blur, your focus entirely shot by the events of the morning. You collapse into a seat on your train home, hugging your bag to your chest, thankful for the first time in your life to not be sharing a subway car with Park Jimin.

When you turn your keys in the lock and stumble in the front door of the apartment, the divine smell of what could only be Yoongi’s cooking immediately hits you full-force. You find him in the kitchen with a towel thrown over his shoulder, searing a large steak in a cast iron pan for what must be a planned date night with Namjoon.

You wrap your arms around his tiny waist from behind as you approach. He responds with his usual greeting: a soft grunt of mild discomfort.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, trying to sound as sweet as possible.

“You just did,” Yoongi notes.

You decide to let his sass go, since you really do need help. “Two more?” Yoongi hums, somewhat affirmative, and you continue. “I know you work like 47 jobs and never get any time off—“

“Some of us have to pay rent without the luxury of stipends or rich parents, yes—“

“But is there any way I could… maybe possibly encroach upon your date night just this once? It’s an emergency. I need advice.”

Yoongi sighs, and you shift to peek over his shoulder, arms still wrapped around him as you watch the way he tilts the pan to one side, collecting butter on a spoon to baste over the steak as it cooks. You squish your cheek into his bicep.

“Lucky for you,” he begins, his tone relenting, “Namjoonie just called. They’ve got him working late to prep for the exhibition next month. So date night was canceled anyway.”

“Aw, Yoongiiiii.” You squeeze him tight enough that he makes another disgruntled noise, and you finally release your grip. “I’ll be your girlfriend tonight.”

He rolls his eyes, but willingly plays along. “Then get the wine, darling?”

You fall into a typical routine: Yoongi pulls a tray of roasted vegetables out of the oven as he lets the steak rest, while you grab a bottle of red at his instruction and fight with the corkscrew in an attempt to get it open. Yoongi watches you, slow-blinking, unamused.

“You wouldn’t last an hour in the restaurant industry.”

“Either help me, or shut up,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

When you finally get settled at your tiny kitchen table, Yoongi nods as if to prompt you while he fills each wine glass with a heavy pour. “Let’s hear it.”

You take a deep breath before launching in and recounting the events of your day, trying not to choke as you simultaneously stuff your face with food. Yoongi eats and listens quietly, no discernible reaction on his face save the occasional lift of his eyebrows. He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest as you finish detailing the way you ran out of the studio the minute class ended.

“Alright. So you saw Subway Boy naked, big deal. Do you know how many dicks I’ve seen?”

You groan. “Spare me the details, please.”

“But this is what you wanted, right?” You shrug, and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t play coy now. You’ve been lusting after this kid for months like a weirdo. So why are you stressed?”

“Because!” you huff, frustrated. “It’s— it’s out of order. It’s not like he chose to get naked in front of me specifically, he obviously just thought it was going to be a roomful of strangers. And it seemed like maybe we could be friends or something, but now I don’t know if I should keep pursuing that or just leave him alone. I want to be respectful, but I don’t want him to think I took one look at his penis and decided I didn’t like him anymore, but then it’s like, how do I hold a conversation when he and I both know I have seen his penis, not only seen but studied it, drawn it, and will continue to, weekly, in detail, from multiple angles—“

“You are absolutely overthinking this,” Yoongi laughs into his glass of wine, downing the rest before he continues. “Just get on the fucking train and say hi like a normal, well-adjusted human. This is my advice to you.”

You sigh as you shove a roasted potato in your mouth. “At least you’re a good cook.”

“I’m a great cook,” Yoongi corrects you as he gets to his feet. “Now help me with these dishes.”

~*~

Yoongi’s advice continues to echo in your brain as you lapse back into something like normalcy for the rest of the week.

When the day of your studio class rolls around again, you find yourself hustling not to miss the train, having hit snooze on your alarm a few too many times that morning. You fly down the subway steps just as the 6 is pulling into the station, and you try to ignore the way your pulse is already quickening, telling yourself it’s just from rushing and nothing else.

Pulling the strap of your bag up on your shoulder, you make it to the platform just as the train doors slide open, and your heart instantly leaps into your throat. There he is, leaning against a pole, overwhelmingly beautiful as ever. Park Jimin.

He’s scrolling through something on his phone and hasn’t yet looked up to notice you, and you find yourself frozen in place, jostled angrily by commuters exiting and boarding the train on either side of you.

Panic floods your veins. There’s no time to talk yourself off the ledge, no time to remember Yoongi’s words of wisdom, no time to do anything but make a snap decision. So you do the only thing that feels right: you turn around and sprint back up the stairs and out of the subway station.

The sidewalk is equally bustling, and you try to dodge people while you think through what to do despite the way your head is spinning. You were already going to be cutting it close for time today, and you don’t exactly have the disposable income for a taxi or an Uber. As you try to settle your racing thoughts, your eyes alight on a rack of Citibikes.

Fuck it. You don’t have a better option. Securing your bag on your back, you quickly scan the code to unlock the bike, then shove your phone in your pocket and swing your leg over the seat.

You’ve never biked in Manhattan traffic before, but it can’t be that difficult, you tell yourself. Definitely easier than sharing a subway car with Park Jimin.

Thankfully the street you’re on has a defined bike path, and you do your best to follow the flow of traffic, squeezing your hand brakes to slow to a stop when you hit a red light. It’s been years since you’ve ridden a bike that wasn’t stationary, but it comes back to you relatively easily, like— well, riding a bike.

When you hit a long stretch of green lights, you do your best to pick up speed, trying to make up for lost time. An approaching red light threatens to slow you down again, and you breathe a sigh of relief as it flips to green at the last possible second.

Just as your front tire rolls into the intersection, a deafening car horn nearly gives you a heart attack. You instinctively slam your grip tight around your brakes, and your bike screeches to a halt so fast you’re almost flung over the handlebars. A taxi just barely veers around you as it plows down the intersecting avenue, and you gasp for air, adrenaline coursing through your system.

Holy shit.

You drop one foot to the ground for leverage as you try to get your pulse back under control— you’re pretty sure you just saw your life flash before your eyes. Reality feels a million miles away, but you’re vaguely aware of someone shouting after the car as it speeds down the street.

“Fucking asshole!”

It takes a few seconds for you to realize that it’s a familiar voice, and when you do, you whip around as best you can with a bike between your legs.

“Yoongi?!”

“Oh my god,” Yoongi groans, knuckles blanching as he presses down on his own brakes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You squint, taking in the helmet strapped over his wavy dark hair and the insulated bag tucked into the basket on the front of his bike. “Since when do you deliver food?”

He grimaces, speaking up to be heard over the noise of traffic. “I just do it to make extra money when my hours suck.”

“What about the coffee shop?”

He shakes his head. “They only have me opening Mondays and Wednesdays right now.”

“What about the bar?”

“That’s just weekends, reliably. Sometimes extra evenings, but only if someone calls out.”

“What about the—”

“Christ, woman!” Yoongi cuts you off with a growl. “The food’s gonna get cold if I have to sit here and run through my entire résumé with you! Are you alright? Why aren’t you taking the subway?”

“Because!” you snap back. “There is a man on that train whose dick I’ve seen and I… I don’t know how to handle it! Okay?!” Though you don’t intend to raise your voice, it comes out loud enough that a group of high school kids on their phones exchange stifled giggles as they fast-walk around you.

“Well you need to be fucking careful,” Yoongi chides. “Biking in the city is not for the faint of heart. And if I’m not allowed to give in to my suicidal ideation, you’re not allowed to crack your head open on the pavement all because you’re trying to avoid a penis.”

“Fine,” you spit back through gritted teeth. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to class.” You push off the asphalt, legs still shaking a little with excess nerves as you re-find your balance and make your way cautiously through the intersection.

The rush of wind in your ears isn’t quite loud enough to drown out Yoongi calling after you as you bike away. “It’s only weird if you make it weird!”

When you somehow make it to Astor Place in one piece, you dock your bike and quickly sprint to the building, well aware that you’re already late. It’s only once you push the studio door open that you realize how truly frazzled and out of breath you are, and though you keep your gaze fixed on the floor, you can feel every pair of eyes in the room on you. You hold a hand up in an apologetic wave and hurry to find your seat.

Trying to collect yourself, you begin to unpack your materials as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the class. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear Kim Taehyung’s voice beside you.

“You’re sweaty. Why are you so sweaty?”

He’s got an eyebrow cocked when you look over, and you give him the most powerful death glare you can muster, enough that it must actually scare him. “Shutting up now,” Taehyung murmurs, voice shaking slightly as he returns to his own sketches, and you huff an exhale as you attempt to catch up to the rest of the group.

Class passes surprisingly quickly once you manage to get your breath back, much in the same way it did the week prior: you do your best to compartmentalize the body in front of you from the human person you have a giant, embarrassing crush on. It goes decently well in the moments where Jimin is frozen in a fixed pose, just lines and curves and light and shadow for you to emulate. During the breaks when he comes alive again, you hide out behind your easel, trying to ignore Taehyung’s inane bullshit and wishing you could disappear entirely.

The second your professor dismisses everyone for the day, you stuff your things back into your bag, hoping to once again speed-walk out of the room.

But despite your better judgment, you can’t help yourself this time. As you get to your feet, you glance up to watch Jimin pull his dressing gown back on, only to realize his eyes are already on you.

You’re distinctly aware of how much of a mess you must look from biking over, and the fact that you almost assuredly smudged charcoal on your face when you reached up absentmindedly to scratch an itch mid-sketch.

Jimin’s plush lips turn up in the smallest of smiles, and the bottom drops out of your stomach.

With a hard swallow, you avert your gaze from his, sling your bag over your shoulder, and quickly make your escape through the studio door. You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat even after he’s out of your sight, and your hands shake like a leaf all the way to your next class.

~*~

That night, sleep evades you until the early hours of the morning, and it feels like you’ve only just begun to doze off when the harsh noise of your alarm pulls you up from dreaming. You roll over in bed and glare accusingly at your phone, then shut it off, promptly letting the waves drag you under once more, seminar be damned.

It’s nearly noon when you finally make it out of bed and stumble into the living room in your sweats. Namjoon is curled up in his reading chair, a feat for someone of his size, surrounded as always by his massive stack of ever-changing ‘to read’ books. He glances up from the one that’s open on his lap, clearly surprised to see you.

“No class?” Namjoon’s voice is rough-edged, like he’s only just woken up himself.

“Skipped,” you grunt. His eyes track you as you cross the room and collapse face-first onto the couch.

“Is this about the penis?”

The cushion muffles your groan. “Not you too.”

You hear the distinct fluttering sound of Namjoon closing his book and shifting in his seat to give you his undivided attention. “Seems like you want to talk about it.”

You turn your head to the side to take in your roommate. “Maybe. Are you gonna give me the same stupid advice your boyfriend did?”

He smiles softly, one dimple flexing at the corner of his mouth. “I can try to be gentler.”

You huff as you flip onto your side, pressing your palms together and slipping them under your cheek. “Sounds like you’ve got the details already, so please. Enlighten me. Tell me how I’m supposed to handle seeing this guy naked once a week in the name of art.”

“Didn’t William Blake say ‘Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed’?” Namjoon poses it like a serious question, brow creased as if in contemplation, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Joon, did he? I said enlighten me, not write me a thesis.” You reach up to grab a couch pillow and fling it in his direction, missing by several inches. “Did Blake have anything in there on dealing with a naked crush and trying not to make it weird as fuck?”

“Well, does he seem weirded out by it?” Namjoon counters, patient as ever.

“I don’t know.” You shrug unsurely as you play back your last interaction with Jimin. “He smiled at me yesterday, at the end of class.”

Namjoon steeples his fingers together, leaning forward slightly in his chair, interest clearly piqued. “Okay, and what did you do?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I… threw all my shit in my bag and ran out of the room.” When you crack an eye open again, you can see Namjoon trying and failing to keep the smug smile off his face, his dimples giving him away.

“Maybe you could try smiling back next time?” he gently suggests.

You sigh, because you know he’s right. “You make it sound so easy. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to talk to him?”

He laughs a little. “I’d quote another poet, but I fear you might launch more projectiles at me.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Let’s hear it, nerd.”

Namjoon clears his throat for dramatic effect before launching into a recitation. “‘It’s cool, not tryna put a rush on you / I had to let you know, that I got a crush on you.’”

There’s a wide grin on his face as you sit all the way up. “Did you just quote Biggie Smalls at me?”

“Hey, I appreciate all forms of poetry.”

You feign annoyance, but you can’t quite hide the smile beneath it, and you get to your feet as Namjoon continues to mumble a verse of Crush on You under his breath. “Whatever. I need to do laundry.”

“Oh—” Namjoon pauses to interrupt himself. “Lucky’s closed, by the way.”

Already halfway out of the living room, you whip around again at the mention of the laundromat you’ve been exclusive with for the last few years. “What?”

He nods solemnly. “Me and Yoongi found out the hard way last week. They’re putting in an Equinox.”

Your face twists in disgust. “A stupid bougie gym?! You’ve got to be kidding me. Where am I supposed to wash my fucking clothes?”

“We found a place a few blocks up. Quick Clean, or something like that.” Namjoon shifts to dig his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll send you the address. It’s not bad, just a little more expensive.”

“This is such bullshit,” you groan as you stomp back into your bedroom, the day already off to a terrible start.

In a gentrification-induced rage, you angrily shove the contents of your overflowing laundry hamper into the giant yellow IKEA bag hung up in your closet, just barely managing to fit it all. Glancing at the mirror on the back of the door, you briefly consider changing out of your sweats, or at the very least doing something with your hair, but you shrug it off— it’s not like you’re trying to impress anyone at the damn laundromat.

You grab your headphones off your desk and sling them around your neck, double-check that your sketchbook is still tucked into your bag, then lug everything out to the front hallway. You pull your slides off the shoe rack and slip your socked feet into them.

“Bye, nerd!” you call over your shoulder to Namjoon before the front door slams shut behind you.

By the time you make it to the weird new laundromat, you’re sweaty and pissed off. You knew the walk to Lucky’s by heart, but you had to do this one while looking down at your phone GPS and trying not to get hit by a car. Not an easy feat while carrying every article of clothing you own over one shoulder.

You miss the way the nice old man who owned Lucky’s would greet you warmly and sneak you a cup of coffee from his pot in the back, the way his cat would roll over on the front counter for belly rubs, the way there was always a deeply entertaining telenovela playing on the ancient tiny TV.

The stupid Quick Clean has none of these things, just a shitty pile of magazines in the seating area and weirdly sticky floors. You slam into the front door a little harder than is necessary to push it open, the bell tinkling violently overhead as you enter. The only compliment you can give the place is that it’s relatively dead, save for a couple people on their phones or half-asleep in chairs as they wait on their stuff, and two guys in the corner loading armfuls of wet clothes into a pair of dryers.

You grab a machine a respectful distance away from them and swing the door open when a laugh that’s nearly musical gives you pause. Unable to shake a sense of familiarity, you glance over at your neighbors again, just in time to see one of them reach up to run a hand through his honey blonde hair.

Your IKEA bag hits the sticky floor with an audible thud as panic kickstarts your heart.

This isn’t fucking happening. Of all the laundromats in New York City, you did not just manage to stumble into the one currently being used by Park Jimin.

But even before you can catch a glimpse of his profile, you’re already certain it can’t be anyone else. You’ve spent too much time familiarizing yourself with the slope of his neck, the definition of his forearms, his dainty hands. There’s no mistaking them, adorned today with several silver rings that catch the dim fluorescent light as he grabs more of his clothes from the washer.

The desperate need to turn around and run rises up in your chest, just as before, but this time you steel yourself. You can’t keep running away forever— particularly not when you pulled on your last clean pair of underwear this morning.

A rush of heat floods your face at the thought of the many pairs of underwear in your bag that will soon be sent spinning around this washing machine, where Jimin could easily see, but then it occurs to you that you have seen his penis. Maybe the trade-off will put you on slightly more equal footing.

But you really don’t need to be thinking about Park Jimin’s penis in this laundromat right now.

Shaking your head slightly to try and banish the thought, you set about your laundry routine, trying not to drop any unmentionables on the floor when you dump the contents of your tote into the washer. You dig quarters out of your bag and slot them into the machine, then press the button to start the cycle.

With a final exhale to steady yourself, you turn to look over your shoulder again, only to find Jimin leaning up against the empty dryer next to his, unabashedly watching you with a small smile on his face.

It occurs to you now that you couldn’t have put less effort into your appearance if you tried, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of every random stain on your sweatpants and your extremely fashionable socks and slides combination. Jimin’s just in a white t-shirt and a pair of distressed jeans today, but literally everything looks fresh off the runway on him. You suppress the urge to walk out the door and go lay down in traffic, and instead take Namjoon’s advice: you smile back and even lift your hand in a shy wave.

You drop into an empty chair across from your machine and watch as Jimin starts to cross the room to join you, his eyes never leaving yours. Before he can make it, you suddenly become aware of someone else sliding into the seat beside you.

“You didn’t tell me she was cute, Jimin-ah!”

Eyes wide, you turn to see Jimin’s friend sprawled out next to you, one arm draped lazily over the back of your chair. His wavy dark hair peeks out from under a lime green beanie, and he’s swimming in an oversized long sleeve tucked into baggy pants, cinched tight at the waist with a Gucci belt.

“Jung Hoseok,” he gives you a nod. “Friends call me Hobi. You can call me whatever you like.” The way his wide smile pulls his mouth heart-shaped makes you giggle a little, slightly dazed by whatever the fuck is happening right now.

You hear Jimin sigh as he takes the open seat on your other side. “Please ignore Hoseok’s tendency to come on way too strong. If it makes you feel any better, he’s as gay as they come.”

Hoseok flicks his wrist just so. “Guilty as charged.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” you say with a shrug, your gaze flitting from Jimin to Hoseok and back again. “I have two gay roommates, so.”

Hoseok hums, clearly interested. “Gay together or gay separately?”

“Gay together.”

He narrows his eyes. “Open to a third?”

You can’t help but laugh at the unexpected question. “Uh, I’d have to ask.”

He looks like he’s going to say more, but Jimin interjects. “Hoseok— can we get a minute?”

Hoseok’s lips pull together, fish-like, and he nods as he gets to his feet. “Say no more. I’ll just, uh…” He fumbles, looking around for something to do, then crosses the room to take the open seat next to the sad pile of magazines. “…do a little light reading.” He picks up one at the top of the stack, holding it up for you both to witness. “Oh look, the queen died!”

You bite down on your bottom lip to suppress another laugh, but Jimin’s face is surprisingly serious when you look back at him. “I just want to say one thing,” he murmurs, voice low, “and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Nerves settle in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight. “Jimin,” you start, and when he opens his mouth to keep talking, you blurt out the first thing you can think of.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison, and there’s a beat where you both blink, equally taken aback by the other’s apology. It’s quiet apart from the rumble of the laundry machines and the distinct sound of Hoseok smacking the magazine over his mouth, clearly more invested in your plot line.

You break the silence first. “Wait, why are you sorry?”

Jimin’s eyes drop down to the floor, one black boot toeing nervously at the tile. “I figured you were upset with me because I didn’t warn you.”

Your eyes widen in surprise when you play your initial conversation back. “Oh my god— when I said graduate studio art, you… you knew.”

He nods, somewhat remorseful. “I was kind of hoping that maybe it would be a different class, but. Yeah. I figured. I’m really sorry, I should’ve—”

“No, no,” you interrupt. “I get it. I’m not mad, obviously I didn’t even put it together until right now.” You pause for a second and can’t help but smile a little. “And, I mean, how do you just casually work that into your first conversation with someone? ‘Great talking to you, ready to see my dick in five minutes?’”

Jimin’s head tips back when he laughs, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. “Right.”

You can feel your own face grow hot as you realize what you’ve just said. “God, sorry, I didn’t mean to— clearly I don’t know how to handle this. That’s why I wanted to apologize, for avoiding you and being weird.” You twist your hands uncomfortably in your lap. “I’ve just never been in this situation before, and I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to talk given… the…” Every cell in your body screams at you not to say the word ‘dick’ again. “Yeah. I thought it might be easier to keep my distance. Keep it separate.”

Jimin’s eyes drift back up to find yours, and his casual beauty is so stunning, it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs. He shrugs softly. “I mean, maybe it would be. But I don’t want to.”

“Great,” you manage a laugh, still breathless. “Because I nearly died on a Citibike the day I didn’t take the subway.”

He laughs, too. “Not gonna lie, I missed seeing you on the train.” You’re not expecting it when he extends a hand out. “Friends?”

You realize belatedly that he’s offering a handshake, and you gently take his hand in yours. His skin is soft and warm, a contrast to the cool metal of his rings that press into your palm as he squeezes.

“Friends,” you echo with a smile, squeezing back.

There’s a sudden thump and a cackle as Hoseok falls out of his chair with a peal of laughter. “You are so fucking weird, Jimin-ah!” he gasps from his spot on the floor. “Who shakes hands?!”

The two of them keep you more than entertained until the buzzers on their dryers sound a second apart from each other. You learn that Hoseok and Jimin are roommates, that they met as dance majors in their undergrad program, and that Hoseok now works as an adjunct instructor and freelance choreographer.

“Because some of us decided we wanted to actually make money instead of digging ourselves further into debt,” he explains with a sly grin and smack delivered to the back of Jimin’s head.

You watch as they meticulously fold, Hoseok regularly leaning over to redo Jimin’s work and chide him about wrinkles, and then they stack the clean laundry back into their bags and head for the exit.

“Bye, new friend!” Hoseok calls as he maneuvers the door open with his foot, and Jimin pauses at the threshold, the bell overhead tinkling gently.

“So… guess I’ll see you on the train?” he asks, like he’s still a little unsure, and your heartbeat flutters.

“Guess so.”

“Cool.” He gives you one last soft smile before he disappears after Hoseok. The bell sounds again when the door shuts behind him, as if to snap you back to reality.

The floating feeling in your stomach doesn’t quite dissipate even long after Jimin has left the laundromat. While you wait on your clothes, you flip to a blank page in your sketchbook and start on something new: the outline of a hand extended in mid-air, rings glinting like an offered promise.

~*~

The next week, Jimin is waiting for you on your morning subway ride, the dance bag that he usually keeps tucked between his legs set on the bench next to him. When he sees you step through the train doors at 51st, you watch him reach over to swing the bag down to its rightful place on the floor, freeing up the space. An open invitation.

You can’t help but feel a little shy as you sink down next to him and murmur your thanks. There’s something about being this close to him that just makes your mind go blank, puts you at a loss for words entirely.

To your surprise, he doesn’t try to strike up conversation either. Instead he plucks one fancy bluetooth earbud out of his ear, gives it a diplomatic swipe across the fabric of his joggers, then holds it up, pinched between his fingers in front of you.

Another invitation, you realize dumbly.

The corner of your mouth turns up as you pluck the bud out of his hand and press it into your own ear. The music that must have paused itself upon the earbud’s removal resumes, and your smile grows when Jimin quickly unlocks his phone to restart the song from the beginning.

An acoustic guitar and a light, pretty voice fill your ear, underscored by a gentle yet driving beat, not unlike the rumble of the train beneath your feet. It’s like the rest of the world fades away to nothing as you stare down at his sneakers next to your shoes, hyper-aware of the mere inch or two of space between you in this moment.

As if to prove your point, the train comes to a sharp stop, enough to make you slide a little on the bench and then you’re suddenly not just close but touching, all the way down, an unbroken line from shoulder to hip to knee.

When you look over in surprise, Jimin is already looking back at you. You swear you can feel warmth radiating out from him at every point where your bodies press together.

After another dazed moment, you come to your senses enough to scoot over, breaking the contact with an embarrassed laugh as you feel your face grow hot.

Your gaze drifts back down to the floor, only to snap up again at another brush of contact, this one not initiated by you or by the motion of the train. Instead, you realize Jimin has spread his legs an inch wider to purposefully touch his knee to yours again and leave it there. You blink softly as you look over at him, but he’s staring firmly out the window of the subway car now, smiling with just his eyes.

For the rest of the ride, you think of little else but Jimin’s knee pressed against yours and the pretty pink flush in his cheeks.

You stay in comfortable silence, music floating in your ears as you exit the train at Astor Place together, until you reach the studio, where you finally return the borrowed earbud. He smiles as he tucks them both back into the case, then pushes open the door and gestures for you to enter first.

Jimin shoots you a final look before your paths diverge, and you sink into your seat with a small, dreamy sigh. Your bliss is short-lived when you hear Taehyung’s voice over your shoulder.

“That was fast.”

You whip around to shoot him a look. “What was fast?”

He makes a face, like it’s obvious. “You’re already banging the model and it’s been, what, two weeks?”

Taehyung’s just close enough that you can lean forward and smack him on the arm, and he hisses in a way that has to be an exaggeration. Thankfully he seems to take the hint, and manages to actually keep his mouth shut as the professor commands everyone’s attention at the center of the room.

When Jimin emerges in the usual black satin, you try to keep your composure, but you can’t ignore the chill that dots up your spine when he lets the fabric fall to the floor.

Nevertheless, you sink into the routine of class, the thrill of Jimin’s naked body now equal parts familiar and exhilarating. The only difference is that today, when you’re dismissed, you make no effort to quickly pack up. You instead purposefully take your time, adding a few extra details to your last sketch before you finally start putting things away. Your gaze flickers up distractedly to see Jimin pulling his dressing gown back over his body as he moves to close the distance between you.

“Hi,” he says simply when he reaches your easel, and you smile.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, is, uh— is it okay that I talk to you, when I’m—” He gestures vaguely to his lower half with one hand, using the other to keep himself covered.

You swallow hard at the thin layer of fabric and everything you know lies beneath it. “Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, hating how breathless you sound.

“When are you done with classes today?”

It takes an extra second for you to remember your own schedule. “Uh, six.”

Jimin fidgets with the satin material in his hands, clearly a little uncomfortable. Or maybe nervous. “Would you… want to get dinner after? With me?”

Your stomach flutters as you nod. “Yeah, yes. I’d like that.”

~*~

When you emerge from your last class, you find Jimin waiting for you on Astor Place, and you’re not expecting it when he greets you with a single question: “Do you like sushi?” You answer affirmatively, and he nods over his shoulder. “Then let’s walk this way.”

You end up tucked into two seats at a place you’ve never been to before, where rolls and other plates of food zip past you on a steadily moving conveyor belt. Jimin shows you how to pop the plates out from their protective domes, and you gather a small feast of options on the table between you to share.

“So,” you start with a nervous smile, chopsticks hovering in midair. “Can I ask the obvious question?”

He quirks an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“What made you decide to nude model?” The words alone send fresh waves of heat and nerves through you, sparkling in your chest. “Or have you done it before?”

“I haven’t,” Jimin confirms with a shake of his head, then he pops a piece of sushi in his mouth as if to buy himself time. He chews, bringing a hand up as he speaks with his mouth still half-full. “Do you want the real answer?”

You nod, and his adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. There’s a look on his face like he isn’t quite sure what to say, and then he exhales a weighty sigh. “I’ve struggled with my body for a really long time. Especially in undergrad.”

Your eyes widen slightly— you weren’t expecting such a serious response.

“Dance doesn’t typically have the best culture for that to begin with,” he continues, “and I’d spend literally all day staring at myself in a mirror, so I would just… pick myself apart. Always convinced I wasn’t good enough, that I needed to lose more weight, always.”

The thought of it makes your heart ache, but you let him talk.

“I’m through the worst of it now, so please don’t feel like you need to be worried. But I have some friends who’ve done this kind of thing before and it seemed like, I don’t know, a good challenge?” His brow creases, contemplative. “I really love art, so I thought maybe if I did it, I might be able to see my body in a new way, through the eyes of other people. Of artists.” He pauses, then nods, like he’s said his piece.

It takes you a second to respond. “That’s… beautiful, Jimin.”

He looks down, clearly a little uncomfortable. “Sorry if that was too heavy.”

“I can take it,” you say softly, and it’s enough to make him glance back up in surprise. “Thank you for telling me.”

A faint color floods his face. “Thanks for listening.”

You eat in a silence that’s oddly comfortable, and when you both reach for the same piece of sushi and end up knocking chopsticks together, he lets you have it, picking up the thread of conversation again as he smiles. “What got you into art?”

You make a face, chased by an unsure shrug. “Is it bad if I say it’s the only thing I feel like I’m good at?”

Jimin laughs a little. “I don’t know that I believe you.”

“I mean,” you lean back in your seat. “Maybe not the only thing, but I’ve just never been able to see myself doing anything else. I’m not cut out for the corporate life, as much as my parents wish I was. Art’s always been the thing that I go to in my free time. When I’m feeling so much that it’s overwhelming, or so numb that it’s like I can’t feel anything, the act of creating something just… brings me back to center again.” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s an outlet, I guess.”

“Well, if it helps, you’re very good at it.”

“Thanks,” you say with a small smile. “But it’s not even about being good, at least not to me. Maybe it sounds weird, but I don’t really have any interest in being the best. It’s art, so it’s all subjective anyway. I just wanna make stuff.”

Jimin smirks as he adds another empty plate to the growing stack in front of you, tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek before he speaks. “I could stand to be more like you.”

“Your turn,” you shoot back. “Why dance?”

At this, he actually brings a hand up to cover his face, and his voice is muffled under his palm when he responds. “I can tell you exactly why, but it’s embarrassing.”

You shift a little in your chair to get a better look at him. “Don’t be embarrassed! It’s not like I—” you cut yourself off before you can very obviously finish the sentence with ‘haven’t seen your dick’, and you shove a piece of sushi in your mouth to shut yourself up, so fast you nearly choke.

Jimin laughs loudly into his hands, and then you’re laughing too, dropping your head down on the table to try and chew your food without asphyxiating.

“Okay, okay,” he gasps when he can finally manage to take a breath in. “I’ll tell you.”

He sets his chopsticks down, overly serious. “When I was little, I was obsessed with Titanic. Specifically the scene where they dance together, and Rose rises up on her toes in front of everyone.” There are practically stars in his eyes as he recounts the moment, and you can’t bear to cut him off. “I just thought she was so beautiful, and I wanted to be like that. Almost broke my toes trying to go en pointe barefoot like an idiot.”

You’re silent for a moment, and there’s a flicker of panic in Jimin’s face, like he’s worried he overshared. “I have to be honest,” you say softly. “I’ve never seen Titanic.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “What?!”

Already expecting the reaction, you grimace and nod. “I know, I know. Everyone gets mad at me for it. Go ahead.”

Jimin’s eyes flit from your face to the remaining piece of sushi on the plate between you, then back again. “I mean, we can go solve this problem right now, if you want.” He pauses, then admits with a giggle, “I have it on DVD.”

You shrug, trying to act casual despite the way your pulse has started to quicken. “They canceled my morning seminar for tomorrow, so I’m down.”

He leans forward to steal the last piece of sushi with a smug smile. “Then let’s get out of here.”

It’s a short train ride back to Jimin’s place, and you make it in the front door just in time to see Hoseok slipping out of what looks to be his bedroom. You barely process him as the same person— tonight his dark hair is swept off his forehead, and he’s in nice dress pants and a white button-down, unbuttoned just enough to display the delicate spread of his collarbone.

“Hi kids!” he calls in greeting, and you wave back as you kick your shoes off.

Hoseok crosses to grab a mirrored pair of aviators and his keys off the table by the front door. “Daddy’s going out. You two have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s waiting for a joke to land, then cracks a grin. “By which I obviously mean do whatever the fuck you want.”

As Hoseok pulls the door shut behind him, you follow Jimin into the living room, where you perch nervously on the edge of the couch while he disappears into the kitchen. “Do you like prosecco?” he asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

“Uh, I think so,” you say unsurely. “I don’t think I ever developed enough of a palette to have wine preferences.”

“White and sparkling?”

“Sounds good,” you respond, and then you hear the distinct noise of a cork popping before he returns with a bottle and two glasses in hand. He sets everything on the coffee table as he takes a seat next to you, then leans forward to fill both glasses nearly to the brim.

Jimin’s face flushes when you giggle softly at the pour. “Sorry— I like to drink. You don’t have to finish it all.” You shrug and take a healthy pull from your glass. It’s crisp and light, with little bubbles that fizz and pop all the way down. 

“Hoseok calls me a lush,” he admits with a shy laugh as he picks up his own drink and turns to face you, sitting back against the arm of the couch. You shift to mirror him, curling your socked feet up under you. He takes a sip, then seems to think better of it, leaning forward to set his glass down on the table again. “I did want to tell you something. A couple of things, I guess.”

The sentence makes your stomach twist, and you try your best to ignore it. “What’s up?”

Jimin’s lips press together for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out how to word whatever he’s about to say. “I’m not, like, trying to be presumptuous by telling you this but I just— I don’t want it to go unsaid and then come up later and be a whole big thing, so. I just want you to know that Hoseok is my ex.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but certainly not that.

“We dated freshman year of undergrad, for… maybe three months? It was the kind of thing where I knew I was bi in high school but was too scared to act on it, so when I moved to New York I just, like, dated the first gay person I met? Which was probably a little shitty of me. We quickly realized we work much better as friends, and it was a very mutual thing. No hard feelings.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up. “And you’ve lived together since then?”

“No, no,” Jimin replies quickly, and he nearly grimaces as he continues. “At the end of last semester, I, uh… I got out of a pretty bad long-term relationship.” The way he says it makes your heart sink a little. “And she and I lived together, so Hoseok was extremely gracious and offered to take me in.”

He reaches for his glass of wine again, then pauses with it halfway to his mouth. “Ideally the number of exes I’d be living with would be zero, but. You know. This is definitely the better option, at least until I can figure out what comes next.”

A pause settles between you while he takes a long drink and you try to process all this new information. “I’m sorry about the breakup,” you say softly, and he shakes his head as he swallows.

“Don’t be. It was a very good thing. Long overdue.”

“Well,” you correct yourself, the corners of your mouth pulling up. “Then I’m sorry that it took so long.”

At this, he smiles back. “Me fuckin’ too.”

After one more sip, Jimin sets his wine back down on the coffee table, then rolls off the couch— surprisingly graceful— to retrieve Titanic from the small collection of movies lined up on the shelf beneath the TV.

“Ready?”

“This better have a happy ending,” you murmur over the edge of your wine glass. Jimin laughs so hard he nearly tips over.

He settles next to you again as the movie starts, painted pretty in the blue glow of the TV, and you try your best to watch the movie, but it’s hard to keep your eyes off him. Partway through you notice him grab a pillow off the back of the couch and hug both of his arms around it, curling up small.

Cute, you can’t help but think to yourself, and you can feel heat settle in your face as you try to refocus on the story.

When you reach the dancing scene Jimin sits up a little, lips parting slightly, that same starry look in his eyes as when he explained it initially. The mental image of a younger version of him equally enraptured by the moment nearly makes your chest cave in.

The movie goes on, and you’re draining the last of your second glass of wine when out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin’s eyes go wide. Jack and Rose are closely examining a rare diamond necklace, and you don’t understand what he could be reacting to until Kate Winslet delivers her next line.

“Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.”

Your eyes go just as wide as Jimin’s, and you let out a laugh of disbelief that’s nearly a scream. “Oh my fucking god, Park Jimin! You did this on purpose!”

“I swear, I didn’t! I didn’t even think about that part until right now!” He shakes his head desperately as he gasps for air, and he doubles over with his own laughter, rolling right off the couch, arms still clutched tightly around his pillow.

“I literally cannot believe this.” You dissolve into giggles as you sink to your knees on the floor beside him, close to tears.

It takes time for you both to recover, but Jimin eventually manages to pull himself back up to sitting, shoulders still shaking slightly with laughter. He lets the pillow drop to the floor and presses both of his palms down into it as he leans towards you. “But hey, maybe that’s why I like you.”

He’s so magnetic, so beautiful, you can’t help but lean in, too. “You like me?”

There’s a warm glow of color in his cheeks, and you’re not sure if you can blame it entirely on the wine. “I do.”

Your lingering smile slowly starts to soften, and now your heart feels like it might pound out of your chest. “So what, you’re Rose and I’m Jack?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, his voice barely more than a whisper as he murmurs, “Uh-huh”. Imaginary violins swell in your head as you surge forward to close the distance and press your lips to his.

Jimin’s lips are soft and warm, and your head spins as you sit up on your knees and lean into the kiss. While his mouth moves gently against yours, his palms press to the small of your back, and the heat of his hands radiates through the thin fabric of your shirt. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, partially for balance and partially in an attempt to pull him closer to you.

He tilts his head, and you whimper against him when you feel his tongue trace delicately over your bottom lip. He returns a breathy noise back as he licks slowly into your mouth, like he’s taking his time, like he’s not in any rush.

Even though you can feel your arousal starting to build, heavy in your gut and slick between your thighs, you realize: you want him to take his time with you.

You’re surprised at the loss when he suddenly leans back, just enough to break the kiss, still keeping you held close. “Is it, um—” he clears his throat, then tries again. “I don’t… want to go any further. Than this. At least not tonight. Is that okay?”

Your eyes search his, and you’re a little breathless when you manage to get the words out. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’m good with that. With whatever you want.”

“Okay.” You exhale a laugh when he reaches over to find the remote on the coffee table and pause the movie. “I want to keep kissing you, if that’s alright.”

“Yes, please,” you murmur against his lips.

Jimin shifts a little, and you follow his lead, letting him tip you backwards onto the floor, your arms still looped around his neck, one hand now tangling in his honey blonde hair. He drops a forearm down to the carpet beside you, his other hand coming to rest at the curve of your waist, knees bracketing your hips as he covers your body with his.

He alternates between sucking on your lower lip and gentle passes of his tongue into your mouth, the hand on your waist tracing a lazy path down to your hip and back up again. Something pulled tight inside you starts to slowly unwind, blooming open as you sink into the rhythm, into him.

It’s been such a long time since you’ve just kissed someone like this, without it feeling like part of a race to get naked. And you’ve never been kissed like this in your life— so soft, so attentive. It’s enough to make you dizzy, even with your back pressed flat to the floor.

You lose track of how much time passes as you trade open-mouthed kisses on Jimin’s living room carpet, until he finally pulls away again. Still in a daze, you shift the hand in his hair to gently cup his face, not quite able to believe that he’s really real.

“God,” Jimin breathes, laughing quietly to himself. “I really like you.”

You smile as you blink up at him. “I like you too, Jimin.” 

Rolling over, he drops down onto the floor next to you with a blissed-out sigh. He stretches his arms overhead, spine arching like a cat, then lifts up again to glance back at you. “Do you want more wine? ‘Cause we’re only like halfway done. This movie is stupid long.”

“I could go for more,” you answer with a shrug, still smiling.

In one swift move, Jimin flips his legs over his head and effortlessly somersaults up to standing, and your eyes go wide. “How do you fucking do that?!”

“I’m a trained professional!” he calls over his shoulder as he sashays into the kitchen. You giggle a little. “I would break every bone in my body.”

He’s humming prettily to himself, and you hear the sound of the fridge opening and closing, followed by the pop of another bottle being uncorked. You pull yourself back onto the couch as he rejoins you and pours fresh wine into both glasses, and a sudden curiosity urges you to ask a question. “Is Titanic your favorite movie?”

Jimin shakes his head, but says nothing, and the strange hesitant expression that flashes over his face just makes you that much more intrigued.

“Let’s hear it.”

His eyes flit over to you, then back to the wine glasses. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t!” you exclaim, lifting a hand when he scrunches up his nose, doubtful. “Promise.”

With a reluctant sigh, Jimin sets the bottle back down on the table, staring straight ahead as he admits, “It’s The Notebook.”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to keep your mouth in a straight line. At least you manage not to laugh. “I— wow. Really?”

He nods like the reaction is expected, picking up his wine glass and settling back against the couch cushions. “I don’t know, there’s just something about it. It’s comforting, to me.”

“You’re such a romantic,” you murmur, gently nudging his thigh with your foot until you coax a smile out of him.

“You know what?” Jimin’s voice is thoughtful now, more self-assured. “I am.” He takes a sip of his drink before he continues. “For a long time I didn’t want to be. Or thought that I couldn’t be. I used to always try to be so. I don’t know. Masculine, I guess. I think some of it had to do with denying my sexuality, but even once I got around to accepting that, there was still this part of me that would just never allow myself to be… soft.”

His gaze drops down to the wine in his glass, and you sit up, tucking your legs underneath you to scoot closer to him until you’re side by side. “I like you soft,” you say simply, and he looks over at you, still smiling.

“If we watch The Notebook I will cry.”

“That’s okay.” You lean into him to seek a kiss, made sweet from the wine. He hums a little against your lips before you pull back. “Same time next week?”

~*~

Just like that, you fall into a regular routine with Jimin: sharing his headphones on the morning train, sketching out the shape of his body in studio, then picking up takeout and wine to bring back to his place and split over a movie. As predicted, The Notebook does make him cry, and when you show him Kimi no Na wa the week after, hot tears stream down your face at the final scene, the way they always do.

He takes your head in his hands as the credits roll, his thumbs swiping at errant tears on your cheeks. You chase a sniffle with an embarrassed laugh. “Okay. We’re even now.”

On your fourth movie night, partway into Moulin Rouge, something emboldens you when you see Jimin reach for his usual couch pillow. You lean over and gently pry it out of his grip, then shift to tuck yourself into his side and curl your legs up in his lap instead.

“Better?”

“Mm-hmm”, he murmurs as he ducks down to nuzzle against your cheek. “You’re warm.”

These nights end the same way each time: you ride the train home with a wine-soaked buzz in your brain and flushed, kiss-bitten lips, your fingertips brushing over your own mouth at the memory of his.

Once a week quickly turns into more. The two of you coordinate laundromat afternoons where you listen to music together as you wait for your clothes. You usually end up drawing to pass the time, and sometimes Jimin dozes off, head tipping over onto your shoulder so gently that you can’t help but smile down at your sketchbook.

At his request, you help him dye his hair pink in his tiny apartment bathroom, and it somehow suits him just as well as honey blonde. You both get dizzy from laughter and cleaning product fumes as you desperately try to scrub the bubblegum stains out of the tile before Hoseok comes home.

When you finally introduce Jimin to your roommates, the four of you crammed all-too formally around the kitchen table over Yoongi’s cooking, the interaction feels like a cross between a job interview and a prom date meeting your parents. You choke on a piece of chicken that you nearly inhale when Namjoon offhandedly refers to Jimin as Subway Boy, and Yoongi smiles wide enough to show his gums as he gladly recounts your months-long crush in great detail while you bury your burning face in your arms.

But Jimin takes it in stride, laughs into your mouth as he kisses you over the sink while the two of you wash the dishes.

“Subway Boy, huh?”

“I will drown you,” you murmur as you pull away, brandishing the spray hose like a threat.

It’s easy and slow. This blossoming something, a nameless but undeniable spark, the calm comfort of Jimin’s arms wrapped around your waist, his fingers intertwined with yours, his head dropped down on your shoulder.

~*~

You dig your phone out of your pocket as you shoulder open the door to the dance building, pulling up the text from Jimin to double-check his practice room number. A train delay made you slightly later than your agreed-upon time, but you know the takeout bag of Indian food dangling over your wrist will easily earn you his forgiveness.

It doesn’t surprise you that he’s the only one left in the room when you find it, nor that he’s still reviewing the choreography with an expression of severe focus. You hover in the doorway, waiting for him to look up, but he’s entirely concentrated on his own reflection in the mirror.

His movements alternate between delicate and powerful, explosive and restrained, and you have to hold in an outright gasp when he launches his body into an aerial and lands it effortlessly. But then his feet falter in a split second of hesitation, and you can see his expression tighten, clearly frustrated.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself as he rubs a hand over his face, and he doesn’t even try to keep going with the rest of the dance. You take the opportunity to step a few more paces into the room, and his eyes jump to you in the mirror.

“Hi,” you say softly, suddenly a little nervous to be intruding on the moment. The corner of Jimin’s mouth turns up, but his eyes seem far away, and you can tell he’s still raging at himself in his mind.

“Hi, sorry,” he sighs. “I just— can’t get this. It’s like my body isn’t doing what I tell it to.”

“You need food.” You try to say it gently as you cross the room, holding up the smiley-face adorned plastic takeout bag. “And perhaps the enigmatic charm of Rachel McAdams.”

This seems to shake him out of his thoughts, at least a little. “I do like her.” He steps close enough to slip his arms around your waist and pull your body flush against his. Sweat glistens on his collarbone in the dim practice room lighting. “But I like you more.”

You roll your eyes as you playfully smack a hand against his solid chest. “Stop lying.”

“‘M not,” he insists as he presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. “Rachel McAdams has never once brought me masala dosa.” You giggle despite yourself, and when his lips drop down to your neck, it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

A spark ignites in your chest that doesn’t go out, not on the subway ride back to your apartment, not through dinner and a movie, and certainly not once you’re most of the way through the second bottle of wine. As the credits start to roll, you waste no time, turning in Jimin’s lap so you can properly straddle him and take his face in your hands.

You trade decadent, easy kisses, and Jimin’s hands settle at the small of your back, his thumbs massaging gentle circles into your hips. A shiver rolls up your spine when he shifts a little and you realize you can feel a growing bulge through the fabric of his joggers, pressed firm against your thigh. He breathes a soft sound into your mouth as his tongue slides over yours, and you’re so overwhelmed, you barely register the sound of keys in the lock or the front door opening.

It’s Jimin who reacts first, turning his head to break the kiss as his cheeks flood with color, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see Yoongi storm past, heading for his room. He lifts a hand up to his face to shield you from view as he goes.

“Don’t stop on my account!” Yoongi’s voice is dripping with derision. “By all means, continue fucking on our shared furniture!”

“We’re fully clothed, asshole!” you snap in response as Yoongi slams the bedroom door behind him, hard enough that it rattles in the frame.

When you look back down at Jimin, his face is twisted in an expression you take to be embarrassment. You drop your head down on his shoulder with a frustrated groan, the moment successfully killed.

“Do you…” you pause, turning your head to the side but continuing to ask your question into the fabric of his shirt. “We could go to my room, for more privacy, if you want?”

He hums his agreement, and when you peel yourself off the couch and head for your room, he follows. You spin back around to face him in the doorway, so fast he nearly knocks into you.

You brace your hands on the doorframe as you survey him. “We really don’t have to… do anything, if you don’t want to. We can just talk.”

Jimin nods, and you step aside to let him enter first, pulling the door closed behind you as you follow. He takes a few tentative steps into the room, and you walk past him to drop down onto the floor next to your bed, then pat the carpet to encourage him to join. There’s a flash of something over his face, and then he sinks down beside you. It’s only now that you realize how quiet he’s gotten.

“What is it?” you ask, suddenly a little nervous.

He stares down at the soles of his feet, pressed into each other, his knees tipped open like butterfly wings. “Does it make you feel bad? That we’re not—”

“No,” you answer immediately, and the honesty of it resonates in your chest.

“I know we’ve been hanging out for a while,” he continues, voice low. “And I do want to, you know. Hook up.”

“Jimin,” you lean forward to place both of your hands over one of his, settled atop his knee. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. When you want to, I want to. But I like everything we’ve been doing, too. It’s not like we’re not… intimate.”

His gaze flits up from the floor to meet yours. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t want you.”

You close your fingers around his hand, pulling it off his leg and up to your face so you can brush your lips over his palm.

“I don’t think that at all,” you murmur against his skin. “Promise.”

There’s a hint of a smile in his eyes when you look back up at him. “Okay. Sorry, I know it’s stupid. Like why do I need reassurance from you when I’m the one being difficult?”

You press your cheek into the warmth of his hand, toying lazily with the rings on his fingers. “Why are you so convinced that you’re difficult?”

Jimin huffs a small sigh. “This conversation has not gone this well in the past.” His eyes drop to the floor again, and after a moment’s pause, he keeps talking.

“My ex and I struggled a lot with…” he shakes his head, as if he’s trying not to say ‘everything’. “Sex. With me wanting it, with us having enough of it. I think it gave me a complex. I could be physically, you know, ready, but then as soon as she’d touch me I’d get in my head about everything and freak out and immediately want to stop.” He pauses, worrying at his bottom lip.

You pull his hand into your lap, your fingers delicately tracing over his in an attempt to provide some comfort. He shrugs when he starts to speak again. “And then, I don’t know, I guess she was just trying to share her side, but... she would make me feel so bad about it sometimes. Because I was genuinely trying so hard but it was like I was never good enough.” Another pause, and this time he sniffs a little. When his eyes roll up to stare at the ceiling, you can see he’s holding back tears. “It felt like she didn’t want me anymore, not if there wasn’t sex. So I left.”

“Jimin,” you breathe, and he flashes you a small grimace, clearly embarrassed by his own dramatics. With a grunt of effort, he turns sideways and flops backwards onto the floor of your room, and you scoot closer to him, your hand still playing with his.

His gaze roams over the ceiling as he sighs. “I don’t want you to think I was this perfect person and she was some awful bitch. She loved me a lot, and I’m sure she was struggling with not feeling wanted either, in her own way.”

Your voice is soft when you interject. “Two people can just be… incompatible. It doesn’t mean either of them is a bad person, or that it’s anyone’s fault. Sometimes things just don’t work, no matter how hard you try.”

Jimin’s mouth pulls up on one side as he shakes his head, eyes squinting. “How did you get to be so smart?”

You can’t help but laugh a little, lacing your fingers together with his in your lap. “Years of making terrible decisions.” You give his hand a gentle squeeze before you ask a question. “Did you struggle with this before, or just with her?”

His mouth twists slightly, unsure. “Yes and no? Both? My desire has always… fluctuated, I guess. Been a little shy.” A smile spreads over his face, and he hums a note. “Like, you know how people say love at first sight isn’t a thing? That it’s just lust?” You nod, prompting him to continue. “I think, at least for me, it’s the opposite. I can fall for somebody, and fall hard, like that.” He snaps loudly with his free hand. “But lust… I don’t know, it takes longer. It’s like a slow burn thing.”

You nod again, processing his words for a moment before you respond. “Well, I’m in no rush.”

Jimin sits up, voice thoughtful as he untangles his hand from yours, and it’s clear he’s getting more comfortable opening up to you. “Right after the breakup, I did a lot of research. I found this term, demisexual, that felt pretty accurate.” He shrugs. “But I don’t know. I mostly just think that... I am who I am. And the people who get it will get it. Like you.”

Before you can even speak, he sweeps an arm under your calves to drag you into his lap in one swift move, and you squeak a little in surprise as your world tilts.

“Demisexual. I like it,” you giggle as he guides your legs to wrap around his middle. His hands slide up your thighs, grabbing at your hips to tug you closer so he can trail kisses along your neck.

“Biromantic demisexual, technically,” he murmurs, head tipping up to find your mouth again.

You drape your arms over his shoulders and hum against his lips as he kisses you. “It suits you.”

Another soft noise escapes you when Jimin manages to maneuver to standing with you still in his arms. You tighten your grip on his shoulders and your legs around his waist, and his hands shift down to your ass to firmly hold you up. You squeeze your eyes shut automatically in fear of being dropped, then flutter them open again when you feel your back press into the soft cushion of your bedspread.

Jimin is hovering over you, forearms dropped down to the bed on either side of you. His eyes search yours for a moment, and then he leans in to kiss you again, so fiercely this time that it leaves you breathless. You can’t help but whimper as his tongue slips into your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to your collarbone with a groan. “It’s late,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over your neck. “I should go.”

You nod responsibly, despite how desperately you want him to stay.

You walk him out, and his sweet parting kiss leaves your heart hammering in your chest, enough that you slump against the frame with a sigh once you shut the door, your knees suddenly weak.

Light on your feet, you follow the faint noise of the TV to find Yoongi in the living room with Planet Earth on at a barely audible volume. He glances at you, his mouth a flat line, then reaches for the remote to turn the sound up a few notches. You drop down on the couch next to him, and it’s silent for a moment, save for the calm narration and the crinkling plastic of him tearing open a bag of Turtle Chips.

“How’d it go?” he finally asks, voice monotone.

“It’s good,” you answer softly. “We’re good.” You fold your legs up under yourself and sneak a look at Yoongi out of the corner of your eye. You’re still a little pissed, but you also want advice. Damn him for knowing everything.

“Have you heard the term ‘demisexual’ before?”

Yoongi nods, still chewing as he replies. “Yeah. Like asexual spectrum, right?”

You shrug. “I guess. It’s new to me.”

He shoves a few more chips in his mouth before he continues. “Is that what your Subway Boy is?”

“I think so, yeah.”

There’s a long pause while you watch penguins march across the screen, and you think that might be the end of it. Then Yoongi clears his throat. “You know, I’m somewhere in there too. Not completely asexual, but definitely not… not.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

Yoongi snorts. “Don’t act so shocked. These walls aren’t that thick.”

“Is Joon?”

He smirks, like you’ve just told a joke. “Decidedly not.”

“Oh.” You blink, trying to process. “How do you deal with it?”

Yoongi makes a face, like he’s never thought about it before. “We just communicate, I guess. Be respectful even when we don’t necessarily understand. And, like, Namjoon watches porn, and surprisingly reads quite a bit of erotica—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off. “I don’t need all the details.”

He huffs a dry laugh at your discomfort. “It’s not always easy, sometimes it’s frustrating for both of us. But we make it work. We love each other.”

You chew a little at the inside of your cheek, and then you can’t hold in the question any longer. “Is it weird that the idea doesn’t bother me? Jimin said it was a huge issue with his ex. Like, does that make me on the… spectrum?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I mean, you might be? But not necessarily? I don’t know, sex matters different amounts to everyone. Some people don’t mind not having it that often. You don’t have to put a label on it unless you want to, you know?”

“Yeah, makes sense.” You nod slowly as you digest the idea. “Thanks, Yoongi. I appreciate the education.”

His only answer at first is a noncommittal hum, and then he points a finger at the few inches of wine in the bottle you left sitting on the coffee table. “Gonna finish that?”

“It’s all yours,” you say. “Consider it atonement for going to first base on the couch.”

Yoongi grabs the bottle by the neck and immediately drains it. “Apology accepted,” he grunts as he sets it back down. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.” He extends his bag of chips in your direction and you happily reach in for the biggest handful you can manage.

~*~

During your next movie night, Jimin can’t keep his hands to himself.

They pet up your thighs, your legs draped over his, then slide up to your hips, fingertips tracing patterns over the waistband of your leggings and toying at the hem of your shirt.

His mouth has a similar problem: he leans in to press kisses along the line of your jaw, then down the slope of your neck, sucking delicately at the spot that makes your nipples tighten and sends a shiver through you.

“You’re missing the movie,” you remark, raking a hand through his peachy-pink hair, shadowed at the roots where his natural color has started to grow in. He’s typically good about keeping himself restrained until the credits roll, but you’re barely halfway through Pride & Prejudice, haven’t even cracked a second bottle yet.

“Fuck the movie,” he growls against your skin, and you bite back a whimper when his teeth scrape over your neck. You can’t ignore the way your core is starting to ache from his insistent mouth.

His lips find yours again, and you giggle softly into him. “You’re in a mood.”

“Just been thinking about you,” he murmurs between kisses. It surprises you a little when he suddenly pulls back so he can look you in the eyes. “Should we— do you want to go to my room?”

The air hangs still and heavy between you, and you worry at your bottom lip for a moment. “Are you sure?” When he nods, dark brown eyes blinking up at you, your mouth turns up at the corner. “I’d rather we not traumatize any more roommates if we can help it.”

You lean over to pause the movie before sliding off his lap and getting to your feet, and then you reach your hands out for his and pull him up next to you. “Come on.”

Jimin’s bedroom is so perfectly him that it relaxes you, feather-soft comfort every time you step inside. His bed isn’t made, because it never is, the thick white duvet pushed down on one side where he stumbled out from beneath it this morning. He keeps it dark, blackout curtains drawn to support his night owl lifestyle, and the room is bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights he’s strung up along the ceiling. A myriad of posters and art prints and polaroids are taped to the walls, some beautiful, others sentimental— he even managed to coax you into tearing a few of his favorites out of your sketchbook. You still don’t think they’re anything special, but nevertheless, it makes your heart squeeze in your chest to see them on display with everything else. Like they belong here in this room, like you do too.

The door clicks as it shuts behind him, and then his mouth is on yours again, kissing you dizzy while he backs you up until your knees hit the edge of the bed. He guides you to lay down, and his hand slips beneath you to drag you up the bed with him as he crawls over you.

His hands come up to tug at your shirt. “Can I take this off?” he breathes.

You nod, staring up at him and not quite able to believe any of this is real. “You can do anything you want to me.” With a smile, he lifts the hem of your shirt, and you sit up a little so he can pull it the rest of the way off.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Jimin murmurs against your skin as he kisses down your neck, over your collarbones, then down between the valley of your breasts. His hands slip down to palm at your tits, squeezing gently, and he mouths at the stiff peaks of your nipples over the thin fabric of your bralette. You untangle briefly, only for as long as it takes to get the lacy thing off of you entirely and tossed over the edge of the bed.

You shiver a little as the air hits your bare skin, and then the warmth of his body covers you again, and he ducks down to close his mouth over your nipple and suck. The plush softness of his lips and the firm suction combined are enough to make your eyes roll back, and your spine arches up beneath him when he drags his tongue in a circle over the sensitive bud.

“Shit,” you groan. Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, and it feels like your only tether to reality.

It’s easy to believe it’s the waiting, the anticipation of this moment, that makes every little touch light you up like a live wire now. But something tells you it will always feel like this.

While his lips shift to your other breast, one hand slides down to cup your clothed pussy, rubbing gentle friction into your center. You circle your hips to press yourself against the flat of his palm, sighing at the brush of indirect contact and the heat that thrums through you from the pressure on your clit.

You feel Jimin’s weight shift on the mattress as he kneels next to you, and his lips find yours again at the same time his hand slips into your leggings, two fingers tracing the seam of your panties to make you whine softly. If he couldn’t tell before, he must be able to now: how wet you are, enough to drench the lacy fabric so it clings to your cunt, dripping arousal to show how badly you want him.

He’s surprisingly forceful when he tugs the damp fabric to the side, but so gentle again as he slips one finger and then a second into your tight heat. Your mouth drops open as he curls them up to rub at your g-spot, stroking into you over and over while your cunt squeezes tight around him.

Your head drops back on the pillow and you groan. “Oh, fuck, Jimin.”

You can hear how soaked your pussy is as he pumps into you, and the wet squelch of his fingers working inside you would make you shy if it didn’t feel so overwhelmingly perfect. The pleasure edges your breathing with soft sounds, and Jimin swallows them when he kisses you again.

He shifts slightly for a better angle and then you feel the heel of his palm grind down against your clit. It’s enough to make your hips buck up under him with every press of his hand, his insistent touch shooting sparks of arousal through you.

It’s been so long since anyone has touched you, and you’ve wanted this with him so badly for so long, but even still, it surprises you how quickly he can bring you to the edge.

“Jimin,” you break the kiss to gasp against his mouth, unable to believe how close you already are. Close enough that all you can do is cling, to any part of him you can reach: his hair, his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt. “Jimin, Jimin, fuck.”

“Look so fuckin’ good like this,” he groans, and he says the next part softer, like it’s just for him. “My girl looks so pretty on my fingers.”

The pace of his movements doesn’t falter, nor does the heavy weight of his palm as he ducks down to capture your nipple in his mouth again. Your pussy pulses around him, sucking him in to the last knuckle with each thrust of his hand, and your nails dig desperately into his forearm as you feel your orgasm crest.

His teeth graze lightly over the tight bud of your breast, and it’s enough. With a final whine, the arousal that’s been coiling inside you snaps, and your back arches up off the bed as you come hard on his fingers.

Jimin’s fingers keep stroking you through it, the flat of his palm rubbing rough circles against your clit again and again and again and it feels like you might never stop coming. You moan as it rolls over you, wave after wave, until his touch is so overwhelming that you have to pull your trembling thighs together, and he finally relents.

Spent, your body sinks heavy into the bed, and you can’t help the dazed giggle that flutters out as afterglow starts to bloom behind your ribs.

Jimin hovers over you, dropped down onto his forearms, full lips pressing indiscriminately to your flushed skin, all over. You snake a hand through his hair to pull his mouth up to yours, and he kisses you slow and deep.

When you break apart, you tip your forehead to his. “Can I touch you?” you ask, still a little breathless.

“Please,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours again before he pulls away with a small, embarrassed smile. “My pants hurt.”

You sit up on your knees and he does too, and you bite down on your lip as you reach for the hem of his shirt. He helps you pull it over his head, and then there he is, beautiful as ever. Familiar, yet somehow all new.

Jimin shivers and whines when your hands run across the bare skin of his chest, teasing over his soft brown nipples before starting to trace a path down to his stomach. You lean in to kiss him, and he outright groans into your mouth when your fingertips tease along the band of his boxers that peeks out over his jeans. You gently bring your palms to his hips to guide him, and he’s pliant for you, shifting backwards at your suggestion until he’s seated, leaned back against the headboard.

Your hands shake slightly as you unbutton and push down his jeans, and you hear him exhale a ragged sigh of relief. He’s so hard, you can understand why the tight denim must have been painful: his dick is still straining even now, a thick outline pressed into the fabric of his underwear, and there’s a dark patch that clings to his tip where he’s started to leak precum.

You tug his boxers down with enough force that his length smacks heavy against his stomach, and he makes a strangled noise in response, eyes squeezing shut. His hips jerk violently beneath you, and your jaw goes slack as you watch his cock twitch, and keep twitching, until a steady pool of milky gloss has leaked out over his stomach.

“Shit,” Jimin hisses as he comes practically untouched, and he gasps for air to try to speak. “Fuck fuck fuck— ‘msorry, thought I could—”

You can see him starting to spiral, can feel the panic starting to heat up inside his body, so you take his face in both of your hands. “Jimin.”

“This has never happened before— fuck, I don’t— this is so—”

“Jimin.” When you say his name again, firmer this time, he goes quiet, his eyes still shut tight. “Look at me,” you murmur, and he does, lashes slow-blinking open. “It’s okay. Okay?” Your gaze searches his, trying to convince him. “I like everything about you. Everything you do. You’re perfect.”

Clearly trying to steady his breathing, his chest shudders with effort, and you gently circle your thumb at the hinge of his jaw. He makes a soft noise as his eyelids drop shut again, his cheek pressing into your hand, letting you carry a little bit more of his weight.

It’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is unsure when he speaks. “There’s tissues… in the—”

“Can I take care of it?” you interrupt to ask, your voice low. His eyes blink open again to look at you, and a dark glint flickers there as the unsaid meaning of your question washes over him.

“Y-yeah.”

You take your time moving down the bed to settle between Jimin’s thighs, and you stare up at him, waiting for any indication that he wants you to stop or doesn’t feel comfortable. But he just swallows hard, his adam’s apple jerking in his throat, and nods.

Leaning down, you drag your tongue in steady, long strokes over the flat plane of his stomach to lick the mess up.

As you get the last of it, you’re surprised to feel his hand cup the back of your head. You don’t resist when he pulls you up for a kiss, then licks into your mouth to taste himself, the salt and slick of his cum sliding between your tongues.

When you break apart to swallow, Jimin’s voice is a whisper. “That okay?”

You nod, unable to bite back your smile. “You’re… really fucking hot.”

He smirks as he finds your lips again. “So are you.” The next kiss is sweeter, and then he pulls back. “If you want, we can keep— or I can go down— I don’t want—” He can’t finish any of his half-started thoughts, and you smile, lovingly running your palms over his thighs, back and forth. 

You want him so badly, more than anything, but you try to breathe through it. You can see the wheels spinning in his head, that self-critical flash in his eyes, the same furrow in his brow that creases when he gets frustrated with himself.

“I’m not saying no because I don’t want you,” you preface. “But I just don’t want you to feel stressed or get in your head about it. I want it to feel good, and I’m in no rush. Next time, okay?” 

His lips are still a little pouted, but he nods, and you lean in to sling your arms around his neck. “C’mere.”

You tug him down to the mattress, and your half-naked bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, hands tracing gentle patterns over bare skin as you kiss.

When you eventually end up with your cheek pressed to his chest, you listen to the sound of his heartbeat settling, his breathing evening out. You speak softly in the quiet of his room. “My roommate’s doing an exhibition on Friday. Will you come with me? I’ve been promised there will be free booze.”

Jimin tightens his grip on your waist, his voice slurring like he’s half-asleep. “Mmm, my favorite person and my favorite thing.” There’s a pause, and he sighs. “That sounded bad. Promise I'm not an alcoholic.”

“I know,” you laugh, dragging your lips over his collarbone, then grunting a little noise of frustration as reality starts to set in. “I have class early tomorrow. I should go before I fall asleep here.”

He whines his disapproval, but when you glance up you can see the fight going out of him, his eyelids starting to flutter closed. You lean up for one, two, three more kisses before you force yourself out of bed to find your bra and your shirt. “I’ll see you Friday?”

“Mmkay.” He inhales deep, like he’s coming up for air. “Text me when you make it home safe?”

“I will,” you promise, and you do.

~*~

Namjoon’s exhibition is laughably fancy for what really just ends up being a room full of gay, overdressed art students. The ridiculous finger foods disappear in minutes— all the broke grad school kids came hungry— but you and Jimin gladly hover around the table of champagne flutes instead, giggles sparkling between you like the bubbles that fizz in your glasses.

You’ve been trying to drag him away to actually take in the art, but he keeps necking his drinks. “You’re supposed to sip it, you demon!” you chide with a laugh as he does it again, picking up a fresh glass and throwing all of it back in one gulp.

He smirks slightly as he shakes his head. “It’s more fun this way. Try it.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the grin that threatens to stretch over your face in the rim of your drink before following suit. He’s not wrong: a rush of warmth creeps up your neck as you swallow, the world softening around you, and it’s made sweeter by the kiss Jimin leans in for. When he pulls back you can see his face is flushing, too.

“Come on, Mr. Park,” you murmur, your free hand intertwining with his as you set the empty glass down and retrieve another. “Take me on a tour.”

Jimin grabs another flute too and then you’re off, and he actually manages to drink this one slowly as you weave through the gallery, the click of your footsteps underscoring the gentle classical music that floats through the speakers. You lean into Jimin in comfortable silence as you take in each art piece, sipping delicately at your champagne, occasionally hooking your chin over his shoulder just for the thrill of being close to him.

“These are all beautiful,” he hums appreciatively as you stand in front of a wide, impressionist landscape, swirls of color that shift into shapes when you step far enough away, but dissolve into unidentifiable blobs of thick-textured paint up close. “Namjoon did a really good job curating.”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod, but your eyes are on Jimin and everything else pales in comparison. He’s dressed up for the occasion, tight black jeans and a white button-down with a leather jacket thrown on over top. His hair is styled, pretty pink strands pushed back off his forehead, and his asymmetrical silver earrings glimmer in the low lighting. The result is so stunning you’ve had a hard time focusing on anything but him tonight.

A thought that’s been running through your mind all evening resurfaces again as you swallow the last of your glass of champagne.

“They should put you in a gallery.” You didn’t necessarily plan to say the thought out loud, but say it you do. Jimin quirks an eyebrow and you decide to double down. “But not here. Somewhere better.”

“The Met?” he guesses, teasing.

“The Louvre,” you counter, and he outright laughs, his head tipping back.

“The Louvre?!”

“You heard me,” you giggle, your body pressed against his side. “You’re art.”

Releasing your hand, he wraps his free arm around you to pull you into his chest, the smile still lingering over his face. “And you,” he murmurs, “are drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.” Your voice is muffled slightly as you speak into his collarbone.

You tilt your head up for a kiss, and it seems to surprise both of you how quickly the atmosphere changes. It might be the more-than-several glasses of champagne to blame, or the fact that you’ve found yourselves in a corner, hidden away from the rest of the exhibition’s patrons, but the soft spark that ignites between you quickly grows into a licking flame at the touch of your lips. It’s heat-blush passion as your mouths move against each other, and you’re trying to keep quiet despite the weight of it, heavy in your core, this shared, unspoken need.

“Jimin,” you breathe into him, overwhelmed by all that he is.

He shifts, nosing at your jawline as he speaks into your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

The suggestion makes you a little unsteady on your feet, your high heels threatening to topple over, and he catches you with a hand to your waist when you falter. “Like, somewhere here?”

“Too far to go all the way home,” he purrs, the hand on your body squeezing gently. “And you look too good.”

Your head swims as he kisses you again, and he pries the empty glass out of your hand, setting it down on the nearest table with his. A hand returns to the small of your back, then slips lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your black dress. His mouth paints a smile over yours, and you grab his wrist. “Follow me.”

Stumbling your way through the gallery, trading laughs under your breath like confidants and kisses when no one is looking, you lead him back to the coat check closet at the front, thankfully left vacant by whichever freshman had been roped in to the thankless job. With a final glance over your shoulder to make sure you’re unseen, you push the door open and tug Jimin inside after you.

As soon as the coat check door closes again, he has you pressed against it, his tongue slipping hungrily into your mouth. His hands skirt up the curve of your hips as he slots a thigh between your legs, firmly pushing up the hem of your dress to grind into your clothed center.

You both freeze where you are at the sound of a moan, one that very distinctly does not come from either of you.

Jimin tries and fails to suppress a nervous laugh. Unable to make out anything in the dark, you reach your hand out, smacking aimlessly at the wall next to you until you find a lightswitch and flip it on.

“What the fu—” The man who made the noise in question flings a hand over his face at the sudden intrusive wash of fluorescents, but you’d know him from his voice alone. Kim Taehyung still has one hand gripped tight to the metal bar of a coat rack, back arched and legs spread for whoever his latest victim is, with his pants and boxers shoved down to his ankles.

Before your alcohol-soaked brain can put together a smug comment about how Taehyung needs to get his ass eaten at home like a normal human, Jimin’s voice surprises you.

“Hobi?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you realize the man on his knees, pulling his tongue off Taehyung’s rim with a look of utter confusion, is none other than Jung Hoseok. His eyes are wide as dinner plates as his head snaps up to take the two of you in.

“Jimin?!”

“Oh my god.” You start to laugh so hard your knees buckle, and Jimin has to wrap his arms around you to keep you upright. “How the fuck did you two even meet?!”

“Do we really need to have this discussion now?!” Taehyung growls, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, come on—” Jimin is collapsing into giggles himself as he fumbles for the handle behind you. He simultaneously attempts to pull you off the door so he can swing it open. “Let’s leave them to it.”

You smack the lights off again as you make your escape, Jimin’s grip still hugging tight around your waist as you laugh until your lungs nearly give out. The lobby is thankfully empty, all the attendees pressed deeper into the gallery, so you loop your arms over his shoulders as you recover and pull his mouth back down to yours, unable to stop yourself.

“Let me take you home,” you manage to say in the space between kisses. Your tongue feels heavy when you speak; his is champagne-sweet. “Joon and Yoongi will be here for a while.”

Jimin’s agreement hums, buzzing on your lips. “Wanna take the train?”

You’re grateful the subway car you stumble into is empty, because the pull of Jimin’s mouth is too magnetic to be ignored. You don’t think you could stop kissing him if you tried.

It’s practically a race back to your apartment once you emerge from the station, partially to get out of the cold night air, though you hardly feel it with Jimin’s jacket slung over your shoulders and your body flushed hot from alcohol and desire. As you climb the four flights to your walk-up, both of you giggling and gripping tight to the banister, the spiral of the stairs sends your world spinning. You feel dizzy-drunk on wine and laughter and lust alike, and maybe something more. Something you don’t have words for yet.

It takes you three tries to get your keys in the door, and when you finally manage to get it open, you kick your shoes off and make a beeline for your bedroom, dragging Jimin along after you, hand-in-hand. Thankfully he has the foresight to remember to shut the door behind you, because all you can think about is him: the rich musk of his cologne, the taste of his tongue, the warm blush of his skin under your palms.

The leather jacket hits the floor and you step over it, walking backwards as he licks into your open mouth, shameless.

You nearly fall over when you bump up against the bed and almost lose your balance, and then you reach for the buttons of his shirt at the same time he goes for your dress. The two of you laugh your frustrations against each other as your arms tangle and get in the way.

“You first!” you insist, and he relents, lets you unbutton the starched white fabric of his button-down so he can shrug out of it. Your fingers move to undo his belt and then he takes over, impressively coordinated enough to be able to kiss you while kicking his jeans the rest of the way off, stripped down now to his black boxer-briefs. He pulls your dress up over your head, and then your barely-clothed bodies press together all the way down, the ache in your core now an undeniable throb.

Jimin takes your face in his hands and kisses you again, and you slip one hand between your hips and his to palm at him, earning an appreciative hiss. You rub at him over the front of his briefs, teasing, then dip your touch beneath his waistband.

His cock hangs heavy between his legs, but he’s not quite hard yet, maybe from the cold, so you take him in your hand and start to pump. For fear of too much dry friction you try to go slow, and he groans into your mouth as you twist your wrist a little to circle your thumb over his frenulum.

He buries his face in your neck, and you can feel the heat of his embarrassment bloom against your skin. “Sorry— gimme a second.”

Tilting your head, you press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t apologize. D’you wanna try laying down?”

When he nods, you release your grip on him so he can sink down onto the bed, crawling backwards up to the pillows. Knelt down on the mattress, you settle in the space he makes for you, thighs spread and knees tipped open, and you push his briefs down enough to free all of him.

You hook your thumb and index finger under the head of his dick to pull it flush against his stomach, allowing you better access to drag your tongue in little kitten licks up his shaft. Your other hand moves to massage gently at his balls as you take his tip into your mouth and let it bulge against your cheek, let him slip against the soft wall there to make saliva pool on your tongue, sloppy on purpose.

It’s still not working, not really, and when your gaze flits up to him again, Jimin’s face is pulled into a grimace. Heat rushes up your neck, and you pull your mouth off him and immediately right yourself. You shift backwards a little on your knees as your pulse starts to race. Does he not want this? Did you misread some sign, or push him too far?

Jimin must be able to read the look in your eyes, because he groans as he presses his face into his hands. “It’s not you. Think I drank too much, I don’t— i-it feels good, I—it just—”

You’re not exactly sober yourself. The receding white noise of panic makes it hard to think, hard to know what to say. “I-it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I just—” he tries again. “I really want to do this, I don’t know why— it’s fucking embarrassing.” The blankets muffle the sound as his palms smack flat against the bed on either side of him in clear frustration. You move out from between his legs, still trying to catch up, and a muscle in his jaw jumps as he pulls his boxer-briefs back over himself.

“Jimin,” you murmur. The bed creaks when you shift to lay next to him, to tuck into his side, and you reach up to run a hand through his hair, a little sticky with the product holding it in place. An anxious, thrumming quiet settles over both of you as his eyes flutter closed.

The words finally come to you in the silence; you can only hope they’ll reach him. “I had so much fun with you tonight. That doesn’t go away.” The crease between his brows softens a little, so you keep talking. “It’s not your only chance, okay? I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.” Your free hand slips into his on the bed next to you. “And I want you with me.”

He sniffs a little, so quiet you nearly miss it, then turns in towards you. Your noses bump together and your mouth turns up at the corners as you continue. “It’s late, and I… can’t promise there isn’t more ass-eating waiting for you at home. Do you want to sleep here?”

Jimin’s eyes blink open, glassy, and then he nods.

“Come on,” you say softly, sitting up and tugging on your still-joined hands. “How about we shower?”

In the bathroom, you run the water scalding hot, and when you both step in you nudge Jimin forward to stand under it first, then press against him from behind. Your hands wrap around his waist to slide over his stomach as you tilt up to reach his ear when you speak. “This okay?”

He nods, hums a little, and you move your hands up over the whole of his body. Hard lines and soft curves, a work of art you know so well, you can see it when you close your eyes as you map his skin with your fingertips. You nuzzle into the place where his neck and shoulder meet, then press a kiss there. “I’m right here,” you say again, not even sure if he hears you.

But his head turns, and you feel one of his hands slide over yours on his chest. “Will you wash my hair?” he asks softly, and you tip forward to bring your mouth to his, convinced you’d do anything he asked of you.

It’s intimate, the way you take your time running shampoo and then conditioner through his silky pink strands, dragging your nails over his scalp and applying gentle pressure that makes him sigh prettily in response. Jimin steps further under the showerhead both times to rinse the product out, and if a few tears slip down his cheeks, they’re lost to the spray of the water where you can’t tell the difference.

But he does manage the ghost of a smile when you reach to grab your washcloth and he gets there first. “Your turn.”

Once your body and then his are scrubbed and rinsed clean, you shut the water off and grab thick, fluffy towels that you dry off and wrap up in. In the dim light of your room, you pull on an oversized t-shirt and boyshorts, then dig out a pair of sweatpants from your dresser. They’re fairly baggy on you, but they fit Jimin perfectly, and the image of him in something of yours makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest.

You run two glasses under the kitchen tap that you set out to ward off any potential hangovers, and you even manage to find a spare toothbrush for him to use. When he emerges from the bathroom again, still absentmindedly toweling his damp hair, you’re sitting on the bed with your feet tucked under you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you offer gently.

He shakes his head as he stifles a yawn. “‘Mtired. Think I just wanna sleep.”

You pat the bedspread next to you, an invitation. “Then let’s sleep.”

Under the covers, you curl up together, soft and warm from the shower, scented lavender and mint from your body wash and toothpaste. Jimin’s legs tangle with yours, an arm wrapping over your waist, and you press your cheek against the hard plane of his chest with a small sigh.

You listen as his breathing slows, each inhale a little further apart from the last, to the point where you think he’s fallen asleep. You feel yourself start to follow after him, and the last thing you hear before you’re dragged all the way down is Jimin inhaling deep, then mumbling softly into your hair. “Thank you. For everything.”

~*~

Light streams in between the cracks of the window blinds, painting warm shapes over your eyelids that gently wake you. You sigh and stretch as you slowly come all the way up from dreaming, your eyes still heavy-lidded. When you roll over with a soft grunt, you find Jimin fast asleep there, his face smushed into the pillow, one arm slung lazily over you.

The corner of your mouth pulls up, and you have to fight the urge to dot kisses all over his face, deciding to let him sleep instead. It takes some maneuvering, but you manage to roll out from under his arm without waking him and slip quietly out of bed, easing the bedroom door closed behind you.

It’s early, and the apartment is still, washed in morning gleam and the gentle hum of New York City traffic on the streets outside.

You stumble into the kitchen with a stifled yawn, swinging open the fridge and leaning down to retrieve a pack of bacon and the half-empty carton of eggs. Humming quietly to yourself, you dig a pan out and set it on the stove to heat.

Arms slide around your waist, making you jump a little before you melt back as Jimin nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You can feel his body through your t-shirt, still warm from sleep and bedsheets he must’ve only just crawled out from under.

Not quite graceful, you turn in his arms and loop yours around his neck to seek a kiss. “Good morning,” you murmur, your voice hoarse on your first spoken words of the day. “How are you feeling?”

Jimin’s mouth is still slurred from waking up when he answers. “‘Mgood. You look good.” His gaze roams down your body and back up, as if to take in your oversized shirt, your bare legs, your hair still messy from sleep. “So cute like this.”

You scrunch your nose slightly as you smile up at him. “Want breakfast?”

A heat starts to pool between your legs as his hands slide further down your back. He pushes your shirt up so he can grip your ass, the thin fabric of your underwear the only thing separating his skin from yours.

“In a bit.”

You can’t help but squeak when, in one swift move, he bends his knees and lifts you off the ground. Impulsively, your legs spread to wrap over his hips, thighs squeezing tight to hold on, and your arms cling around his neck as laughter flutters in your chest. Before you can act on the urge to bury your face in his shoulder, his mouth finds yours again, and the way he kisses you, hungry and deep, makes nothing else in the world matter.

He carries you back to bed, nudging open the door he didn’t quite close all the way with his shoulder, then using a foot to push it shut again. Your muscles unclench when he sits down with you in his lap, and you unwrap your legs from around him, your knees sinking soft into the bed.

You can’t quite shake the thoughts of the night before. “Jimin,” you start, “we don’t have to do this if you don’t—”

“Want to,” his voice is low, ragged edges from sleep. “Doing it ‘cause I want to. I want you. Do you want me?”

You nod, leaning back to look at him, your arms still twined over his neck. “More than anything.”

There’s no rush this time as he shifts backwards up the bed and you crawl over him to settle into his lap again. No tension that’s been building all night, no alcohol buzzing in your systems, no urgency. Just your bodies, half-dressed in sleep clothes, intertwining like they were made to fit together.

Your kisses are sweet and unhurried as Jimin’s hands slip beneath your oversized t-shirt, delicate fingers tracing up your waist. He cups your breasts in his palms, squeezing gently as he licks into your mouth. When he rolls a nipple between his fingers, your breath hitches, sparks of arousal shooting all the way down to your toes. A weight blossoms in your core as you reach for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head, and you shiver a little in the morning air.

“Beautiful,” Jimin says quietly, reverently, and you take his face in your hands.

“You are too,” you murmur, your eyes searching his. “So beautiful.” Your hands slip down his body as he kisses you again, your fingertips outlining the contours of his chest, gently brushing over his nipples to make him groan into your mouth.

Jimin’s hands come to rest at the curve of your hips as your mouths move together, where he teases his touch under the band of your boyshorts. He pulls back just far enough to ask, “Can I take these off?” and you nod.

You shimmy the thin fabric down your thighs, dropping onto your ass with a laugh so he can tug them the rest of the way off, one ankle at a time. As you sit up on your knees again, his hands come to grip your thighs, and he shifts lower on the bed until he’s laying flat on his back next to you.

“Wanna eat you out,” he murmurs softly.

“Yeah?” You bite down on a small smile.

He hums. “Can I— will you please, uh… sit on my face?”

You can’t help but giggle. No one has ever asked so politely. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s slow, languid, the way his full lips close delicately around your clit when you settle over him, how he alternates with lazy passes of his tongue, not unlike the way he kisses you. The pleasure pulls your spine arched and your head tips back, palms pressing flat to the bed beneath you.

“Jimin,” you gasp, “baby, feels so fucking good.”

His tongue is heavy as it drags down your folds, thick when he sinks it into your cunt to taste the slick arousal that pours out of you and drips down his chin. Your hips rock into his mouth, his nose inadvertently bumping against your clit as he licks you like he doesn’t want to waste a drop. Your walls cling tight, crammed up full of him.

With a slurp and a gasp for breath, he withdraws, his tongue made hot from being buried inside of you, trailing wet warmth as he licks back up your pussy to lap at your clit again. Your arms threaten to give out when he sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, lips pulsing an insistent rhythm that makes you moan and writhe above him.

“Jimin, Jimin.” The pleasure is decadent, thick, wine and honey, made sweeter by the beautiful boy pressed between your thighs. Emotion bubbles up inside of you to twist with your pleasure, and you tighten a hand in his rose-blush hair as you moan again, nearly a sob this time, a dam breaking.

Jimin hums against you, fingertips digging into the soft skin of your thighs, like he can tell you’re at the edge without you having to say a word, and it’s enough to send you tumbling over it.

“Oh fuck baby, yes, fuck.” Your toes curl tight over the bedsheets as your pussy flutters, throbs, gushes. Your vision whites out as you come hard enough to make your thighs shake, hard enough that your stomach muscles tremble with the effort of holding you up. Jimin’s mouth works you through it, tongue stroking flat and slow to coax pulse after pulse out of you, until everything melts into shaky aftershocks and your thighs clench around him, over-sensitive.

He pulls back when you start to squirm, lips smacking wetly on a final kiss to your pussy, and heat flushes your face at the sound of it. Your limbs feel heavy as lead as you slip off from on top of him and collapse down onto the mattress with a floaty sigh, your pulse still thudding brightly in your ears.

You’re only distantly aware of the way the bed shifts as Jimin slides down next to you. You follow his touch on instinct, turning into him when he pulls you close and presses a kiss to your hairline. Heartbeat still slamming in your chest, mind hazy with morning orgasm glow, you hum contentedly as your eyes flutter open to find him palming at a thick bulge tenting his– well, your sweatpants.

“Looks like it’s cooperating today.” Jimin’s voice is equal parts relieved and embarrassed.

With a lazy smile, you hook a finger in his waistband, tugging playfully. “What do you want to do about it?”

He laughs hoarsely. “I would love to finally fuck you, if you’ll have me.”

“I don’t want anybody else.” The thought spills out before you can worry if it’s too soon to say it, but he just smiles and leans in to kiss you.

At Jimin’s guidance, you lay back against the pillows, a couple of which he grabs to slot under your hips. “There’s condoms in the nightstand,” you say softly, and anticipation thrums in your chest, twinning with your still-racing pulse as you watch him retrieve one, then step out of his sweatpants to roll it on.

He climbs back onto the bed to hover over you, and your breaths come shallow into each other’s mouths. You kiss quietly at the precipice of this moment, like you’re afraid it might not be real, a dream you could wake up from at any second.

“Thank you.” Jimin’s low voice sends a ripple through you. “For waiting for me.”

You press a hand to his cheek, your eyes trying to take all of him in at once. “It wasn’t waiting, Jimin. Really. I’ve loved every second with you. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing.”

“I’m so glad I met you,” he murmurs.

The head of his cock teases your entrance, and you spread your thighs wider, pulling your legs up towards your chest. Still sensitive from your first orgasm, you can’t bite back the moan that spills out of you as he sinks into your tight heat with a cock thick enough to split you open. “Fuck, Jimin.”

There’s a pause when he’s pressed all the way in, his body covering yours, your hands clutching at the broad sweep of his back. He exhales a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looks down to see himself buried in you to the hilt. “God, you’re so tight. Does it hurt?”

You shake your head— you’re so soaked from his tongue and your arousal that it all just feels like melting, a pulsating heat between your legs. When he presses another kiss to your lips, he circles his hips, and you both groan at the feeling.

Jimin’s hands grip your thighs as he shifts and starts to move, starts fucking into you with long, slow strokes that make your pussy flutter, as if to urge him in deeper.

“It’s good?” he checks in again, voice tight, clearly holding himself back.

“So good, baby,” you breathe, “please fuck me.” A smirk flashes over his mouth at your manners, so polite when you ask to take it, and then he snaps his hips into you and you keen. “Fuck, please, just like that.”

He does it again and again, hands pressing down on your thighs to keep you folded up under him as he fucks you. The angle is just right for the thick head of his cock to pound into your g-spot with every stroke, and your back arches as your walls grip tight to him.

Jimin echoes your gasps with his own, swearing under his breath as you squeeze around him. He’s thrusting deep-deep now, and your hips shove up towards him for all of it, your thighs trembling as you take every inch. You’re dripping down his length every time he pulls back, wet enough to soak the sheets beneath you.

The pleasure, the pressure as he fills you up is so overwhelming that your hands reach, clinging to anything they can find. A pillow, the bedsheets, the flexing muscles in his forearms. Your moans come unabashedly now, underscored by the slap of skin on skin, the thud of the bedframe knocking into the wall. “Jimin, Jimin, baby.”

“Yeah,” he pants, choked up like he’s close. “Love it when you say my name.”

You sit up a little, folded legs shifting to wrap over his hips, and your hands come to his face to pull his mouth down to yours. His movements stutter as you kiss him breathlessly, and the brush of your tongue over his must be just enough to make him come undone. With a grunt of effort, he thrusts hard into you one final time, and his shoulders shake as he fills up the condom.

You kiss him again and again, your lips pulled into a smile against his as you tangle a hand in his hair, made messy from sleep and sex. Jimin’s body weighs heavy on top of yours as he drops his head to your shoulder, breath coming in short heat-bursts over your collarbone.

“Fuck. Been a minute.” He presses a kiss there, another to your neck, a third to your jaw. “Do you want to keep going?”

Your eyes widen at the question. “I— can you?”

A soft flush paints color in his cheeks, and he’s suddenly a little shy. “Yeah, I can. If you want. Or we can stop.”

You wrap your arms over his shoulders, your noses bumping. “I kinda felt like I was getting close again.”

He smiles. “Then let me finish what I started.” There’s a bit of shuffling as he moves to the edge of the bed to remove and tie up the used condom, then reaches for the box to retrieve another.

As he tears open the foil and rolls it on, you watch and consider all of him. This body that you know from every angle, that you’ve studied like a textbook, that holds the boy who stepped onto the subway and changed your life and made it better. This body, made to be adored, to be respected and cherished and filled up with love. This body, chosen to be shared with you, to be held by you, to be near you.

That’s all you want, you realize as he rolls over, brown eyes blinking sweetly at you. This body, and all that it holds: the darkness and the light, the pain and the beauty, the soul that so perfectly fits with yours.

“Turn over for me?” he asks softly. “I want to spoon.”

This round is easier, slower, your bodies molding together, shaky from effort and sensitivity. You twist over your shoulder, tipping your head up for a kiss that turns into a shared gasp as he presses into you again. Your walls are swollen enough to be tender, and the stretch of him, the way he fills you up entirely, makes your eyes roll back.

As he starts to grind his hips into you, his hand snakes down between your thighs before you even have to ask. You hook a leg over his to allow him better access and gasp when his cock slides even deeper into you from the new angle.

“So good,” you manage as two of his fingers work circles into your clit, matching the same slow-stroke pace. His tongue slips into your mouth, and with his cock rubbing insistently against your front wall, it doesn’t take much. Pleasure overwhelms you in a hot rush as he so easily pulls you apart again.

“Jimin.” Your voice is nearly a whisper, your walls starting to pulse. Your head tips back against his shoulder as he fucks and rubs you through it, his hums of encouragement buzzing through your body, your hips shuddering. “Baby, oh god.”

Jimin’s strokes start to falter, and then he goes still, your cunt aftershock-fluttering around him as he comes again, groaning your name.

A brush of daylight through the blinds makes your eyes heavy, and they drop closed as you lean into him and breathe through the comedown. You don’t know how long you lay there like that until his kisses pull you back earthside, dotting over your forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw. You tilt your head up and he finally finds your lips again.

With a deep grunt of post-sex effort, he rolls over, leaning off the edge of the bed to deal with the second condom. A shiver dots up your spine at the loss of his body next to yours, and you tuck into his side when he lays down again, throwing an arm over his chest to better nuzzle into the crook of his neck. The heat of his palm makes you sigh as his hand rubs gentle circles against your back.

Something cracks open inside of you, warm like his touch, like the sunlight bleeding through the window. You can feel the rapid pace of his heartbeat under your hand, and it’s everything, all of him, that makes the words rise up in your throat, undeniable.

“Jimin,” you breathe, “I l—”

A loud bang on your bedroom door makes you flinch, and you roll over with a grimace as Yoongi shouts from the other side. “If you’re finished, just so you know, you left a fucking pan on the stove. Could’ve burnt the house down while you were in there deflowering each other.”

Your jaw drops open and Jimin’s eyes go wide, and you collapse against each other in a silent rush of laughter. You’re surprised when Yoongi’s voice comes back, a little softer this time. “Also I brought some bagels back from work. If you want any, better hurry before Namjoonie eats them all.”

The charged moment has passed, and the words sink back down inside of you. Making a promise to tell him soon, you wrap yourself tighter around Jimin’s side with a smile. “What do you think?”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’ll never say no to a bagel.”

“Come on then,” you murmur, tilting up for a final hit of affection. The kiss he leaves on your lips makes your heartbeat flutter, like the shudder of a subway car.

---

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