Teenagebountyhunter - Books.gov - Tumblr Blog

I really hate the social aspect of social media (like I specifically chose a username that would turn people away so that I could read fic and lurk in the background).

But I really love how sometimes, the universe will surprise you. And months ago when I saw Violet was writing a reader-insert Soulmate AU ft. Namjoon, I reached out.

Man, what a great decision that was. I am so grateful that she shines her light on me and always invites me to participate in the community, makes me feel welcomed and loved. Vi, you are a gem, and I think you've made me weepy at least twice this week with all of the love and support you've given me.

I'm reblogging this because, yes, I did write a story, and no, it's not readily available on this website. But also (in my best Barney Stintson voice)...have you read Violet?

Can I recommend:

All I Haven't Said, a Namjoon/Reader Soulmate AU that also so brilliantly dives into choices and consequences and like healthcare ethics!!??! and just like poses so many interesting questions and expands the genre even further!!! I reviewed the first chapter a while ago, and have left a bunch of emotional comments on AO3.

What the Moon Saw, a Yoongi/Reader childhood friends to lovers AU about growing together and coming apart and figuring out if you can find your way back. Violet has many Yoongi one-shots, but this is my favorite.

Make Me, a soon-to-be-released Hoseok/Reader one-shot that I think might actually kill me. At least my obit will truthfully say that I died doing what I loved.

It Had to Be You, doesn't even exist yet (though I believe there's a little snippet on her page), and yet I am already so hype. ANOTHER SOULMATE AU, this time featuring JIN! We need more Jin soulmate AUs (and more Jin fics generally)

Hello, humans of Tumblr.

Have you read this? Have you?

If yes - Chapter 28 is here, and nothing - NOTHING - could be more important than that so drop everything and sprint to it.

If no - I understand that there is a lot to read out there, HOWEVER it's not a mere opinion, but rather an objective fact when I say that this is one of the very VERY best fics to ever exist. Read. It.

Bless you, @teenagebountyhunter for giving us Namjoon and Berry, and chapter 28 on this day of all days. You're constantly doing Namjoon-coded things, and this might be the most indigo-shaded one ever. 💜

Indigo-related rec

On this, the 1 year anniversary of Indigo's release, I would like to implore anyone/everyone to read Second Heart by RM091294 (aka the artist formerly know as ReliableMitten).

The delulu part of me likes to think Namjoon read Second Heart and then was inspired to write Closer because it is the SAME VIBE. You can feel the desire for intimacy the characters share while also feeling the chasm between them. The depictions of New York and young love and loss are beautiful; the emotions and the setting feel lived-in. Even the structure of the fic makes you think about how close (or far) the character are.

I have immense gratitude for Mittens once again sharing her time and talents with us for free. Closer still haunts me, and so does this fic. It is truly one of the best things I've read this year.

This weekend was my 3rd on-call this month, and I needed something to read. Two precious pocket pals mentioned Ryen this week, which felt like a sign from the universe to dig through my long-ago bookmarks and TBRs and fish out 3tan.

I am so dumb. So, so dumb to have sat on this for this long. Am I the last person on the planet to start reading this series? Maybe. And if I'm not, and there is still someone out there who needs to jump on the 3tan bandwagon, please let me know so I can make sure no one else makes the same mistake I did.

This story is glorious.

I just think Ryen's prose is poetry. This story hinges on the emotional connection between Yoongi and MC, and the way she describes their inner feelings as scenes play out, I'm just like, how did you paint me such a beautiful word picture? how did you figure out how to put this feeling into a phrase? It's incredible, and even more so because it's juxtaposed against dialogue that is sharper, more direct, and a lot more about vibes than emotion (YOONGI'S SUP IS A VIBE).

The characters are drawn so consistently, but also you see growth and development as the relationships evolve and more details are revealed. The smut is 🔥🔥🔥. The supporting cast is adds that extra dimension (I am deeply invested in the Taehyung/Jimin situationship). Also, and I know there are like a million tags and warnings about this, but Yoongi. Wears. Chains.

Ryen is incredible, this work is incredible, and I will wait forever and a day to find out where it goes next!

three tangerines (m) | myg

title: three tangerines pairing: yoongi x reader rating/genre: m ; smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: throughout high school, you sometimes caught glimpses of your brother’s older friends: some of them were sweet, some of them were smart. but the one closest to him? that guy was a total f*ckboy from day one. after a foray of horrid relationships spanning years - ending with one that broke up with you for an alarming reason - you needed advice on what the hell you were doing wrong… and this wasn’t a conversation for anyone sweet or smart. (loosely based off one part of “the window” by silvershine) warnings: pov switch (just one), age gap implied, cursing, dirty talk, choking, hair pulling, thigh riding, oral (m/f rec), sl*t/wh*re mentions, spanking, size kink, hand kink, pussy slapping, penetration, protected sex, rough sex, fingering, breast play, slight ass play, daechwita yoongi should be a warning in itself.. i think that’s it? he keeps the chains on so there’s that, too lmao note: this is a super late birthday present for the wonderful @sketchguk​ <3 ily, teresa and i hope you have fun with this one lololol. and thank you endlessly to @taesinferno​ @chateautae​ and @lavienjin for being angel betas! you all mean the world to me and you know i got you if you need anything in return. note 2: ALSO.. thank you all so much for the level of interest bc that taglist was popping. i did not expect that turnout (or to laugh so much at all of your answers and screams LOL) so you gave me incredible motivation to keep writing. i’m also trying something new which you will see if you get to the end. seriously, ty ty!  total word count: 12k drop date: november 16th, 2021, 7:17pm est 20/11/2021 update: also posted on ao3  04/01/2022 update: ⇥ masterlist

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When Yoongi told you he would be there if you needed anything, this isn’t what he had in mind.

Keep reading

Don’t mind me over here, casually crying about Yoongi being a rock and how life is long and life is short and that nothing matters except what we do with and for others.

Reading this was the best 10 minutes of my day.

Yoongi is a Rock

That’s it. That’s the plot. Yoongi is a rock. Enjoy! :D And Happy Halloween! This is my treat for you!

rock!Yoongi x reader :D fluff a bit of angst a lot of silliness

Word Count 1.3k

---

Yoongi is a rock, so he doesn’t have much thought. But perhaps, for a rock, his thoughts are a lot.

Yoongi is a rock, so doesn’t have ears, but he can hear, how the wind whips around his solid rock build. He doesn’t have eyes, but he can see, your smile as you climb the other rocks to be with him for a while. And he doesn’t have a mouth to protest the way you step on his surface, shoes full of dirt as you pull yourself up and lay your body down, but he doesn’t seem to mind, because you’re here with him now.

What Yoongi does have is memories, so many for a rock. He remembers the days it took for his rough edges to smooth, the water that slowly disappeared and left him all alone. Surrounded by fish and then surrounded by nothing.

He remembers the sunlight that filled the water’s absence, the heat he felt for the first time and the trees that grew around him. So many memories, he lived for days and days, not really living, but wearing away. The endlessness, the memories, alone he stayed. He didn’t mind, as a rock, the way time took parts of him away. He didn’t mind for days, until he met you.

When he first met you, you were young and free. Would tumble and play around him, all day in the breeze.

Never near him, always in the soft grassy plain or in the trees, of course you would choose to sit in the softness of the earth. It was not hard, like a rock, like Yoongi, would be.

Until one day you did choose Yoongi, climbing with your small limbs over the terrain until you reached the peak, atop the world, looking down at the sea of green, the same sights Yoongi would see.

You drew on him with chalk, a new look for the rock. He became so much more, a flower, a bee, a face, a home, a heart, your spot, it made him happy. When the rain showered down, and splattered away your heart, he went back to being a rock. But Yoongi was changed, more than he thought.

You came back and you played. And your laughter filled the wind’s silence, and your smile shone brighter than the sun, in Yoongi’s opinion, who lived much longer than you, and knew the sun’s rays much better than you.

Then when you grew a bit older, you found solace at the peak of your world, where Yoongi stayed grounded and reliable, and all yours.

At day time you’d let the sun warm your body, giving Yoongi some shade. And at night time you’d watch the stars, and tell Yoongi about your day. It was a routine, like most of Yoongi's rock life, but became something Yoongi began to look forward to, as a rock with nowhere to go. It was a routine Yoongi didn’t want to let go.

When school started, you talked about your school days, your loneliness, your bullies, and Yoongi longed to grow limbs and follow you back to teach those bullies a lesson, but Yoongi was a rock, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

You worked on your homework, pages and books splayed over and shifting in the wind, groaning over problems, sketching hearts into Yoongi instead, until dinner came and you left Yoongi again.

And Yoongi waited. Because well, as a rock, there was nothing else he could do but wait. And wait, he did. He waited for you.

He waited and watched and waited and heard, for any signs when you’d return.

And one day you brought a boy to your special place, laid down a blanket and talked to him instead of Yoongi. And that boy kissed you, and if Yoongi had a heart, it might have cracked, but his hearts were graphite and chalk, and already washed away, so Yoongi endured, listened to your laughter, happy you came back.

And one day you came running, stood high and screamed, and then cried and cried and cried, lying on your side, for you really had a heart, and in your first heartache all you wanted to do was be alone, on the top of the world, atop the place where it felt like home.

Yoongi felt your tears, it reminded him of the sea, and as you cried he thought, things are not lost forever, and one day you too will see.

And one day you came dancing, your dress blowing in the breeze, and sat again and told him about your life like the days when you were young and Yoongi thought, in all the years he lived as rock, and all the things he’d seen, you were by far the most beautiful creature in the world to him.

You were his rock. His connection to something more than wind and grass and trees, you were a piece of humanity that Yoongi yearned to see.

And one day, it was not you who came, but men in yellow hats and thick boots and metal in their hands. They came back again and again, with larger tools and metal machinery and more and more, and the grass and trees you loved so much were cut down and destroyed, but not Yoongi.

And when you finally came back to Yoongi, eyes filled with shock, you questioned and pleaded with the men to stop, but they had a job to do, and laughed at you, and Yoongi stayed, full of pain at your hurt, and wished he was a man too, so he could protect you.

When the men had gone, you snuck back in, and watched the stars, fearing it will be your last, and wished you were a rock, so you didn’t have to go back. And you told Yoongi about your life with tears in your eyes, and you told him how you missed this place, and wished for things to change. You wished you had come back sooner, protected this place instead.

You stayed all night, looking at the stars, you stayed until you fell asleep, and woke up to machinery and men telling you to leave. Yoongi heard the grinding gears and your cries telling them to stop, and he felt the ground beneath him shake, and everything lifting up.

He wished he could tell you not to cry, not to worry, that it will be alright. Yoongi lived as a rock for years and years, becoming less and less, until you came and made him whole and left him with no regret.

And when Yoongi cracked he thought of you, and when Yoongi broke he thought of you, and when he scattered and turned to sand what was left of him was you.

---

---

“Hey sleepy head. You sleep like a rock.”

Yoongi woke up to your lazy kisses against his cheek. He shuddered awake, eyes adjusting to the sunlight filling your bedroom.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” his voice gruff from sleep, “I just had a strange dream.”

“Hmm okay.” You yawn and hold him closer. “What did you want to do today?”

Yoongi grunts, his fingers finding yours, interlacing them together. “A picnic?”

“Really?” Yoongi smiles at the excitement in your voice, pulling you closer, laying kisses on your forehead, breathing in deep.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

---

[Now go listen to the Audio Ver. by @voice-over-ff ]

Ever read The Giving Tree? I haven’t read it in so long but it’s a story that I still think about decades later, this is somewhat inspired by it. I am very proud of this silly story, so I am going to log off and try not to take it personally if this doesn’t get a lot of notes lol, but know if you do choose to show your love, it touches me deeply.

So I originally intended this to be a drabble for my story HOAL, you may or may not choose to view it as part of HOAL universe, set in a future we have not gotten to yet in the story lol. <3

I am so late to this party, but man am I glad I made it. This loose retelling of my spring semester freshman year amazing story is SO funny and SO unhinged I could not put it down. The joke/pop culture reference density is high, and I'm so glad I read this while alone because I squealed in delight and laughed out loud more times than I can count.

JK is a menace. OC is also a menace. This supporting cast- so many menaces!! (TAEHYUNG, ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I AM DEAD). OT7 each have very strong, unique voices, and I loved the cameos from other idols throughout.

The general fraternity antics had me rolling. Particularly the very fun mentions of backstory/side plots (the flamingo! pooping in the dishwasher! jello wrestling!). Idk if nostalgic is the right feeling, but it all rang very true to my own experience in this world and was extremely hilarious.

Somehow, between all the silliness, is a very sweet developing central relationship with, like, actual emotional stakes. Even when JK and OC are at odds or being ridiculous, I was still rooting for them. Their rollercoaster is by no means going to rip your heart to shreds, but their relationship has the perfect amount of tension, conflict, and growth. There are also some really genuine friendships that hold everything together, and I loved seeing Namjoon and OC support each other.

Ashley is a genius, and this story was everything I wanted and more.

summary⇢ what’s a girl to do when her sweet, innocent baby lab partner isn’t quite so sweet and innocent? well, he’s a grown-ass man, and you’re about to learn that the hard way. pairing⇢ jungkook/reader word count⇢ 97.1k  rating⇢ 18+ genre⇢ smut | humor | college!au | fuckboi!au | fratboy!au

↳one

↳two

↳three

↳four

↳five

↳six

↳seven

↳eight

↳nine

↳bonus: hoe chronicles 🤪💦

✨series playlist✨

☁️ MJ's swiftie drabbles ☁️

key: ☁️ fluff | 🌑 angst | 🌟 smut

note: requests are now closed!

completed:

peace ☁️ 🌑 | knj → Would it be enough, if he could never give you peace?

hoax 🌑 | kth → The blue glows brighter, and it’s the only shade you ever want to see: the color of ice, reflecting the sky.

coming soon:

delicate 🌑 🌟 | knj champagne problems 🌑 | jjk question...? 🌑 🌟 | pjm wildest dreams | myg all of the girls you've loved before | ksj enchanted | ksj i knew you were trouble | jjk back to december | ksj sweet nothing | myg come back, be here | myg this love | ksj gold rush | myg cardigan | myg

“Does it matter why Lot’s wife looked back? She looked back because she loved her daughters. She looked back because she loved her home. She looked back because she loved the past. She looked back because she loved the world. Remember Lot’s wife: it’s intended as a warning, but I have adopted it as a creed. When the world burns, I will fill my eyes with as much of it as I possibly can. I can think of no greater honor than to remain on the earth. You are worth turning around for. You are worth transformation. You are the heat that lights the match that lights the hearth that warms me. You are everything.”

— Amelia K., “I: Vision - Eurydice, Mangan’s Sister, & Lot’s Wife”

Violet, I adore you. Thank you for always encouraging me to engage on this hellsite and inviting into the community.

My WIPs are:

Copy of CPEU 2022 ch. 28 (this is Bloom, but when I first started writing I was like "what if my partner sees?" so I gave it a boring document name and kept the naming convention going for a while)

CPEU 2023

Keep Driving

On Service

Set me Free

SUPER! ch. 2

THIS ONE Summer Camp CPEU 2023

Ask me a question! Or don't! You do you!

WIP - Title Game

Thanks @theharrowing for the tag!!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous they are. let people send you an ask 📬 with any titles most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

AIHS Ch3: My windows ache

BM Ch1: A return

The Bodyguard: FUCK YOU KEVIN COSTNER, CHANGBIN IS HOTTER (yes, that is the actual title of this outline, lol)

What the Moon Saw (actually done but I haven't dropped it yet)

It Had to Be You

Thunder and Pineapple Rum

The House Noona

A Madness Most Discreet

Catch a Falling Star

The fics in italics are non-BTS fics, but multis or other interested parties, please feel free to ask about them!!

tagging: I have too irresponsible a number of wip's to tag someone for every one. I'm sure some of these are going to be double tags, so my apologies in advance, and as always, no pressure!! @borahae-k, @teenagebountyhunter, @reliablemitten @the-boy-meets-evil @gimmethatagustd (@orchidyoonkook I know you are a one-project-at-a-time kind of gal, but I'll tag you in case you have anything you're working on that you'd like to share) 💕

!!!!!!!

my goal on this bitch of an earth is to make people happy and make art that sucks

Violet, you are going to keep my TBR list full with all these future projects!

Here are all the current WIPs. Idk if you could really call most of them WIPs- mostly, these are open google docs where I jot notes down after I see a writing prompt I like, but who knows what they'll become:

Copy of CPEU 2022 (lol this is Bloom, ch. 1-27 on AO3)

CPEU 2023 (Bloom follow-up, should I ever finish Bloom, feat. MYG)

THIS ONE Summer Camp 2023 CPEU (unrelated to the above works, feat. KNJ)

On Service (my head cannon of "what if Bangtan were doctors")

SUPER! (based on this prompt, ch. 1 on AO3)

Keep Driving (based on this prompt feat KNJ)

Set me Free (based on this prompt)

Multiverse Manager

,

WIP Ask Meme

RULES: Post the names of the files of any WIP folder you feel like sharing; it doesn’t matter how non-descriptive or ridiculous it is. Let people send you asks with the title(s) that intrigue them, and then post a snippet or tell them something about it. 

I’ll start, shall I?

Tagging: @akirakurusuimagines, @dragonsinkwell, @aunclassynerd, @askkrisachan. 

Today, I was a totally normal human being and cried a little when I saw that not only had all my dreams come true and that another soulmate fic a la Never Let Me Go/Love at First Touch/Turbulence had been posted, but also that Violet said something incredibly nice about my story.

And then I cried a little more when the story was like "and Namjoon has Stage IV liver cancer."

I am SO EXCITED for this. Chapter 1, and we're already out here thinking about choices and free will and relationship between soul bonds and health how bonded pairs work romantically vs. platonically and the mishandling of personal health information and and and !!!!! I feel like this work is going to ask and answer a lot of questions that other touch soul bond fics haven't explored yet, and I can't wait to see the unique perspective Violet brings to it all!

All I Haven't Said | Namjoon/Reader

Pairing: Namjoon/Reader (afab)

Genre: Soulmate AU; idol AU; chapter fic; strangers to lovers; a bit of idiots to lovers, tbh; slow burn; eventual romance; eventual smut; angst (life is messy & hearts are complex); OT7 featured

Summary: You found your soulmate - or rather, he found you. Turns out he's a very rich and powerful man who needs you for very real and unglamorous reasons. What could become of two hearts so used to giving of themselves when they are confronted with needing each other?

Warnings: 18+ (minors, dni), realistic depictions of cancer and cancer treatment; mention of unfeatured character death (previous to plot); emotional health growth and development; eventual smut; feelings and dealing with feelings (no, but seriously, so many feelings)

Author's Note: First and foremost - Blame Me chapter 1 will still be tentatively dropping by the end of the week. However, this just literally wrote itself last night after a couple of drinks and several streams of Lonely 💔. It was the thing that just poured out of me and could not be stopped. It's been simmering in the back of my brain for a while, and so, now that it's out here, I'm going to be posting it in tandem with Blame Me, probably on alternate weeks (if I can manage it, 😅). I want to give credit to those whose works I have read which have come to set the stage for my concept of the soulmate au, and who are far my betters in creative artistry: Matchy, author of balls-to-the-walls masterpiece Trip No Further, Fallencairns, author of lovely work of art Turbulence, and @teenagebountyhunter , to whom I dedicate this work 💜 the author of the ineffably beautiful Namjoon soulmate fic Bloom (RUN to read this immediately) - the inspiration for what is to humbly follow below. If you're checking this out, thanks a million for reading, and please don't be shy in offering feedback should you be so inclined! (Baby fic writer here, constructive criticism always welcome!)

Without further ado, chapter one is under the cut.

P.S. Tag list is open. If you want in, let me know. 😊

P.P.S. In case no one has told you today, you're loved and worthy of love. 🧜💜

“When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight? Why did they stop at my lips, so suddenly, why do I know them, as if once before, I have touched them, as if, before being, they traveled my forehead, my waist?”

~ Pablo Neruda

Chapter 1: The Cure

Diana dipped another three fries in ketchup and popped them into her mouth.

"So, what do you need to talk about that has you desperate enough to buy me lunch?" She smiled smugly and sipped and her milkshake. You hadn't touched the burger in front of you, even if you probably should be absolutely relishing in it, considering your future prospects. You picked up a sweet potato fry and stared at it absently.

"I found my soulmate," you stated flatly. Diana's jaw dropped mid-chew, unpleasantly framing the masticated remains of a mouthful of turkey club.

"Wait, are you serious?" she pressed, round hazel eyes wide and unblinking. You dipped the fry down into the little cup of ranch and swirled it around slowly.

"Actually, he found me. Well, his people found me," you continued. 

"Huh? So is he some kind of a big deal - wait...they found you? What does that even mean? Wait, no - you have a soulmate?!" You smiled ruefully. It was kind of nice to see someone else freaking out about it for a change. You had known your little sister would react strongly, which is why you had waited until now give her the news. "Y/n, ANSWERS," Diana demanded leaning forward to flick your forehead. 

"Ow!" you protested, rubbing the throbbing spot on your brow. "Keep your pants on, geez!" You sighed. After having relayed this story to your mom, your doctor, a specialist, legal advisory, your best friend, your brother and his wife, and your very disappointed boss, you had gotten pretty good telling it. Yet, somehow, each time the burden of it's truth felt a little heavier. You ate the fry. It was pretty good. You wished it had sucked so it wouldn't be one more edible thing you missed the prospect of.

"So apparently, a couple of years ago a university in Switzerland found a way to match soulmates using DNA testing. Don't ask me about the exact science of it - I do not understand it. What I do know is that it's illegal to use this technology to locate your soulmate in the US."

"Why?" Diana had abandoned her food and was listening with rapt attention.

"Something about privacy rights. Though they've dealt with that issue in Switzerland - people interested in finding their soulmates join a biological registry. I'm sure our government is just waiting to find a way that big pharma can exploit it before they facilitate the process. Anyway, somehow, I ended up in a foreign registry. I guess there is a black market for soulmate data..."

"Oh my god, could I be on the black market?" Diana gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth.

"I guess anyone could, provided they've ever been treated at a hospital, or given blood, or anything of the sort...but calm down! It doesn't even matter unless you have a match, which is rare."

"So he found you on the black market?! That's so fucking sketchy, Y/n."

"It was his company, actually. I got a visit from representatives of an organization called Hybe. They are some kind of South Korean entertainment conglomerate. One of their employees, a musician, is dying of cancer. Seeing if he had a soulmate was a last-ditch effort to save his life. Now everything is banking on me and my cooperation." You flicked your eyes up to your sister. Her expression had morphed into something far more somber.

"Heavy..." she whispered. You nodded. "What are you gonna do?" You took a bite of your burger. She wasn't going to like your answer. Diana's face changed again, this time registering alarm and indignation. "No," she murmured, "No, Y/n. You're just gonna do it, aren't you? You're gonna go be the fucking hero! You're going to traipse off to Korea and save his sketchy, ungrateful ass!" She stood up, her chair screeching back over the concrete and drawing the attention of other diners on the patio. You glanced around apologetically.

"Diana, sit down! And how do you know if he's grateful or not?!" you hissed.

"No!" she countered defiantly, yanking her hand away from where you had reached for it. "You always do this! You never, ever think of yourself. And now you'll be gone forever...is this even safe?" Tears had started to well up in her eyes, and the glances around you had turned into stares and whispers. You stood up and pulled her into a hug.

"Hey, hey, it's okay! Lets get out of here and I can answer all of your questions, alright?" She sniffled.

"Okay. But you're not leaving me." You smiled and huffed out a laugh pulling her toward the parking lot.

You had anticipated that Diana would disapprove of your decision, and it being as difficult a situation as it was, you had decided to make all the arrangements and choices necessary before telling her. She loved you so fiercely, she would have watched the world burn before letting you break a nail, if she could help it. After your father's death nearly twenty years ago, you had become protector and provider to Diana and your younger brother Henry, three years her senior, in ways your sensitive and unworldly mother seemed unequipped to shoulder. If they had both not been so established and secure in the trajectory of their adult lives, you would have made it clear to Hybe that you regrettably had nonnegotiable responsibilities right where you were. But Henry was settled into a suburb with a lovely wife and year-old daughter, Diana was set to finish undergrad and head off to nursing school, and the deal with Hybe had actually allowed you to leverage for your Mom's retirement, so you were boarding a flight to Korea next week to take on a new set of cares and concerns.

You tossed your keys on the table on your way into your apartment and collapsed onto your comfy red couch. While Diana rooted around your fridge and loudly complained about the lack of hard seltzer, you sorted through the mail and made a mental note to add a forwarding address on a few of your accounts and subscriptions, including the one supplying you with Nightwing comics. You set the mail aside and took a moment to look around you. You loved your little apartment. The kitchen was small, but the big window with the spider plant hanging in it made it one of your favorite rooms - the herb garden on the counter and the fully stocked bar above the fridge did nothing to make you like it any less. The earthy brown walls of the living space were littered with shelves full of candles and living plants and quirky curios, and in and amongst them hung framed watercolors of flowers and herbs that you had painted yourself. The record player sat at the ready in the corner by the wall dedicated almost exclusively to books and vinyl. There was a small tv over the stone-lined fireplace. Over your shoulder your soft, queen sized bed with sheer canopy cozily called your named from the single bedroom. The whole place smelled like citrus and cinnamon. In every corner, there was you. It was going to be hard to leave the hobbit hole you had so lovingly curated for yourself over the last half-a-decade...especially since you wouldn't be going "there and back again", but just...there. Diana plopped down next to you,  breaking your reverie.

"So, you're NOT going, but tell me about the huge mistake you ALMOST made," Diana prompted as she side-eyed you, taking a sip of the wine she had poured herself. You set the comic book you had been thumbing through aside and drew your knees up to your chest as you swiveled to face her impatient stare.

"Last week, a these three people showed up at my door, two men and a woman, and they said they were from a company called Hybe based in South Korea. One of their employees, a singer named Kim Namjoon, has stage 4 liver cancer. I guess they caught it pretty late in the game, so even the most aggressive treatments aren't doing much good. Back in April the doctor gave him two months to live."

"Damn," Diana interjected softly.

"Yeah, that's why all of this is happening so fast. He needs me as soon as I can get there."

"We need you, too," she whispered, reaching out to loop her finger into the top of your sock. You smiled affectionately.

"I know, Di, but you're a grown woman now and you can take care of yourself. You're going to have to and I know you can. Life really won't be that different - you'll be off to school in San Diego anyway! Most of our hangouts were going to be over Facetime...now you'll just have an excuse for a little international travel." She heaved a stuttering sigh.

"Speaking of travel...Johnny broke up with me," she mumbled. Your mouth hung open in shock.

"Oh my god, Di, I'm so sorry! Why didn't you tell me?" She downed her remaining wine and stared into the empty glass, twirling it between her fingers.

"I was gonna, but when I told mom last week she said to wait to talk to you about it because you were dealing with something stressful. Now I know what she meant." You shook your head.

"Ugh, Mom..." Your sweet, nonconfrontational mother, while you loved her deeply, was a horrible communicator. Whenever she got involved things like this always ended up worse. You looked at your sister twiddling with her wine glass. She looked so small. And Diana, while she exuded many things, very rarely seemed diminutive. You grabbed her and pulled her to you, and she instantly snuggled into your chest. "I'm sorry you've had to hold that in all this time," You said softly, stroking her hair, "You really could have told me. How are you doing? Was it bad?" She shook her head against you.

"Nah, it wasn't so bad. He's going to travel before starting grad school and wants to 'sow some wild oats'," she answered, flashing air quotes. You couldn't see her face, but the acerbic nature of her tone told you just exactly what she thought of that concept. You snickered. Atta' girl. You'd never liked that guy much, anyway.

"What an asshole," you remarked.

"Yeah, he better not hit me up in a couple of months when he's done fucking his way through Europe."

"Fuuuuuck that," you commiserated. 

"Yeah, so I thought this summer would be our last hurrah. You know, no guys, just you and me...like old times" Diana mumbled in a voice that was all sulking and bottom lip. 

"Ahhh," you said with a smile, "So that's why you are so disappointed. Well, we still have a few days - we can make the most of them!" Diana lifted her head from your chest and glared up at you.

"Boys ruin everything!" She whined. You smirked softly.

"Usually I would agree with you, but the one I'm leaving for seems kind of decent, actually." Diana frowned.

"How do you know? Did he call you or something? Wait, you never finished telling me your story!" You hummed in assent.

"I mean, there's not much more to tell. I agreed to move out there to bond with him and begin treatment. I signed a really basic contract that will be revised when he is well enough to think about the future - or in a year, whichever comes first. They were pretty quick to meet my terms, I guess they didn't really have much choice since I was the one holding the all the cards."

"What does any of that have to do with him being a good guy?"

"Oh," you blinked, "It doesn't. You see, when they met with me they talked a lot about him. It was almost like a job interview or something. They talked about his accomplishments, his net worth, the importance of his work, and his worthiness as a person. One of the guys was actually one of his bandmates, and he had come specifically as a character reference. They had initially wanted me to sign the contract right there and then - and let me tell you, that kid they brought with them almost convinced me with his giant puppy eyes alone - but in the end I had asked for forty-eight hours to consult legal advisory and think it over. The first thing I did when they left was look him up. You actually probably already know who he is - I think I might have been the only person in the world who didn't. Have you ever heard of BTS?" Diana jumped back like she'd been stung, clutching her chest.

"Are you about to tell me that your soulmate is a member of the biggest band in the world?" she whispered, her eyes impossibly wide. You smirked. 

"Not just a member, Di...their leader." Diana shrieked, leaping up off the couch.

"RM??? Your soulmate is RM???" You sister stared at you, agape, while you threw your hands up in indignation.

"I was the only person!"

"Oh my god..." Diana staggered back, demeanor having deviated sharply from disapproval to elation, "My roommate is obsessed with them! She has all these posters - but her favorite, I'm sorry, her bias, is Suga...holy shit, I can't WAIT to tell her she's gonna-"

"Diana," you interrupted her firmly, and her eyes shot up to you.

"Yeah?"

"You can't tell anyone." Her face fell as she leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace. Clearly this was going to be even more of an emotional roller-coaster for her than it was for you, you thought in amusement. Typical.

"Everyone who I tell has to sign a gag order. You included." Diana slid down the wall into a slump and knocked her head back.

"This situation keeps harshing my vibes, dude," she whined.

"Well, I'm exceedingly sorry about your vibes, but I'm sure they'll recover," you rejoined sardonically.

"But woah, Y/n, your boyfriend is hot. And rich. And super famous. Your wedding is going to be fucking LIT..." 

"Woah, Nellie!" You cut her off, waving your hands as if you usher her train of thought into the landing strip of sanity.  "Slow. Down. Wedding?? What happened to 'sketchy, ungrateful ass'?! He is NOT my boyfriend. He's supposedly my soulmate. According to some Swiss pseudoscience. We haven't even bonded yet. And if we do in fact bond, that doesn't mean we're a couple." Diana popped her head up and fixed you with the most incredulous of stares.

"Um, excuse me...soulmates have to touch each other to survive. And I heard that the soulmate connection is better than sex. You're telling me you have the opportunity, nay, the duty, to be up in the business of one of the sexiest men alive, and you're just gonna platonically kick it for the next seventy years?" You rolled your eyes.

"I mean, if that's what he wants - if that's what I want. Soulmates doesn't automatically equate lovers. I've been reading about people's experiences and there are some soulmates who bond platonically. Some people are already with romantic partners when they meet. Some don't share a sexual orientation that makes them compatible as lovers..."

"Oh my god, Y/n, could you please not kill the sexy by going all nerd on this?" She asked you in exasperation as her finger swiped at her phone screen. Suddenly she shoved the phone out toward you, while tapping frantically with a neon yellow acrylic nail on the image she had summoned. She was saying something humorous and complaintive but you weren't listening. You were looking at the man in the photo. You hadn't seen this one in your superficial search-engine dives. It was a headshot. His hair was a light brown, full at the top and styled away from his face. His skin was darker than in many of the other images you had seen, emanating a beautiful golden glow. He was smiling just enough for his right dimple to softly grace his cheek. He features were strong, masculine, and incredibly handsome. All of that was already striking, but his eyes, oh, his eyes - they were staring directly at the camera, irises only half visible under his lidded gaze, warm and sincere, so incredibly intense. The hair stood up on the back of your neck and your breath caught in your chest in spite of you. You closed your eyes and sucked in a breath. You needed to calm down. He was just a person. Good looking? Yes. Charismatic? Obviously. But you had a job to do, and no time to screw around with schoolgirl daydreams. He probably had a girlfriend. No, definitely, he definitely had one. And hey, he was just a person, like you. No need to be star struck...Diana had been continuing her rant, completely unaware of being ignored, when she had let out a high pitched squeal of laughter. "Oh my god...oh my god!" She shrieked.

"What?" You snapped, your hormone-wrestling train of thought cut off abruptly. She stared at you, lips pressed together as if she was trying to contain more loud giggles.

"What??" You demanded impatiently, your limit for her antics very swiftly approaching.

"RM. K-pop superstar, probably one of the coolest people ever born, gets YOUR dorky ass as a soulmate, HAH!" "Hey!" you deflated, unimpressed with what she considered to be so vastly comical.

"Oh that poor man!" she pushed dramatically, "That poor, poor man. You're the least graceful, geekiest person in the western hemisphere. What will you even talk about? Good thing you don't speak Korean, you'd probably bore him to death! Shit, at least you're pretty..." You folded your arms over your chest defensively.

"Hilarious. But actually, he's fluent in English. And I read somewhere that he likes art..."

"Y/n, he's rich," she interrupted condescendingly, "All rich people like art. It's a huge flex to own an original. If I was a billionaire I'd 'like art' too. Oh my god, I just can't believe this is happening. Like he's crazy famous..."

"And very, very sick," you reminded her softly. Her expression fell into something contrite.

"Oh, shit, I forgot," she murmured.

"I'm glad you're excited for me, Di. It really made me feel a lot better about the whole situation seeing you get some kind of joy out of it. But I can't stress enough that this isn't a fairytale. Who knows how he feels about resorting to this. I guarantee you this is as hard for him as it is for me."

Diana crossed over to the couch and skooched in next to you.

"All jokes aside, he's lucky to have you, Y/n. You love at a thousand percent. Even if you guys just end up being soul-buddies, or whatever, he hit the jackpot," she smiled at you, that sweet smile that made you rethink everything for one split second. Now it was your turn to try to hold back tears. "I'm gonna miss you," she murmured, "But I respect what you're doing."

"Now that he's famous?" You prodded with a teasing smile.

"Yeah, now that he's famous," she conceded. You pulled her into a hug. The silence that hung around you was pregnant but comfortable. Diana finally broke it with a soft question.

"So you're really going to give your whole life away for a total stranger next week?" she whispered.

"Mmhm," you hummed somberly into her hair.

"Why you always gotta be like Dad?" A familiar lump began to form in your throat, but you swallowed it back. You always did. And Diana fell asleep in your lap one last time. You stroked her hair as you thought back, rather emotionally exhausted, over your conversation. It seemed like people thought of the soulmate connection as some kind of miracle. You didn't believe in those. People made choices, and those choices governed reality. You had just made the biggest choice of your life, and if it was like any of the other roads you had taken, it would require much of you. 

***************************

The following day was your last at work. Your coworkers had greeted you with pizza, cake, flowers, and hugs. It was touching to realize how much you would be missed. Your boss, Shauna, hovered as you gathered you belongings from your desk. 

"Damn it to hell, I'm gonna miss you!" She mourned for the umpteenth time. You smiled as you tucked your little philodendron into the box, placing it next to the canvas speckled with daisies that read "You Matter" in curly green letters. 

"You have an amazing team here, you guys will do great," you insisted, patting her hand where she leaned on your desk.

"Um, a great team of people you trained!" she said, consoling herself with a swipe of frosting from what had once been a beautiful red velvet cake with white buttercream. You leaned beside her on the desk, joining her in sadly picking at the dessert remains. After you had graduated with your degree in social work, you had landed an internship in a program which Shauna was running. The two of you quickly discovered you had similar passions and community goals, and the following year had left the program to start Magnolia Village, a one-stop shop for women's services sadly unprecedented in your area. While the startup had been rough, your passionate duo had believed in the need and refused to say die, and from your mutual blood, sweat, and tears had blossomed a cornerstone of the local community. Over the years it had grown and extended its reach to thousands in need of support. Many of the staff were women who had first come through the door seeking services, and were now your partners in providing the aid they had found empowering in their hour of need. You were immensely proud of what the two of you had built, but leaving the Village was bittersweet, as you were more confident than ever that it had grown into a well-oiled machine powered by lovely, capable people who could keep it going at full tilt without you.

"This place basically built itself, we just propped up the scaffolding," you remarked, glancing around the building fondly - what had once been a residential fixer-upper was now a cozy space of offices, a nurse's station, six emergency beds, sanitation services, and a food pantry

"Bitch, you know very well that I am the bulldozer and you are the heart and soul of this place. We are going to feel it when you leave. You better come back and visit us. Mirabell is going to do a good job filling your shoes, though. Watching her step up to the plate has been something else." 

"It has" you nodded, "She's going to kick ass. You might just forget I was ever here by the end of next week." Shauna turned uncharacteristically tearful eyes toward you.

"I will never forget you," she choked. Then suddenly you were being crushed in a bear hug. You returned her embrace until you thought you might actually pass out from lack of oxygen.

"Okay, I love you, but I'm about to asphyxiate!" you wheezed, slapping her on the shoulder.

She let you go, but grabbed your arm and looked at you seriously. "I want you to promise me one thing," she said, holding your gaze. You cocked your head to the side. Shauna released your arm to clasp both your hands in hers. "I want you to promise me that when you get to Korea, you find something that you're gonna do for yourself." You started to respond but she stopped you. "Something for yourself. It doesn't matter what it is, but it can't be for your soulmate, or your family, or anyone else however deserving...just you, okay?" You looked at her quizzically.

"I do stuff for me..." 

"Don't get swallowed up, baby girl. Find someone to ground you, to remind you that you're worth more than what you have to offer." You scoffed.

"I'd like to see someone try and swallow me..."

"Y/n,"

"What?"

"Promise me."

"Okay," you nodded, "I promise."

Shauna squeezed your hands, then went back to chipping away at the mass of red crumbs and buttercream.

A little twinge of worry twisted in the pit of your stomach. You were strong. Resilient. No one could bounce back like you, could survive like you. People knew this - they had been telling you so since you were ten years old. So why was everyone acting like you were being cast out to sea without a life preserver? 

*****************************

You had spent the weekend with your family. Henry and Mercedes had even driven down, Elena in tow, to have one last Sunday dinner and see you off to the airport. Hugs and tears and small parting gifts had made leaving even harder than you had imagined. When you finally boarded the plane your eyes were red and your head was throbbing. After the plane had gained enough altitude to allow you to unfasten your seat-belt, you had slipped into the restroom to rinse your face. You returned, plopping down next to the man who would accompany you during your first few days of transition.

"I'm getting booze when they wheel it by, Matt, so don't try to stop me," you huffed, gesticulating in mild threat with the book you had extracted from your carry-on at the suited figure sitting in the window seat. The handsome older gentleman smiled, not lifting his eyes from the copy of the Korean Herald in his hands.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he responded, flipping a large, thin page. Matt Anders had been many things to you in life. Before you were born, he had been your father's best friend. He had been the best man at your parent's wedding. He and his wife, Rebecca, had cared for you and your siblings during your mother's sanitarium stay. He had tutored you for the SAT score that had earned you a full ride to the university that had saddled you with a BS in social work and minor in English literature. Today, he was your attorney. Matt, who had an IQ of 146, had learned basic Korean so that he could translate for you and make sure that your interests were looked after as you settled in. Having him there made you feel one hundred percent more secure about the process. He, for instance, had been the one in negotiations to ask for the very cush business-class fight accommodations you were new settling into.

        "Whatever you would do for him, you'll do for her. I want an equality of treatment clause added with no addendums."

You smiled to yourself as you remembered his exchange with the Hybe's representation. He had asked for things you would have never asked for yourself, and you felt better having access to them knowing that he felt you were deserving. The flight attendant sweetly asked if you would require any refreshments. You asked for two whiskey and cokes, and handed one over to the man beside you. You took a long, refreshing sip.

"Damn it, I wish I had appreciated food more," you sighed, looking ruefully at your glass.

"What are you going to miss the most?" Matt asked before sampling his own beverage.

"Cheese. I can't believe I'm saying that, but in the end I just love cheese. And there are so many kinds I haven't tried. Do you know there's this Italian cheese that comes in the shape of a pear? It's super expensive because of the breed of cow the milk is sourced from. It's supposedly suuuuper creamy. But, hey, now I'll never know if it's as rich and complex as they say..." you took another sip of your drink.

"Caciocavallo Podolico," Matt remarked casually, returning to his newspaper.

"Excuse me?"

"The cheese you described, it's called Caciocavallo Podolico," he reiterated.

"You know, I should be used to it now, but I'm not. Don't think I'll ever be. How on earth do you know this stuff?" you insisted incredulously.

"Read it once," he shrugged, "And it's actually pretty famous as far as cheeses go."

"Catch-a-vayo Picadillo..." you murmured.

"No," Matt interjected succinctly. "Anything you want to go over again? We have the time, Lord knows." You sighed.

"Can't think of anything right now. What did you think of the list of questions I sent you?" 

"Very good," he nodded, "I'll be adding a few of my own, that I think should come from me, if you don't mind." You swirled the ice in your plastic cup.

"Of course not. Thanks again for coming with me, I'd be pretty lost without you." Matt smiled at you again, reaching over to squeeze your arm.

"You'd do just fine. But you would be flying coach." You smirked and cracked open your book. As you flipped to your marked page, a colorful, sturdy rectangle of paper fluttered to the ground at Matt's feet. He reached down and picked it up, regarding it with a curious eye before you could snatch it quickly away and tuck it back between the pages of My Antonia.

"New bookmark?" he queried.

"Something like that," you murmured. You thought he might press you further about the Hangul characters he had surely noted on the back, but just then the captain's voice crackled over the intercom reiterating the weather conditions in Seoul and you took the opportunity to bury your nose back between the pages. You glanced clandestinely over at Matt, who had settled back into the Korean Herald, before pulling the little watercolor card from between the pages where it had been hurriedly concealed. Your eyes traced over the purple clematis trailing elegantly across the illustration as you wondered if 12 hours was, in fact, a millisecond or an eternity.

-End Ch. 1-

#if everything I read from here on our was friends to lovers #or even enemies to lovers #i’d die happy

friends to lovers never had a bad track. “scared i’ll ruin what we have” SLAPS. “friendship cuddles while secretly dying inside” BANGER. “teasing each other and holding eye contact for a little too long” KILLS ME. and don’t even get me STARTED on “screaming i love you in the middle of a heated argument.”

I think the best things in life are the things you could never even imagine, so I love a fic where the author's like "oh, I had this fun little idea for a one-shot," and then all the sudden, that idea spins into a whole 30,000 word thing. JK is so cocky, and the chemistry between these two is through the roof. Ana is so good at keeping the tension high, whether they're in the same room together or halfway across the world from each other.

masterlist: airplane, pt. 2

jungkook jeon stole six million dollars. it’s your job to bring him home.  but finding him – and keeping him in one place is not that simple. then shit gets weird.

Chapter One: ICN –> LAX

Chapter Two: San Juan

Chapter Three: Koreatown

Chapter Four: Los Angeles

Chapter Five: Home

Chapter Six: Epilogue

bloom is such a soothing and lovely written fic 😭 do you have any plans to continue it

You are too kind friend!

The short answer is: Plans? Yes. Any sort of timeline? No. It's outlined, most of it's written, and every time look at it, I delete half of it and decide it doesn't feel right. I realized recently that it's been a year I've been posting, so my new vibe is "whatever direction I take this story in is the right direction, and done is better than perfect."

What I can offer instead:

If you, like me, are a fan of this specific flavor of soulmate trope, here are all the fics I've found that stem from Mindheist's Never Let Me Go (RIP). They all link to AO3 unless otherwise noted, and they are listed in publication order. I've read the ones with *

Love at First Touch by bagelswrites [Jimin]*

Soulmate Bonded: Jungkook x Reader feat. Namjoon by minxy_keys [Jungkook feat Namjoon]- this links to wattpad. The story is also on AO3, but wattpad has more chapters

Airplane Mode by orphan account [Hoseok]

Turbulence by orpahn account (fallincarins) [Yoongi]*

By Accident by Nigihayami (Kohaku_xx) [Taehyung- in progress]

Take My Hands Now by RemindMeAgain [Jungkook, but also Namjoon- in progress]

Bloom by Teenagebountyhunter (this is me) [Namjoon]

Trip No Further by matchy9393 [Yoongi]*

The Two Who Found Our Destiny by PurpleMoonFlower [Jimin]

Soul on Fire by @vyduan [Seokjin- in progress]*

All I Haven't Said by @violetsiren90 [Namjoon-in progress]*

And if you, like me, are a sloot for Kim Namjoon stories, here are a few that I read or revisited in the last year (thought not necessarily posted within the last year) and enjoyed, alphabetical order:

Captive (#3) by smashin [Namjoon/Reader CEO AU, a one-shot in two parts]

I’m going to be (12,500 miles) by bazooka [Namjoon/Jimin, red string of fate soulmates- in progress, basically complete]

Love: A How-to Guide by orpahn_account (fallincarins) [Namjoon/Reader, strangers to friends to lovers (tbd) in college- discontinued]

New and Resplendent Colors by platinumtangerine [Namjoon/Reader who is an artist]

Sanctuary Between Worlds by GraphiteFox [Namjoon/Yoongi/Reader mafia AU]

Second Heart by RM091294 [Namjoon/Reader, JUST TRUST ME, THIS IS MAYBE THE BEST THING I READ THIS YEAR]

Substance by RM091294 [Namjoon/Reader who is also an art conservator]

Verified Amateurs [ONLINE NOW] by beebalm [Namjoon/Yoongi, friends to lovers]

Honorable mentions (Namjoon makes appearance, but is not the primary love interest):

Bona Fides by RM091294 [Jimin/Reader with a sprinkle of Namjoon/Reader who is a spy, seriously, just go read her whole back catalogue]

Proscenium by automnesleaves [Namjoon/Yoongi/Reader lover/friend triangle who are all teachers, the softest]

Speaking of the End by oh_hey_tae [JK/everyone, magic and curses, you don't even meet Namjoon until 66% in, but I love him, in progress(?)]

The Road to You by @bonvoyagenoona [Everyone/Reader (not all at once) who is on a journey of self-discovery, the Joon chapter breaks my heart a little]

the habits of a broken heart.

♡  teaser  ♡

If someone had asked you what Jeon Jungkook meant to you, you would look them in the eye and tell them that he meant nothing. It’s easier to pretend that someone means nothing to you after they pretend that you do not exist. That the universe had not given you both matching marks on the small of your wrists, and deemed that your souls were meant for each other. 

Jeon Jungkook is a stranger to you. One that you wanted so badly to love. But you’ve come to learn that no matter how hard you try…

you can’t love someone who doesn’t want to love at all.

.

.

“Look”, he sighs as if you were inconveniencing him, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it and tell you that I’m the one you’ve been looking for this whole time. We have the same mark, but…I’m not the guy you want.”

“So you don’t…believe in soulmates?” The words felt wrong to say when all your life, finding your soulmate felt like the ribbon at the end of the finish line. But here he was now, and you felt so small under his gaze. Like you weren’t meant to be there, and standing in the same room with him was a concoction for heartbreak.

“No.”

Jungkook’s syllable pangs in your ear, and you think it might be your least favorite sound. Then there is nothing you can do, but leave.  

.

.

coming soon!!

Oof did I enjoy this. This story captures the very real tightrope walk of starting a new relationship. There's the fun, flirty sweetness and sexiness, but there's also exploration of how it feels to be vulnerable and to let a new person see the parts of yourself that others haven't been as understanding about. The tenderness in the way M writes these characters just feels like a big warm hug.

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 ✨ AND TO @goodsoop FOR THE DEMI SENSITIVITY READ VERY SORRY THAT I AM THE WORLD'S LARGEST IDIOT AND FORGOT TO CREDIT..... i love you both 🥺

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.

Romance! Action! The exploration of how feelings can be true even when reality is a lie! The whole cast is great, I especially love this Yoongi (and there maybe be an upcoming sequel about him?!?!?!?!). You really get two-for-the-price of one here with the Namjoon/Reader and the Jimin/Reader relationships, and then blessedly, Mittens gives you all three. A perfect vacation (or anytime) read.

BONA FIDES - PJM ft. KNJ

SERIES LIST - COMPLETE 🎉

Summary: You’re in the CIA - trained by Kim Namjoon. Your target? Art connoisseur and international criminal, Park Jimin. Under cover at the Vante Gallery in Paris with your sidekick Jin and spy handler Yoongi, who comes out on top when love, lust, and the law intertwine?

TL;DR? It’s a love story with spies and smut.

Bona Fides: Proof of a person’s identity, used by spies to prove cover stories.

Pairings: Namjoon x OC, Jimin x OC

Genre: Secret Agent AU; Smangst; Strangers to Lovers

Rating: Explicit 18+ 🔞 (most chapters)

AO3

Chapter 1: It’s the gd CIA!

Chapter 2: The Farm (E, 18+)

Chapter 3: City of Lights

Chapter 4: The Target

Chapter 5: Two to Tango

Chapter 6: Chandelier Bid (E, 18+)

Chapter 7: Provenance (E, 18+)

Chapter 8: What We Know (E, 18+)

Chapter 9: Chiaroscuro (E, 18+)

Chapter 10: Trouble, pt. 1 (E, 18+)

Chapter 11: Trouble, pt. 2 or The Queen or Nothing At All (M, 18+)

To read chronologically - read Problems (KNJ spin off) before Epilogue

EPILOGUE 1

EPILOGUE 2

EPILOGUE 3

#tbr

The Ghosts of You and Me (Namjoon/Reader - Complete)

Pairing: Namjoon/female reader

Rating: M for mature

Genre: College!au, Slice of life!au (sort of), Non-Idol!Au

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, discussions of grief, healing from trauma, talk of death 

Summary: Kim Namjoon is the love of your life, even in death, or - a story on healing from loss and learning to live again.

Word Count: 22,993, so fic under the cut for length

Thank you to literally so many people who put their eyes on this in the last year. I cannot believe I’m finally posting it. This fic is so special to me, I hope anyone who reads it knows I love them, and that grief is not linear. 

tagging: @hesperantha @reliablemitten @dntaewithluv  @xjoonchildx @vyduan @miscelunaaa @starlostjimin @sugalaritae @sahmfanficbts @augustbutwinter @minisugakoobies @wwilloww​ @hobi-gif​

Keep reading

Come for the smutty slow burn, stay for the complex portrayal of human relationships and the struggle that is being vulnerable! It's such a testament to M's storytelling that this work can go from from some silly (and sexy) hijinks and meta enemies-to-lovers commentary to watching a women try to piece her life together after everything sort of shatters all at once, and it never feels unearned or out of character. Also, for as much smut as this fic contains, it never feels repetitive. Did I plan to make this last for my whole week on-call? Yes. Did I accidently devour this in 24 hours because it was too good to put down? Also yes.

look down on me like that - masterlist (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut (w some eventual angst)

pairing: yoongi x reader ft. chaotic bestie jimin & cutie coworker jungkook

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

contains: explicit sexual content - enemies/coworkers to lovers, hate sex, accidental voyeurism, semi-public sex, dirty talk, mutual teasing, slow burn, a whole lotta general banter, truly excessive alcohol consumption, & prepare for extreme secondhand embarrassment

🖤 each individual chapter will have its own warnings! please read them and proceed with caution where appropriate 🖤

✨ read on AO3 ✨ main masterlist ✨ chapter updates! ✨

chapter one 7.2k - “I still can’t believe you actually lied your way into this job.”

chapter two 6.1k - “Do you like tteokbokki?”

chapter three 8.2k - “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked what you saw.”

chapter four 8.2k - “Yeah, you like that?”

chapter five 11.4k - “Do you want to hear a funny story?”

chapter six 6.2k - “If you want it so bad, then beg for it.”

chapter seven 8.9k - “Oh my god. You do have a weakness.”

chapter eight 15.3k - “I’m sorry, is this a booty call?”

chapter nine 16.0k - “And the Grammy goes to…”

chapter ten 13.1k - “I just want you to be happy.”

If this fic was a baked good, it would be a cinnamon chili chocolate tart. You take a bite and it's like, "It's sweet but complex, and the balance is perfect, and it's really, really delicious." At it's core, it's a friends-to-lovers story, but there's also nostalgia, pining, a little uncertainty, regret, a really great brother dynamic, fantasical elements, bits of narraitve woven in from past works, strucural symmetry, and ~spice~. All this to say, I devoured it, and it was so satisfying.

Memories, Like Fingerprints

Part 3 of 3

Yoongi x Reader

Friends to Lovers

Rating: This part is Exxx-plicit 

Wc: 5.2k

Warnings: Language, unprotected sex, both kinds of cream pies, of age drinking, Yoongi baking with long hair and a snapback on AGAIN, my bad; may cause longing for Yoongi and baked goods 

Author's Note: Thank you beloved @kithtaehyung for these pretty banners! My queen @vyduan for reading. And my beloved queen @matchy6812 for helping me unlock this story. I’m so grateful for all of you. 

These two really have my heart, two people who are, almost from the first sight, in love, but it takes them some time to figure out how to be together.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Series Masterlist

MANY YEARS EARLIER

“Yooooooonnggiiiiii!” Jimin bellows across the Black Swan. It’s Bonfire Night and the place is packed as it can be, Yoongi can barely move to get to his brother. 

He finally wades through the crowd and is embraced by Jimin and a bunch of friends he hasn’t seen in years. Someone puts a whiskey in his hand and despite being away for more than four years, he feels right back at home. 

Yoongi has been back in the UK for about two weeks, about to start a six week internship at The Dorchester as part of his training.

When he left for his gap year in Seoul, four years ago, he was sure it was temporary. He'd really planned to come back to the UK sooner. He had a place at UCL. He was going to work on his Korean, take some cooking classes and stay with his Halmoni and practice baking with her. 

He thought he’d have some space from you. From those growing feelings that thrilled and terrified him. To figure out what it meant before he went back. 

But not with his Halmoni. She called him out almost immediately.

“Sonja, what is their name?” 

“Whose name, Halmoni?” He asks while helping her make yakgwa. She doesn’t have the recipe written down and he’s trying to follow her every move.

“The one who broke your heart?” She is focused on pouring the sesame oil into the bowl of flour in front of her, but her tone is serious.

“My heart isn’t broken, Halmoni. I’m just jet lagged.”

She looks at him and hands him a knob of ginger to grate.

“You shouldn’t lie to your Halmoni about anything. And you can’t lie to me about this.”

Yoongi sighs. He forgot she can see his broken heart. “I still don’t have it. That ability.” 

“There is no right time, sonja.”

Yoongi just nods and places the grated ginger in a cheese cloth to squeeze out the juice.

“I left earlier than I was supposed to. We’d just barely—we didn’t even—”

Halmoni doesn’t respond as she sprinkles black pepper in the honey sauce. Yoongi tries to guess the amount but it’s almost impossible to tell as he’s trying to mix the oil and flour together without overdoing it. 

“Sometimes we break our own hearts, sonja. Now turn the heat down on the oil, if it’s too hot—aish!” She lightly swats his hand. “Don’t knead it so much, if you force the dough, it won’t hold and will burn up in the fryer.”

“Yes, Halmoni,” Yoongi nods, and tries to not try so hard. 

—

Yoongi had applied to university in Korea, but was certain he wouldn’t be accepted, because even though he was bilingual, all of his formal schooling was in English. 

And after all, he had a place at University College London, he had a life there. He wanted to go back, to his friends, to you. 

So when Seoul National University offered him a full ride in food science, he was shocked. Then his Harabeoji had a little health scare and Yoongi moved in with them during his gap year to help. His dad and Jimin were back in the UK, so he decided to stay. 

But also because of Ji Soo.

They met during his certificate course at SICA. She was beautiful and kind and a great cook. She would join Yoongi at his grandparents. His grandfather thought she was wonderful, but Halmoni was always a little reserved around her, but she didn’t have a very effusive personality to begin with. 

Yoongi thought for sure he’d be able to see how much he cared for her. He was certain the secret to seeing love was to be in love. Because he was also certain that’s how he felt about Ji Soo.

But there was still nothing.

They split in his final year. Their togetherness had turned into more a function of habit than a shared desire to do the same thing to walk the same path. 

He’d been considering doing his military service then, he wanted to keep his dual citizenship. But when he was offered the prestigious apprenticeship in London, a chance to move back to his other home, and maybe reconnect with you, he took it.

—

“She’s not here. A group just left to go to the park.” Jimin sidles up next to him with a fresh whiskey. 

“Who?”

“Don’t, hyung.”

Yoongi sips his drink. And stops looking around the pub. 

“Am I that obvious?”

“To me you are. You could have texted her.”

“I did, we’ve been messaging a bit. I just want to see—you know, say hello. In person.”

“Come on,” Jimin throws his arm around Yoongi’s shoulder. “The fireworks are starting soon.”

—

They walk into the park with a stream of people. The freezing November air makes it look like steam is rising off of everything.

“Hey, _____!” Someone shouts out your name when he and Jimin are halfway there. Yoongi’s heart jumps a bit and he slows for a second to look around, trying to be subtle so he doesn’t catch his half-brother’s attention or teasing again. 

He finds you almost immediately, you're smiling and waving at someone. You look so happy and bright, almost like your face is lit from within. 

You’re standing halfway down the hill between Yoongi and the bonfire, which looks like it’s already giving off huge sparking flames. 

“Come on, I want to get a good spot before they light it up.” Jimin nudges Yoongi and hands him a flask without looking over.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Yoongi calls after him, barely registering what his brother said. When he glances back, Jimin has his arm around someone and is heading up the hill. 

“Hey! Yoongi?” You’re waving towards him and he starts to approach, but he’s concerned because it looks like the bonfire is so close to you. 

Then, something bright comes flying over his head and joins the searing golden explosions popping around yours. 

“Hey! Hi—are you okay?” Your forehead creases when Yoongi ducks a bit as you reach out to hug him, pulling your arms back towards your body. 

“It’s so good to see you.” 

“Yeah—yes—sorry I’m, uhhhh, still jet lagged a bit. It’s good to see you too.”

“It really is.” He moves in to hug you. 

“Oh, I guess we’re…” You respond in kind but Yoongi barely notices how awkwardly you’re standing. He’s surprised that your jacket isn’t searing hot from being so close to the flames.

Yoongi feels you take a deep breath and sigh it out, your body relaxing into his for a fraction of a second. Another fiery spark whizzes past his face and he flinches, releasing his hold on you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” You look at him quizzically, pulling at the hem of your jacket a bit. 

Yoongi stands still, face impassive as if he wasn’t just ducking in a dark field for absolutely no fucking reason. 

Because now he can see what it really is. They haven’t lit the bonfire yet. 

You’re the source of the light. 

The aura around you is flickering and popping. It gets stronger the closer he gets.

“I’m fine, really, just so glad to see you.” His words come out in a rush, taking his anxiety with them. It’s a relief he didn’t know he needed, as if all this time his heart had been compressed, his vision flattened into a lonely myopia. And now they’ve expanded and he can see everything.

It’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

You, lit up by love.

A series of golden streaks whizz by him and he realizes that they’re coming from him. His heart is sending small flares out to you. They’re consumed by the light around you, sending pulses out when they land, rippling all the way down to your chest.

“It’s been way too long, Min.” You’re beaming at him, still near enough that he could take you back in his arms. He can see a soft flow of shimmering light streaming down your arms. They taper to delicate strands winding their way across his hands. A tributary of affection streaming from your chest to where you were just hugging him. He can see it lingering on his body, hesitant but it’s moving. 

“Yeah, I’ve been missing you—more—lately.” He huffs out a laugh, and can’t quite meet your eyes, or see your reaction to his stilted confession. “I’ve just been thinking about—”

“Oh hey there!” A man walks up and wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your cheek. You beam at him in return.

“Yoongi, this is my boyfriend…” your voice fades out as Yoongi watches the light around you shift course to whoever this is. 

Sparks hover in Yoongi’s peripheral vision. He can feel the pressure of them wanting to move forward to you as he nods and shakes the other man’s hand. 

But he doesn’t let them. He knows immediately, just from looking at you, that now is not his time. Because even as he’s making small talk and pretending to care about how the two of you met at work, he’s too distracted by what’s happening between you. 

By the lingering glow around him. The small tendrils of your heart still connected to him. 

By the bittersweet ache of finally, fucking finally, being able to see the flame you hold for each other. And knowing it’s too little, too damn late. 

PRESENT DAY

Yoongi: I’m sorry. [23:36]

Read

Yoongi: Can we talk tomorrow? It’s hard to explain over text. [23:38]

Delivered

You don’t write back. It’s so late. 

He sits on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. 

It was like the two of you were right back at bonfire night all those years ago. He was right up at that precipice, so ready and willing to fall. 

But this time, you were there too. 

And again. He could not fucking get it right. 

The text messages he just sent are possibly even shittier than how he acted before. He wants to tell you how he feels, how badly he wants you, how sometimes just standing there, he can see how much he loves you rolling over your—

There is a knock at the door. The front door. 

Jimin’s bedroom door is closed. Usually if he’s expecting someone late, he waits up to let them in. 

When Yoongi opens the front door, you’re standing in front of him, clutching your jacket around you in the cold winter air. 

Despite the stony look on your face, the light around you pulses softly like a heartbeat. 

“Can I come in?”

“What are you doing? It’s so late.” He opens the door and ushers you into their sitting room. 

“Well, it seems that every time you magically appear in my life, I just come running. No matter how fucking stupid that makes me.”

“You didn’t—I would have come to you. If I’d known….”

His voice trails off when you don’t respond. 

“I just didn’t want to let the night pass and not say sorry.” He kind of lamely gestures to the living room. “Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t know. Do I? How far will you actually let me in this time?”

“That is…fair.”

But you follow him anyway, face still like thunder. 

“Yoongi. What am I doing here? What are we doing?”

You’re staring at him, arms crossed, your face and your posture almost defiant. As if you came here to make sure that he knew that you were angry. He wouldn’t blame you. 

But he doesn’t think you are. Because the light around you, it’s soft and glowing, and the farther you get into his house, it seems to be getting a little closer to him. 

It doesn’t scare him anymore. You’ve come all this way, again. And he can see so clearly how hot you burn for him. Your love gives him the courage to jump and just fucking say it:

“I want to be with you.”

You don’t respond right away but your love pulses, slow bright flashes. Your eyes get very wide and then look down at the floor. 

“I don’t believe you.”

Yoongi takes a step closer to you and he sees it glow brighter. 

His tone is soft when he replies, “I know.”

You still won’t look up at him even though he’s within arms distance now, so close he could reach out and touch you. 

“I actually know a lot of things about you.”

You huff a bit and nearly roll your eyes, Yoongi gets a glimpse of you at 18. 

“I know that you look like this when you’re mad. But that you’ll put up with a lot for the people you care about. Like that time we waited for three hours for the Chemical Brothers to go on.”

A small smile grows on your face and you bite your lip to stop it. 

The two of you had waited in the freezing cold outside the Brixton Academy to see his favorite band. You’d whined and moaned but refused to leave him, cuddling next to him for warmth. Even after you’d made it inside. 

“I know what you look like when you’re happy, when you’re excited, when you’ve been dancing all night but you always have one more song in you.”

Your smile gets bigger and he’s standing right in front of you. But still not daring to touch you. Not yet. 

“I know the sounds you make when you bite into something you really like. Or when you hear a song you love, the little groan that turns into a sigh.”

Your eyes snap to his at this.

“Yoongi…” 

“I know that’s what you sound like when you feel pleasure.”

He’s right next to you now, hands out in front of him like he’s offering up himself, anything, to you right now. You give a slight nod and he glides his hands up your arms. As they uncross, your whole body starts to relax, melting from his presence. 

But you still don’t meet his gaze. It’s too hot now. He’s too close.

“I know the feel of your soft skin giving way to my fingertips.”

Yoongi’s face is so close to yours now, his nose grazes your cheek.

“I know what it feels like to hold you. How your heartbeat picks up when I hold you.”

He can feel your breath hitch at this.

“Yoongi, please…don’t…”

“I know how lucky I am that you are here, that you’re giving me a shot.” He cups your face and looks right in your eyes. “When I want you so badly but know I don’t deserve you at all.”

“Yoongi that’s not—” 

He softly presses a finger to your lips.

“But there’s one thing I don’t know.”

“What’s that?” Your voice sounds light and airy, your breath coming in small gasps at this point. 

“What you taste like.”

“Fucking hell, Yoongi.”

He chuckles against the skin of your neck, his breath runs hot and tight against your collarbone.

“So…can I?”

“Yes…” the word barely a whisper from your mouth. 

“Hmmmmm…” his voice so low you can feel the rumble from his chest. He’s biting his bottom lip as he contemplates where and how to kiss you first. His lips ghost across yours, the air between you like velvet. It feels so luxurious, so soft to brush up against. 

“Finally.”

He presses his lips to yours. 

Your first kiss. 

It takes a minute to find the right rhythm. You start like fumbling teenagers—both grinning so hard that your teeth click together, the timing is a little off, he isn’t quite sure where his hands should go. But when you do, when his tongue slips in, when his hand caresses your breasts, when your fingers tighten on his shoulder, you let out a low groan that lilts up into a sigh. 

Yoongi starts to back you to his bedroom, kissing you like he’s wanted to all this time, like he never wants to stop. Everything feels so new and so thrilling and so right. 

The sight of you is breathtaking, the light around you swinging in wild ellipses. It’s unreal. 

“You’re so gorgeous—I’ve wanted—”

He’s can’t get the thought out. Looking at you, he’s struck dumb with just how selfish he’s been tonight. He can’t believe you’re about to get into his bed, because, fucking hell, he has a lot to make up for.

He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands running along your skin as he goes. There’s so much lust and love swirling all over your body, his hands make ripples in the fiery golden light at each soft dip and curve.

His hands slip under the waistband of your leggings and he pulls when you nod your consent. He drags them down your legs watching the goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers pressing his mouth to your lace panties. 

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” you giggle as you run your hands through his hair. But your smile fades when you see the look on his face. 

“Were—are these for me? From earlier?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. And his heart squeezes.

“I’m so sorry, baby. You’re so good, so fucking perfect. I—”

He kisses along your hip, trying to keep down the frustration that’s roiling inside him, how did he back away from all this love you’re so willingly giving him? 

“Yoongi.” Your voice, calm and even, and your fingertips across his face, call him back. 

He looks up at you.

“We’re here now. And I want this. I want you. So badly.”

Yoongi, swallows and nods. 

“I should’ve—how did—”

He cuts himself off and places an open mouth kiss over the soft lace. 

“Fuck, Yoongi—” Your hands twist in his hair. 

You can feel the affection and love pouring from him. You let it flow along your limbs and swirl around your heart, you let it override the uncertainty and the doubt, the anger that brought you here.

Your eyes start to flutter closed when he grazes his teeth ever so gently across the lace. 

You gasp and pull on his hair. He hums in response and guides your leg over his shoulder. You’re already so beholden to whatever he’s doing, you forgot you were still standing up. 

He pushes your panties aside and starts to flick his tongue, little sparks of sensation shooting through your body. 

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Hmmmm?” You can feel his voice rumble through you. Your knees wobble and you pull on his hair a bit to stay upright.

“You’re fucking delicious.”

“Oh my godddd,” you moan and grip him tighter. 

Encouraged by this, he uses his fingers to spread you open, groaning at the way you glisten for him. And then he’s all over you, kissing and licking, it’s relentless and perfect and you nearly fall over. 

“Yoongi, this is so, so sexy, seriously, but I might fall on my face. And that is not what we need tonight.”

He smiles into your leg, kissing all the way up your body as he stands. He helps you pull off your shirt.

“Oh. No bra, sarang?”

“Well, I did have a matching one, but I took it off to get into bed. Ummmm, before you texted.”

“Hmmmm, I wish I was the one to do that.” He murmurs between kisses, his hands skimming over your nipples like he doesn’t even know where to start. 

“Next time…” you sigh out as his lips wrap around one of your hard buds. 

“Next time, the time after that, the time after that,” he promises as he sucks and licks his way across your breasts. 

He lays you back in the bed, hovering over you kissing you senseless. Yoongi realizes he is still dressed. All these layers seem so restrictive and uncomfortable, he can’t breathe right or get any relief until his skin is pressed against yours. 

He takes off his shirt, eyes never leaving your gorgeous body, the sight of you totally naked on his bed threatening to do him in. 

You pull away from his kisses and sit up, the two of you panting and staring at each other. You roll on top of him, kissing every inch of skin you can reach. 

You lift your hips and tug at the waistband of his boxers. He helps you slide them down. He springs free and you start to slide your pussy along his length. The two of you gasping in tandem as your hips pick up speed. He’s not even inside you yet and you feel untethered.

“Do you have—” 

“Oh yes, hold on.” He sits up, the tip of his erection pushes into you as he reaches for the end table drawer. 

“Actually, can we?”

He frowns, not understanding, holding the condom packet in one hand until you lean back just a bit and the tip of him slides in another fraction of an inch. 

“Holy shit. Yes. I tested—” His eyes get so wide, his speech stutters a little. Just a hint of your tight, wet heat has him struggling to keep from blowing his load right away. 

“Me too.” You sigh out as you drop your hips with force, taking his thick hard length in one go. And the sound you let out is so low, so erotic Yoongi thinks you might have cum. But then you’re so still, your face placid, your pussy fluttering lightly around him. 

Yoongi has to close his eyes but it doesn’t—it can’t—keep out the blinding lights around him. He might actually explode because he is well and truly done for. Now that his bare cock is inside you, now you also fully have his heart in your hands. 

“Yoongi?”

“Yes, sarang? I’m here.”

“I need—you to move. I don’t know if I—”

He starts to roll his hips into you and you pitch forward with a groan. The connection feels molten, liquid hot, you start to rock your hips, chasing more and more and more. His hands guide you, slick and hot against him, sounds pouring out of your mouth every time you land, punctuated by the sticky wet sounds of pleasure. 

You sit up, pulling at him til he follows. Your hands clutching his silky hair.

“Yoongi, Yoongi, look.”

You’re staring at where the two of you are connected. His rock hard cock, shiny with your arousal. 

“Look at us, Yoongi. Look at us. Finally.”

“Finally,” he echoes with a groan, his balls so tight he’s about to burst. 

He looks up and you’re grinning and sweaty, your eyes half closed, your lip bitten as you ride him. 

He wasn’t wrong all those years ago, you are standing in the fire. 

Except now he knows that you lit it, you made it. 

And that now he burns only for you. 

He slips his thumb against your lip. 

“Suck,” he commands.

You comply, rolling your tongue along his thumb and he briefly considers pulling out so you can do that to his dick. 

Instead he uses it to swirl and press long on your clit. Your slick helping him glide up and down, just grazing the sensitive spot right under the hood, your pussy twitching with every upward stroke.

He thrust harder, and presses his lips to yours as you peak and a surge of light pulses through the room. So bright Yoongi can see it with his eyes closed. A magnesium flare. He opens his eyes and you’re gaping around the room, your jaw dropped. 

“What was that? The light—”

“Where? Where?” The only words he can get out.

“Inside. Please. Please.” You press your forehead to his, aftershocks still squeezing and running through your body. The light on the bedside table flickers a bit with each pulse. 

He nods and cums so hard strangled moans stuttering from his mouth. His eyes flutter closed, his head tilts back as you lick up the side of his neck and brace yourself against his hot skin.

Your breath starts to slow, you can feel Yoongi’s heartbeat following suit. He can feel your smile against his neck as he softens and starts to slide out of you. 

“What?”

“Nothing…” your voice muffled as you nuzzle closer to him, he can feel your body shake as you start to laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” He moves away to look you in the yes, pressing a kiss to your smiling lips. 

“You’re making all kinds of cream filled treats today.”

He snickers and holds you closer, a smile spreading across his face, joy bubbling up inside him.

“I mean, I was going to make eclairs.”

“Oh my god, Yoongi, don’t you dare!” You start to poke him in the side as he sits up. 

He gives you a wicked grin and lies on top of you kissing your face. “Are you sure? I could do more cream ppang instead? Bavarian cream donuts?”

You’re howling as he plants loud kisses all over your face as he keeps teasing you. 

“Actually I prefer cannolis?”

Yoongi rests his head on your chest, his shoulders shaking.

He kisses you again, nearly impossible with how much you’re grinning. The two of you high on each other, giddy with what you just shared, on what you just made together. 

He leans over and gives you quick kisses that help slow your laughter. The touch of his lips is so soothing, it feels like the air in the room has substance, waves of his affection are flowing over you. 

At some point you leave and get cleaned up, slipping his shirt on and hoping you don’t awkwardly run into Jimin in the hallway. 

And then you’re back in bed with him. Tangled together kissing and talking and holding each other, making up for lost time. Til you start to get so sleepy, the bedside clock reads 2:39am and you know he needs to wake up soon to open the cafe.

“Yoongi?” 

“Hmmm?”

You nuzzle into his neck as he pulls the blanket up over your shoulder. You’re barely awake, eyes are closed, his hand is rubbing soothing circles into your back, lulling you to sleep. 

“What is ‘sarang’?”

You’re drifting of when you hear him whisper in your ear. 

“It means love.”

—

When you wake up, it’s still dark out, the bedside clock reads 5:03am. Yoongi isn't there, but the smell of fresh baked goods wafts through the room. You wonder if he even slept before he had to go open up. 

The cafe is dark, but they must have some kind of running lights, it looks like it’s lit up to lead you right to him. You find Yoongi in the kitchen, sliding a tray of mini pie shells into a rack. He has a backwards snapback on, his white chefs apron on, there are soft dark circles under his eyes. 

“Morning,” you give a little wave as you walk in.

“Morning,” his face lights up when he sees you. He places the oven mitts on the table and wraps his arms around your waist. You sigh, settling into his touch.

“Did I wake you?” His lips ghost over your cheek. He smells like coffee and freshly baked croissants and it feels like heaven to be this close to him. 

“No, no. I don’t know what did. I just—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, hand cupping your cheek, and backs you against the table. 

“Missed you…” he pants out between kisses. 

“It was only like two hours…” You giggle as he lifts you on to the table and starts kissing down your neck. 

“Want a croissant or something?” Now you’re sure you’re hallucinating that this man—your friend, your high school crush, the one who has always seemed to know you the best, the one that almost got away—fucking Yoongi is offering to make you a morning after coffee whilst his gorgeous hands gently run all over your body. 

“No, thank you. I want you to come back upstairs with me.” You take his t-shirt in both hands and pull him closer. 

“Me too, but I need to finish preparing everything.”

“Hmmmm, mean.” You can feel his laughter run across your skin. Your eyes start to flutter closed as his lips make their way across your collarbone, but they open at the way the lights inside the cafe start to twinkle.

“That’s so pretty.”

“Yeah you are,” he murmurs into your neck. 

You snicker, “I meant the lights in the cafe.”

You pull back and look at him, “And are you really this cheesy?”

He’s grinning, looking at you, hair a bit askew, with happy, sleepy eyes, in his shirt, in the kitchen of his cafe, having slept in his bed. The light surrounding you two fills the whole room and he feels absolutely surrounded, suspended in love.

He bites his lip between his teeth and takes a deep breath. “For you? Yeah.”

You beam back, and grab his shirt again, pulling him close. 

“Anything for you, sarang.”

Yoongi lays you back on the table, his hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings. 

“Oh, Yoongi…” That airy, breathy voice is back.

“Is this okay?”

“It is, Yoongi, it—”

“It’s a health code violation, is what it is.”

You and Yoongi sit bolt upright as Jimin walks into the kitchen with a shit eating grin on his face. 

“I’ll let it slide because it’s about damn time. But I am not cleaning up after your shenanigans.” 

“Sorry, Jimin.” Yoongi offers you his hand to help you off the table, and when you’re on your feet he doesn’t let go. 

“Oh you’re perfect, hyeongsunim. You've done nothing wrong.” Yoongi snorts out a laugh and mock glares at his brother.

“But you—” He points at Yoongi and winks. “You know better.”

Yoongi laughs and squeezes your hand as you wrap your other arm around him and put your head on his broad chest, trying to avoid the dusting of flour across his apron. 

“Shut up now, please, Jimin.” 

His brother just laughs in return as he walks into the main part of the cafe. “Bleach that table, hyung.”

Yoongi presses a kiss to your temple and you squeeze him tight in return. “I’m going to get back into bed. Come up when you can?” It doesn’t even phase you how at home you feel here, in this place, with him. 

“I’ll bring you some coffee in a bit, sarang.”

“Yoongi?”

“Yes?” He looks right in your eyes with such kindness, such affection, you swear the room gets brighter. 

“Why does your apron smell like coconuts?” You lean back and gesture vaguely at his chest, face heating a bit thinking of how sweaty and perfect it felt under your hands last night. 

“Uhhhh, I am making mini coconut cream pies for you?”

You sputter out a laugh and throw your hands around his neck and kiss him. 

“I fucking love you, Yoongi Min.”

“I know,” he beams back, taking your face in his hands. 

“I love you, too.”

Sigh. I love them too much. This was a bit different from the others, so thank you for reading 💜 I’d love to know what you think!  And look at this fancy banner! Thank you Ryen!!

Yinka Shonibare’s art installation, The American Library, in the downtown branch of the Cleveland Public Library. 

It’s designed as two back-to-back rows of book stacks, with 6,000 books bound colorful fabrics. On each book’s spine is the name of a 1st or 2nd generation US immigrant who has influenced their adopted country’s culture. 

Matchy is doing so many things here. Like ogres and onions, the layers in this story feel endless. Main characters who are definitely keeping secrets. Magic that's tied up in family histories and enchanted towers and in library books that you can't write in. Jokes on jokes on jokes on jokes on jokes on jokes. Pining, hints at romance, lust. The looming sense that there is SO MUCH that has yet to be revealed, but also that it is all right in front of you, if you just look hard enough. A surprisingly restrained use of the word alack.

But I think the layers I am most excited to keep peeling back are the emotional ones. To me, this story already has so much to say about loneliness and aloneness; about solitude that brings peace and solitude that brings isolation; about our desires to connect, belong, and be loved for who we really are; about the systems of power and our individual choices that prevent it from happening.

Serendipitously, my sister texted me to remind me how lovely it is that we (and our brothers) have never had to travel through life on our own within an hour of me reading this, so maybe I'm just in my feelings. But Matchy has a track record of writing things equally heartfelt as they are hilarious (don't take my word for it, go read her other work!). It seems extremely likely that whatever she is doing with this story, it will feel true.

Please Linger | Chapter 2

Summary: After terrorizing the villagers with one too many pranks, you’ve been locked away in The Tower to atone for your petty crimes. As far as you know, The Tower is impenetrable. Nobody can get in, and nobody can get out. It seems you’ll never escape—until one night, a man named Yoongi barges in…

Pairing: Musician!Yoongi x Reader (F) Word Count: ~6.5k Rating: 18+ Warnings: Swearing, potentially triggering exploration of feelings of embarrassment/shame over lineage... Genre: Fantasy!AU, humor, slow burn, eventual smut, angst... Links: AO3, Masterlist, Ko-Fi 🖤 Please note: Please Linger does not have a tag list 🖤

A/N: 'TIS OFFICIAL. Please Linger readers are now officially.... THE LINGERATI. And this is the Alackaverse 💀🫡 Thank you and I'm still just as sorry as last time. Perchance.

(Quick reminder that if you want to interact with the footnotes as they were intended, head over to read this on AO3 instead, where they're supported! 💜)

Chapter Two: Born To Crawl

One thing about you, is you’re not gonna obsess over Yoongi Min and his dickbrained decision to desert you in the tower. Nuh-uh. No siree. Not you. You are a strong, independent felon and you don’t need no flute-playing lackey of the law taking up any of your mental real estate.

In point of fact, you spend the morning occupying yourself with a variety of character-building mental exercises:

First, you contemplate the many different ways one can make one’s bed. [1] 

Next, you come up with a list of synonyms for the word bubble.

When that’s done, you begin counting the hairs on your right shin—an activity which carries you clear through the afternoon. It’s good, honest work, and you’re proud of yourself for keeping busy when it would be easier to sit and sulk. An idle mind is the devil’s playground, after all, and you’re not about to let Him find your brain passive and ripe for possession!

Alas—you’re rewarding yourself with a few passages of your novel that evening when disaster strikes. It happens just as you’re getting into a steamy scene in which the hero’s sticking his iron-hard tumescence into his lover’s passion-moistened depths—which… to each their own, you suppose—when, midway through stroking his lover’s most treasured pearl of passion, the hero takes a brief pause to soliloquize about the fireworks he sees when he looks into her eyes: sparkles of purples, pinks, and blues…

You hiss, flinging the book unceremoniously to the floor, the mood ruined. A heavy weight—one that feels an awful lot like remembrance—lodges itself in your throat.

Ill at ease, you resolve to bury the memories down with dinner—but the way the starlight plays upon the spoon in your soup reminds you of how a certain boney-fingered man’s silver earrings looked glinting under the moon as he left you behind…

Egads! Hello! You’re spiraling now. Appetite lost, you draw yourself a globule-of-air bath, determined to do better tomorrow—and you would have done so, too, if it weren’t for that meddling He Who Shan’t Be Thought About (HWSBTA, for short), who manages to sonically invade your sleep!

The melody HWSBTA played as HWSBTA left the tower must have lingered in your subconscious, for it weaves its way so thoroughly into your dreams that you catch yourself absentmindedly humming the tune the next morning—and then for several mornings more—as you rise with the sun.

Perhaps that’s why you don’t stir from your position in bed when the now-familiar sound of the pan flute wafts softly into your quarters late one afternoon. Your mind must be playing tricks on you. It’s not unusual, you know, for people who spend too much time in isolation to lose their vertical hold, as it were—and, to be honest, you’re not sure your roof was nailed on that tight to begin with!

This too—much like that one kidney stone Namjoon told you all about last year—shall pass, you reassure yourself. You can hardly be blamed for fixating on the sole interaction you’ve had for going on a month, now. According to your tallies, it’s only been six days since Yoongi’s departure. To you, it’s felt like much longer.

That’s the thing, you suppose.

It’s lonely, being all alone.

You squeeze your eyes shut, burrowing under your covers as the music seems to swell up around you, a steadily rising tide of song. The tune is… melancholy. Somber, almost—the chord progression more akin to a dirge than a lullaby. What’s more, it’s getting noticeably louder with each passing second.

And then it stops. Exhaling, you open your eyes, feeling your tense muscles relax in the silence. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. It was all just a figment of your imagin—

The music resumes, but the melody changes.

ALACK! You roll inelegantly out of bed, only just managing to land on your feet as the new, haunting notes drift under the crack of your door. It’s one thing to remember an old tune, and quite another to make up another one entirely. Could it be…?

You slink closer to the door, thinking hard. Now that you’re listening for it, you can’t hear any of D-Dum’s usual pre-evening stomping—and D-Dum loves his pre-evening stomp! Wouldn’t miss it for the world, that guy!

Even so, it’s not until you hear the soft footsteps—much too soft to belong to a murderous elephant—coming up the stairs that you finally accept you’re not hallucinating.

It’s him, you’re sure of it: Yoongi. 

He’s come back. He’s here.

But why?

You smooth down your skirts with sweat-slicked palms, heart galloping in your chest as the music draws to a close, only to be replaced by D-Dum’s trumpeting snores in the stairwell. Has Yoongi changed his mind? Decided you’re worth breaking out of the tower after all?

You find yourself holding your breath, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the doorknob. 

Soon, it will turn.

Soon, it will open, and you will look upon those shrewd, dark eyes; those pink, bowed lips; those long, veiny hands…

You’re acutely aware that you haven’t changed clothes for weeks, now. Princesses, who have months to prepare for their tower stays, tend to arrive with multiple suitcases full of heavy brocade, flamboyant ruffs, gloves, stockings, hats, and long, billowing capes embellished with pearls and jewels. As you’re here for punishment—and not as a prize—you hadn’t had time to consider your basic sartorial needs before Namjoon came to detain you. With no way to contact him, you’ve been making do with hand-washing your garments every night, and sleeping in the nude as they air-dried…

You arrange your features as best you can, trying hard for neutrality as footsteps pad slowly up to your door… and then keep right on padding. In fact, now that the music’s stopped, the rhythm of Yoongi’s gait as he wanders back and forth—like a Victorian maiden taking turns around the drawing room—echoes insistently in your ears, deafening as a funeral drum.

Why isn’t he…? Doesn’t he want to…?

He completes another two revolutions outside—you think you hear him utter a soft curse in that deep, rumbling voice of his—when it hits you.

Oh.

Oh.

You’d been mistaken. You’d been… you’d thought…

God, you’re a fool. Yoongi hasn’t come to visit you at all. He made himself clear last time, and you’ve allowed your loneliness to rewrite history. He doesn’t want to save you. He’s a self-proclaimed drip—a wet-blanket of the dampest and soggiest order—which means if he’s back in the tower, it’s not to make a social call. 

It’s to avoid one.

You could almost laugh if you weren’t so painfully embarrassed. There must be some sort of party going on in the village that he wants to miss.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice directly outside your door.

You hate that your pulse races at how close he is; at the bolt of recognition that lights you up inside. That deep timbre is singular. It’s one of a kind. It’s Yoongi. The only person you’ve seen in a month.

Only… what is he playing at, skulking around outside your cell while you’re trapped? Trapped like a trap in a trap! If he wants to be alone so bad, he should go be alone in the elevator, not directly outside your door with a slumbering D-Dum at his feet. 

As if he could tell you were thinking about him, the elephant wakes suddenly with a blood-curdling, ferocious snort. Before you have time to worry, however, the pan flute’s melody begins to waft out again. Seconds later, D-Dum’s snores return.

You tense, ear pressed to the door. 

A moment later, Yoongi resumes his pacing.

It’s bizarre—and even more puzzling, the cycle repeats itself over and over again. By the fourth time Yoongi’s put D-Dum to sleep, twenty minutes have elapsed, and the sound of his tragically uninspired cursing—just loads of fucks and damns all the way down—overtakes the muffled thump of his footfalls against stone. He sounds… frustrated. Wound up.

You wonder why he doesn’t just cut his losses and go brood elsewhere.

After a half-hour of this nonsense has elapsed, you fold. No longer do you feel wounded that Yoongi doesn’t want to spend time with you; at this point, you’re just sick of listening to his ceaseless harrumphing. You’re bored. He’s boring.

Without pausing to consider the ramifications, you stride over to the door and yank it open.

“Will you can it?” you hiss, geared up for a good old-fashioned pissing contest—and then falter.

Yoongi’s here, all right, just as you’d suspected. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp gaze. All signs point to Yoongi.

Only he’s… different, this time. He whips around the second you open the door like he hadn’t even known it was there, looking dazed. You watch him blink several times, then scan your figure like he’s not sure if you’re real, or a mirage.

“Yoongi?” you say, concerned. He doesn’t look well. This is not the same man who’d sauntered into your cell and helped himself to your dinner without asking. The person standing before you looks panicked; high-strung. His pupils are all blown out, and his hands are shaking.

“Wanna come in?” you say, shelving your ire.

He’s already sliding past you, shoving his free hand in his pocket.

Once inside, he flings the pan flute on your table like it burns and then turns to you, looking lost.

“Wanna hear about the time I put coiled wires in all of Chef Jongwon Baek’s steaks?” you ask, casual.

Yoongi jerks a trembling hand through his hair.

“The famous cook?” he asks.

“He wasn’t famous yet,” you snicker, warming to the topic. “It was his opening night at the tavern, and he hosted a dinner party to celebrate. I was working as one of the jesters for the night.”

Yoongi’s nodding along, tracking you with his eyes as you move away from the door to perch upon your bed. “Dinner and a show?”

“Yeah, a real two-fer,” you say. “My job was to ensure every guest felt cared for and ended the night in a state of bliss.”

The beginning of a smirk—the one that’s haunted you for the past six nights—stretches over Yoongi’s face.

“How’d you manage to do that?”

“Ball-juggling,” you say, straight-faced. “I’m really good at it. Wanna see?” [2]

It’s a cheap joke, but it earns a low laugh; warmth blooms in your chest at the sound. Yoongi’s in a cream sweater today, with little brown stripes that make his chest look extra broad as he leans back against the far wall. Your eyes drag down, taking in his brown trousers and nice, polished shoes. Where last time, he’d looked as if he’d prepared to come here—to sleep—this time, it looks like he hadn’t expected to drop by at all. 

“Is that what you do for work?” His question tugs you back to the present. “You’re an entertainer?”

“Used to be,” you say. You’d taken after your father in that regard.

“What happened?”

“Well…” Your eyes glaze over as you recall that fateful night. “I snuck into the kitchen and stuck coiled wires in all the steaks. When the cloches came off, everyone thought they were full of maggots.” A dreamy smile overtakes your face. “It was wonderful.”

And it was. You giggle, no less chuffed with yourself now than you were five years ago, when it all went down. Chef Baek had hired jesters to give his guests a night they’d always remember—and as far as you’re concerned, you’d more than delivered on the job. Not only had a well-known illustrator hung up broadsides depicting the fiasco all throughout the village the next day, but the incident—or, dare you say, triumph of improvisation—had given birth to the village’s first viral pick-up line: Would you still date me even if I took you out to eat worms?

“That is the kind of behavior that gets someone thrown in a tower,” Yoongi says, deadpan—though you can’t help but notice his shoulders are shaking.

You bite down on your lip, pleased to have made him laugh; to have helped calm him down a little.

“About that,” you say lightly. “What brings you back, Yoongi?”

You’d been aiming for nonchalant, but something about the look Yoongi gives you lets you know you’ve been found out. 

“I’m sorry, YN,” he says after a beat. “I’m still not here to rescue you.”

“Not even if I juggle your balls?” you try, but there’s no denying your disappointment. You don’t know what it is about Yoongi that makes you forget everything you know about life and hope for the impossible; that makes you want to believe that maybe just once, the balances could tip in your favor.

“I figured,” you hear yourself saying. Your eyes are on your knees, but you can feel him staring at you. “I heard you pacing around outside. You didn’t even want to come in.”

“That’s not true,” Yoongi says. “I wanted to come in, I just couldn’t find the door.”

You look up in spite of yourself.

“Sorry?”

“There some sort of enchantment that makes the entrance to your chambers invisible sometimes,” he explains.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you know?”

“It’s happened to me once before,” Yoongi says, “a few years ago when I tried to come up here.” He shrugs. “Maybe it happens every eighth Tuesday, or when there’s a waxing crescent moon. Fuck if I know.”

You peer at him closely, and he meets your gaze, steady. You find you’re inclined to believe him.

“Why are you here, then?” you ask. You’re pretty sure it’s not a holiday.

“Ah.” A shadow flits over Yoongi’s face, so fast you almost don’t believe it was ever there. “There’s a traveling musical troupe passing through the village right now,” he says. “They set up an impromptu show outside of Seokjin Kim’s place, and loads of people were gathering…”

You cock your head, baffled.

“But Seokjin lives in The Prospers,” you say. It’s the nicest area in the whole village, and positively brimming with princesses. 

“Yes.”

“And…” You look at him curiously. “The Prospers are quite far north.”

“They are,” he agrees.

Might as well spell it out for him.

“You’d have to go out of your way to pass Seokjin by, wouldn’t you?” you press. “If you wanted to avoid all the merrymaking and noise, couldn’t you just… go home?”

Yoongi gives you a long, pointed look.

“Ah.” You understand, now. “You’re neighbors?”

“We are.”

Hot damn. Your parents were poor before you, and based on your experience of life—which you haven’t exactly, like, hit out of the ballpark, or anything—you don’t think you’re going to be the one to break the chain. The only reason you’d have to be near The Prospers is in the unlikely scenario someone hired you for a job.

“You must be loaded,” you blurt out, eyes wide.

Yoongi’s lip twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

“I’m old money,” he says without inflection.

Interesting. You can’t decide if you’re shocked, or if deep down, you’d known all along.

“Do you have to work?”

“No,” he says. “I do anyway, though. I’m an historian.”

You regard him curiously. 

“And your parents?”

“My mother’s an extreme laundry batter,” [3] he says in a dry tone that suggests he’d rather not expound.

“Expound, please.”

“She’s an athlete,” he says, and then, before you can inquire further: “And my father ran a curio shop full of different historical artifacts before he died. He’d amassed quite the collection.”

“I see.” Much like magic, certain aptitudes and compulsions tend to be passed along hereditarily—it tracks that Yoongi and his late-father shared an affinity with the past. You, for instance, had taken after your father professionally—but you suppose that in most other matters, you really are just like your mom.

For one thing, she’d been sent to the tower herself a fair few times throughout your childhood—and just like you, she’d always maintained the punishment never fit the crime(s). You have memories of her trudging back home after weeks—sometimes even months—spent locked away. But while she’d always returned to a loving husband and daughter, you’ll be returning to an empty hut when your sentence is through.

Alone, alone, alone.

“My mom was a fletcher,” [4] you offer, “albeit a spectacularly unsuccessful one. Her handiwork was up to par, of course, but nobody ever commissioned her.”

“Why not?” Yoongi asks, tone light—but it doesn’t escape your notice how his gaze, like so many gazes before, sharpens at the invocation of your mother.

“For starters, she had this habit of jabbing people with arrows when they wandered too close,” you say, fond—and somewhat defiant. The court of public opinion had long since deemed your mother a bitter old shrew whose pride had cost her—and what’s more, her family—everything: money, opportunities, and any hope at a respectable social standing. But as far as you’re concerned, her detractors could all go kick rocks.

You miss her every day.

Granted, maybe you’d simply seen a different side of her than she’d showed the village. For one thing, she’d never jabbed you with anything sharp (or, come to think of it, anything remotely approaching semi-prickly)—but even if she had, you suspect your feelings would remain the same.

“Hey.” Your mouth starts working before your brain has a chance to catch up to its movements; the surge of emotion you feel, thinking about your mother—thinking about how she’d spent chunks of your childhood wasting away in this selfsame room, probably feeling just as sad and misunderstood and broken as you have during your imprisonment—waylays you in its intensity. “I lied last time you were here.”

There’s an immediate shift to the air, subtle but perceptible as Yoongi folds his arms and tilts his chin to look at you directly. For all intents and purposes, he cuts a relaxed figure, leaning against the window—you’d almost believe he was bored, if his eyes on you weren’t so intense and unblinking. Something about the way he’s looking at you calls to mind a cat—a patient one, who knows how to feign aloofness until a mouse dares to cross his whiskers.

“Oh?” he says softly, encouraging you to continue—but the hair on the back of your neck stands under his consideration regardless. Moments ago, Yoongi had struck you as almost wild with a panic he could not control and that you could not trace. Now, you get the sense he’s very much in command of his body; very much in command of the room.

Not for the first time, you wonder who Yoongi is outside of this tower—your prison, and his bolthole. There’s so much about him you don’t know; so much that you can’t learn about him while you’re trapped here.

“I said nobody liked my mother,” you begin, feeling a bit like you’re walking through an active minefield. “Remember?”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

“I liked her,” you say, clenching your tattered skirts to steady your trembling hands. The thing about sincerity—specifically, practicing it—is that it sucks freaking donkey dongs, but you’d rather reveal yourself to Yoongi as occasionally sentimental then have him draw a false conclusion about you. Perhaps he’d thought you’d been lying about being repentant, or some other insidious thing—and while there’s a lot about Yoongi you don’t know, you’re reasonably certain that he’s not one to suffer liars gladly. “She was misunderstood, is all. Just like me.”

You’re still worrying the fabric on your skirts when Yoongi moves from the window; dimly, you notice that he can be very quiet when he wants to be, because were it not for the way his shadow shifts across the stone floor, flickering in the early-evening candlelight, you’re not sure you would have even known he was approaching.

And then he’s there. Without warning, he wraps his hand—those long, pale fingers—around your wrist, not so tight that you feel shackled, but firm enough to really feel the weight of them. With a jolt, you realize this is the first time he’s touched you. His hand is warm.

It takes a moment, but you manage to tilt your chin up. His dark eyes aren’t trained on your face, but your skirts.

“You were wearing this last time, too,” he murmurs, surprising you.

You don’t know why you answer him in a whisper.

“I didn’t really have time to pack before I got thrown in here,” you admit. “The tower is equipped for survival, but it’s missing some basic necessities.” [5]

He glances up, then, eyes roving your face, and you have to work hard not to slump in relief: the hardness from earlier seems to have evaporated, along with his initial agitation. Now, he merely looks thoughtful as he releases your hand to inspect the well-worn fabric with his fingers.

He’s so close. Close enough that you’re suddenly worried he can hear how hard your heart is beating; how your breath hitches in your throat at the casual intimacy of having his hand buried in your lap and his warm, woody scent—reminiscent of amber, you decide—flooding your senses. When you chance a peek at his face, however, you’re both relieved and let down to discover he seems thoroughly unconcerned—you’d almost go so far as to say unaffected—at the proximity.

Then your stomach gives a loud, traitorous growl, and the moment is broken.

Yoongi laughs—you get a glimpse of teeth, white and perfect, before he’s stepping back from you, bringing the hand that was in your lap—your lap!—to rub at the back of his neck. Behind him, the window reveals a rich plum-purple sky. Dusk has fallen.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says with a low huff of amusement. “My mother’s home for the next month. She’ll wonder if I’m not back for dinner.”

You smile tightly, trying to ignore the hollow pit gnawing at your stomach at the thought of him leaving you again. Not because you’re super attached, or anything. It’s just… being alone is kind of ass, and despite last month’s extreme stair-climb—you’re just not an ass girl!

“What about the musical troupe?” you ask. “Won’t they still be playing?”

“I can avoid them easily enough,” he says, “and head back to The Prospers from the east instead of the west.”

“Oh, good,” you say.

Silence—not exactly uncomfortable, but poignant—descends as Yoongi goes to pick up his pan flute and pad over to the door. You and Yoongi don’t exactly have a stunning track record for goodbyes, and so you’re already bringing your hands to your ears, hoping to lessen the effects of his enchanted music—you’d like to stay up long enough to eat dinner, at least—when he surprises you by hesitating near the door instead of just leaving.

“Have a good night, YN,” he says in his deep voice, like lead dropping on granite, and maybe it’s the fact that he almost looks unsure in his expression of well-wishes that impels you to speak at the last second, right before he brings the pan flute to his lips.

Or maybe it’s loneliness; a reflex response, some sort of neural underpinning that bids you to reach out for social connection—to ask him to linger—because you’ve come to dread being alone.

Or maybe it’s just that you don’t have the guts to ask him what you really want to know, which is if you’ll see him again.

Which is if he’ll come back.

Which is if he even wants to.

He might not. You know that. And if he doesn’t, then maybe the reason you speak is because you’re afraid this might be your last chance to make your mark on him, the way he already has on you.

“Hey,” you hear yourself saying. In the end, you suppose it doesn’t matter why you speak. It just matters that you do. “You lied to me, too, you know.”

You’re staring right at him, so you know you’re not imagining things when he stiffens, though it’s nearly imperceptible. Yoongi, you’ve come to learn, is the master of his face; nothing about his expression betrays what’s going through his mind as he lowers the pan flute and turns, slowly, to face you. Perhaps he looks a shade paler. Then again, you could just be imagining things.

“What did I lie about?” he says after a moment, unreadable—but not denying.

You hold his gaze, steady.

“Last time, you told me you come here when you want to be alone,” you say, tone airy. “But today, you spent a half-hour looking for my door, knowing I was in here.”

It’s just a shot in the dark, but something about his reaction makes you feel like there’s something Yoongi knows that he’s not telling you—something that, if you play your cards right, will keep him coming back.

You hold your breath for a suspended moment in which you’re not sure how he’ll respond—perhaps you’ve fucked up, and made things uncomfortable between you; or maybe you’re wrong, and he’s going to mock you for your impudence.

There’s always the chance that, somehow, you’re on to something. You’ve no idea what happens in that scenario.

In the end, he blinks at you—once, twice—before making an amused sound in his throat that sounds almost like a growl. You watch him run a hand over his face, shaking his head.

“Have a good night, brat,” he amends his last statement.

You think it went about as well as it could have.

You stay awake long enough to eat dinner, and fall asleep thinking about Yoongi’s teeth.

  * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

Two days after Yoongi’s visit, you take the weighty tome detailing the village’s genealogy off of the bookshelf.

You’ve been thinking about how Yoongi and his late-father both ended up in vocations concerned with the past, and how you, just like your mother, ended up in the tower.

Then you think about the old refrain people used to mutter about you as a child:

Those born to crawl shall never fly.

It’s an ugly saying, and not a notion to which you subscribe. You no more believe that people are pre-wired—that criminals, for example, come tumbling out of the womb fated to sin—than you do that you swallow eight spiders a year while sleeping (with the way you sleep open-mouthed, you’re sure the figure’s much closer to twenty!).

Still. A part of you—and not a healthy one—is curious to learn if they’re right. Maybe you never had a chance. Maybe you really do come from a long and distinguished line of ignorami. [6]

You open the book and land in the M-surname section completely by chance. Surprisingly, the book is relatively up to date—Yoongi’s name seems to flare out at you from the bottom of the page, beacon-like, and you pause to examine further.

There’s a portrait by his name, but it’s dated; the illustrator has drawn him at around ten years old, if you had to guess. The portrait of father, however—Yejun, you note—is almost the Yoongi-of-today’s spitting image. Same bowed lips. Same clever, pretty eyes. Idly, you skim up Yejun’s side of the tree to Yoongi’s great-great uncle, Panyong Min. Yoongi must have inherited his thick, pretty hair from his mother, but now you can see where he got his nose—as well as his pan flute.

You thumb idly through the book, your eyes catching every so often on an illustration of someone who looks familiar—Namjoon’s mother, who shares his eyes; a picture of the apothecary Taehyung Kim as a baby, looking like a resting ball of dough.

When you arrive at your family’s section, you receive the shock of your life when you’re confronted with a portrait of yourself at the bottom of the page. Even more disarming is how detailed it is—far more attentively rendered than any of the other portraits you’d come across—down to the clip-on earrings you’d been obsessed with wearing as a child.

NAME: YN

OCCUPATION: N/A (Child)

NOTES: None.

WARNINGS: Avoid if possible.

You blink, unsure of what to make of that—but before you can ponder too long, a tiny pang squeezes your chest, just behind your ribs, as you look up to find a similarly intricate drawing of your mother smiling out at you from the parchment.

In fact, now that you’re looking, every person on your mother’s side appears to have been captured in meticulous detail. You trace your thumb gently over her familiar features, then lean in to read.

NAME: Cortana

OCCUPATION: Fletcher.

NOTES: Delinquent. Arraigned several times on “stabbing” charges; known to enjoy spearing innocent village-folk with sharp instruments (twigs, spears, poles, arrows produced in her workshop, and the occasional dart stolen from the local tavern).

WARNINGS: Dangerous; markedly unrepentant for her behavior; coldhearted. Avoid if possible.

Your stomach churns as you re-read the last sentence again: avoid if possible. If you knew what was good for you, you’d stop here—throw in the towel, and go back to counting your shin hairs.

Instead, you continue on to your grandmother.

NAME: Bixby

OCCUPATION: Angler.

NOTES: Misanthrope. Moved to the seaside at age twenty to go “establish a rapport with the dolphins.” Spotted multiple times roaming the coast in only her saggy underdrawers (could actually be incontinence diapers; unclear).

WARNINGS: Unpredictable and erratic. Avoid if possible.

Heat flushes through your body as, unable to stop yourself now, you continue upward to your great-grandmother.

NAME: Googelle (nickname: Elle)

OCCUPATION: Thief

NOTES: Multiple eyewitness accounts describe seeing Elle jump—“like a flying squirrel”—off various roofs of homes and establishments that were later reported to have been burglarized. 

WARNINGS: Temperamental and conniving. Avoid if possible.

By now the ache in your chest has matured into full on nausea. Your breathing is shallow, harried; it feels like there are shards of glass lodged in your throat as you finally look up to the last entry—a joint profile—on your mother’s line of your great-great grandmother, Alexa, and her twin sister, Siri.

NAMES: Siri (left), Alexa (right)

OCCUPATIONS: Unknown

NOTES: Siri reported dead (COD: accident, drowning) at nineteen. Alexa, always the hideous twin, oft described as “deeply unpleasant.”

WARNINGS (ALEXA): Horrid company; absolute downer at parties. Avoid if possible.

You study the illustrations of the twins. Siri—eternally youthful—is depicted as running merrily through a field of wildflowers. She looks beautiful and carefree, as if the whole world rests at her feet.

Alexa, on the other hand, has been captured at age twenty-nine—which is to say, on the cusp of utter hagdom, in the eyes of the artist. She’s depicted as skeletal and sulking, rubbing her hands together like some sort of miserable crane fly who’s lost its wings.

For a moment, you sit, body frozen, eyes jerking desperately over the page as though if you only stare long enough, the words will rearrange themselves into a kinder, more honest sequence. Because this isn’t honest. This isn’t just.

And you won’t accept it. 

Something snaps in you, then—something that’s not quite anger, but that takes over your entire body just like it. There’s a simmering beneath your skin: a hot, tingling itch that you can’t seem to scratch, that’s tightening your throat, restricting your airwaves, and making it hard to breath. Hard to think.

Shame, you realize in a cold flash of insight. That’s what you’re feeling. It’s fucking shame. And with that realization comes anger—comes indignation—because that’s not fucking fair. Whoever wrote this book didn’t know your family. You know your family. The page before you blurs as tears fall, hot and fast, into your lap.

Blindly, you stumble to the bookshelf, grabbing the quill and pot of ink you’d found your first week in the tower, ready to amend the lies—that your mother was dangerous; that she was to be avoided if possible—with true things that only ever made you want to bring her closer.

Did the author of this book know that she smelled sweet, like roses?

Did they know that she taught you to shoot arrows, so you could defend yourself against nightmares?

Did they know that she never broke a promise?

That she always wore red?

That she was never too proud to say sorry?

You jab quill to paper, over and over, but the ink refuses to transfer. You’d forgotten about that—forgotten about the spell that prevented you from sending out a plea for help that first week.

“Come on,” you mutter, blood beating in your ears like a volley of cannon fire. You know this is futile, a fool’s errand—and, as though to corroborate the fact, the tip of your quill breaks the next time you slam it to the paper—but you’re crying in earnest now, and find you can’t stop.

Perhaps that’s why you miss the first knock on your door—and then the second.

Perhaps that’s why you don’t hear the sound of someone calling your name, tentatively at first, and then, after an unsure moment, more urgently.

You snap to when your door swings open and you lock gazes with a familiar pair of dark eyes.

“YN?”

His lips are moving, but you hear him as if from the bottom of a sea.

“Are you okay?”

You manage a half-hearted gurgle, and then he’s there, kneeling before you and grabbing your hands, taking the broken quill away. Without missing a beat, you lean forward, flinging your arms around his neck and blubbering incoherent curses into his broad, familiar chest—and he lets you.

“T-this… this…” You swallow and pull back, wiping your face on your tattered dress sleeve. You take a deep, rattling breath, then jab the book. “This is bullshit.”

Namjoon stands and comes to look over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincere. You meet his eyes as he drops into the seat opposite you. “I loved your mother like she was my own.”

He did. You know that. All the same, the knowledge does little to mitigate the bitter taste that the note of caution attached to each member of your family’s name—avoid if possible—left in your mouth.

“I want to revise it,” you say, stubborn. “But no matter how hard I press quill to parchment—”

Namjoon has grace to look sheepish. 

“Ah.” He reaches forward and gently shuts the book—not to save it from your defacement attempts, you realize, but to spare you the heartache of staring at the cruel words any longer.

“That’s actually an enchantment my grandmother placed on every book that comes into the village library,” he explains. “She wanted to ensure they remained in prime condition for loaning, so that everyone who wanted to could read. If I remember correctly, only the author of the book should be able to amend it. Although…” 

He looks pensive as he flips to the title page, nodding to himself.

“This was written by a Min,” he says, thumbing a symbol you hadn’t paid any mind to when you’d opened the book—a family crest of what appears to be a faun in a wooded glen. Then, mistaking the strangled sound you make in your throat for one of curiosity: “There’s a long line of historians in the Min family.”

“Oh,” you say weakly.

“I’m friends with the youngest Min. His name’s Yoongi,” Namjoon says, thoughtful. “I’m not one hundred percent how my grandmother’s charm works, but it’s possible that Yoongi could revise the book if the original writer shares his same blood…”

You have no idea what to make of that. When Yoongi said he was an historian, you hadn’t considered that he might specialize in family ancestry. To be fair, he clearly didn’t author this book, considering his own entry was made during his adolescence.

Still, you wonder just how much of your family history he knows—or thinks he knows, anyway.

Avoid if possible.

“As for why I’m here.” Namjoon’s straightening in his chair, clearing his throat. You shake your head, concentrating back on him with effort. “I was having a drink last night, and it sort of... occurred to me that you might not have all the necessities you need here in the tower. A change of clothes, for one thing, and materials for your…”

Namjoon looks pointedly at your crotch.

“Monthly bleeding?” you ask dryly.

“That’s the one,” he agrees, and you think you’re both relieved he didn’t try to start pantomiming. “I have two hours before I promised Sungwoon I’d go check out a dewberry bramble he stumbled upon whilst foraging—he thinks it might be cursed—but that should be more enough time for you to pack up some essentials from your hut.”

“And how long of a stay should I be packing for?” you say, unable to keep the edge from your tone.

Namjoon winces, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’m working on it, YN,” he says lowly, and now that your tears have more-or-less dried, it occurs to you that your friend looks stressed. Tired. “There’s a lot going on in the village right now, but I promise you that I’m doing my best to get your hearing scheduled as soon as possible, okay?”

“I know you are, Joonie,” you murmur. “I’ve just been kind of lonely…”

He sends you a wan smile, reaching for your hand.

“If it helps, when the hearing finally comes, I’ll argue on your behalf that your time spent locked away is more than adequate punishment. In fact…” He brightens a bit, looking you up and down. “You look awful,” he says, with feeling. “Here’s an idea: let’s take the most public route to your hut, and let as many people see you as possible. Maybe the sight of you looking so decrepit will inspire pity in their hearts.”

“Sure,” you say, unabashed. The idea of the villagers seeing you in your threadbare dress doesn’t bother you. It’s not as though they looked upon you kindly when you had your entire wardrobe at your disposal, anyway.

“You ready?” Namjoon asks, and for the first time since opening the genealogy book, excitement thrums in your chest as it hits you. You’re going to go outside. For a few blessed hours, you’re going to be free.

“Let’s go,” you agree, clapping your hands together as you rise.

Namjoon smiles at you, indulgent.

“All right. I’d ask you if you have everything that you need, but—”

“Actually,” you interrupt him, grabbing the offending book. “Can we take this out of here and destroy it?”

“Er. I can return it to the library for you…” Namjoon offers.

“I want to light it on fire.”

“I know.”

“Or drop cowpies covered in glitter upon it from a great height until the desired destructive impact is achieved.”

“Understandable,” Namjoon says, stunning D-Dum with a snap of his fingers as he steers you down the stairs, and then eventually into the elevator. You’re so thankful, you don’t even mention last time’s climb. “How about I take it to Yoongi, and see if he can’t make some edits to your family’s section?”

“Fine,” you say, no longer listening as, after a long, lonely month spent indoors, you step outside to greet the sun.

Footnotes:

1. You don’t try any of them, of course—but you contemplate them!

2. In truth, you actually had juggled for the guests that night; you’d also told jokes, performed some sleight of hand, and other things of that nature.

3. Extreme laundry batting [also called ELB]: an extreme sport in which (typically rich) people with nothing better to do beat items of clothing clean in dangerous locations. According to the Extreme Laundry Batting Bureau, ELB “combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-beaten tunic.” Examples of locations where such competitions have taken place include an active cyclops cave; a haunted swamp; on top of a traveling horse-drawn carriage; and whilst flying through the air on broomsticks.

4. Fletcher [occupation]: A person who attaches fletchings to the shaft of an arrow (or another projectile) in order to stabilize its flight.

5. You don’t blame Namjoon for this, though. Loath though you are to admit it, you know he’d actually done you a solid by throwing you into the tower, rather than jail. At least here, you get your own private privy chambers, an unlimited amount of food, and books to keep your mind occupied.

6. What the plural of ignoramus would be, were the world just—which, judging by the fact that you’ve been thrown into a tower for a series of dope rampallion pranks, it most certainly is NOT.

A/N: Questions? Theories? Concerns? I would love to hear what you think—please consider leaving feedback via a reblog, my ask box, or below, and see you next time 💜

P.S. "Trapped like a trap in a trap" is a line from Dorothy Parker's fantastic short story, The Waltz.

P.P.S. Extreme laundry batting was inspired by extreme ironing, which is a thing that actually exists. If you want to kill ten minutes, I implore you to go look it up.

P.P.P.S. The gif of Yoongi before the chapter starts is the outfit I imagine him wearing in this, HAVE FUN WITH THAT DEVASTATING INFORMATION 😭🫡