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murderous-intent · 3 years

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Part 13 - Home

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: one night stand, early relationship, noona, smut, angst, fluff

rating: M

word count: about 6.5k

warnings: SMUT (of course) in the form of penetrative sex w/o protection, hand job, oral f. receiving; language, FEELINGS, alcohol intake (we know everyone is way of age here), FEELINGS, talking about feelings, yoongi being way too amazing for words

a/n: hahaha, so um, thanks for not you know...hurting me for last chapter's cliffhanger. i swear it's the last one. speaking of last, this is the penultimate chapter, but really, it wraps up things (I think and hope). I will do an epilogue and i already have a few drabble ideas in mind, but this....holy shit....this is it. hugs to my support team of @sasseone, @deoxyribonucleicacidworld, @xjoonchildx, @hobi-gif for encouragement and critique. to my patreon ppl who support me with some finances and lovely comments.

and to you dear readers, wow and expletive (i have no idea what to put here). this has been a real journey for me as a writer and me as a person. you all have sent me the kindest asks, comments, messages about birthday girl and this yoongi; and how much they mean to you. i can't express what that does for me. thank you. from the bottom of my cynical, dried-up heart: thank you. i hope this doesn't disappoint.

if you like my writings, consider Patreon. supporters there get an early look at my stuff. :D

series list

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12

---

yoongi:: i’m so so sorry, jagi. I can’t get off work to pick you up. I’ll bring the car the moment i can tonight.

You don’t mind. Not really. You’re gross from being on a plane for over thirteen hours, never mind living out of a suitcase for nearly a month. The idea of going home to an empty house to take a shower and do laundry and possibly nap for seventy hours sounds like heaven.

The best friend and her husband have no problem dropping you off, with a travel-weary hug and a promise to have a meal together soon. It doesn’t matter that you’ve been with them this whole time. You always have it in you to spend time with them.

You find the spare key under the deck chair and let yourself in. It smells clean. Not that you live in a disaster, but it’s a very nice lemon-clean smell that you recognize as one of your bottles of cleaner.

Did he clean?

You lock the door and set your keys on the table, pulling your suitcase and carry on with you down the hall to your bedroom. Before you’d left, you’d emptied a drawer in your dresser (no easy feat as you hated to throw things away that were mildly functional) for Yoongi if he needed it if/when he stayed.

You didn’t mention it to him before you left, your mind and body too occupied with other thoughts and actions.

You set your case on your bed and pull open the once empty drawer.

It’s dumb, right? Dumb to feel so much at a drawer full of black and grey t-shirts, black boxer briefs and a few rolled up pairs of socks (he really doesn’t do much color, does he)?

Dumb to touch one of the shirts and sigh at its softness?

You close the drawer, shaking your head and move to do the unpleasant task of unpacking. You make sure that the first load is going before you turn on your shower. Your phone beeps at you.

yoongi:: home?

:: yes, thank you. The place looks better than how I left it.

yoongi:: i wanna claim responsibility but a lot of it was hoseok.

You laugh at the honesty.

yoongi:: it’ll be late when I get in.

:: if you need to stay in the city, that’s fine. I’m not planning on leaving for at least 24 hours.

Was that okay? Yes, you needed, wanted to see him, but you’re nervous. And when you’re nervous you procrastinate.

What a great adult you are.

yoongi:: i might like your bed better than mine.

Your face heats. Even if it really just means that you chose your mattress well and it’s a delight to sleep on.

You take a shower, washing off the hours of canned air and so much human interaction, and enjoying your own loofah and large bottles (no more travel size). You have one of the longest showers you’ve probably ever taken.

You resist falling into your bed in your towel, knowing it’s still a little too early to go to sleep, even though it’s six hours later according to your body. You reluctantly dry yourself off, leaving your hair a wet and tangled mess.

It’s dinner time, so you scrounge in your own kitchen to come up with leftover fried rice. The idea that he has just chilled here and had takeout gives you way too many feelings. It smells okay and all of a sudden you’re starving.

Most of the hours pass in a whirl of laundry and going through a month of mail. Yoongi didn’t throw away anything. Not even the obvious ‘or resident’ mail. It amuses you that he didn’t, that you are now stuck with life insurance offers, and realtors wanting to ‘be the one’ to sell your house. The pile of pointless and rather wasteful mail is much taller than the bills, one letter from your surrogate grandmother, and two ‘this much off if you spend more than you should’ coupons.

You can be gone for a month and very little has changed.

And yet… a lot has changed.

You glance out the window of your back door as though your car and Yoongi will suddenly be there.

Fuck, you’re really anxious.

Which part do you say first? It doesn’t matter that you’ve thought of nothing else on the entire way back. Probably why your dreams had been so unsettling when you dozed on the plane.

As you sit on the couch, exhaustion falls, making you yawn. You glance at the clock over your television. It could be hours with what Yoongi considered ‘late’.

Maybe closing your eyes isn’t the worst idea.

“Jagi?”

It’s amazing to hear his voice, even in your dreams. You’ve never been really great at remembering too much of your nightly imagines, only the emotions stirred. To hear the low rasp of his voice makes you hum.

“Jagiya?”

You think if you reached out you could actually touch him.

“I can’t carry you to bed. I’d probably drop you.”

Your eyes open and there he is, sitting on the end of the couch, looking at you with messy hair (did he get a haircut?) and his glasses fogged up.

“Yoongi.” You’re up and moving over to him before your brain can catch up, your hands seeking to touch. “You’re here.” His skin barely feels real in your hazy state. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks. You can feel his skin heat under your hands.

“Yep.”

“I missed you,” you say, wanting to infuse those three words with everything you’re feeling. Every time you thought of him while halfway across the world. Every time you wanted to hold his hand, to kiss him.

You can see that he is holding a takeout bag and his messenger bag, so he’s not touching you back. But he’s looking.

What are you so nervous for?

“I missed you too.” He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. “You smell good.”

“You smell like fast food.”

He chuckles and you close your eyes to soak in that laugh of his. The one that always sounds like he didn’t mean to.

“What do you mean you’d drop me?” you ask, eyes opening again. “Are you calling me fat?”

You can’t stop smiling. He’s here. You’re here. A month apart felt like ages but also only two seconds. He bumps noses with you.

“You did say you ate your way through Europe.”

You laugh and playfully push his shoulder, drawing back from him. All you want to do is stare at him. He looks great, but tired. The messy hair is adorable, but the smudges under his eyes make you want to wrap him in your arms.

“How’s work?”

He sighs and then sets down both bags, right on the coffee table. He brushes back your still wet hair.

“I’m exhausted.”

“You look it.”

“My honest girl.”

You feel your eyes well up. You have to tell him.

“I need to talk to you.”

Something flickers in his eyes, noticeable even though the lights aren’t bright in your living room.

But he nods, slowly. “Okay. But I'm honestly half-dead and you look like you might conk out in three seconds.”

“You’re just full of compliments tonight.” Your quick answer covers your disappointment that he wants to wait. You need to get it all out. Right? “Okay.”

He smiles, a slow sexy stretch of his lips. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

You make a face at him, wrinkling your nose. “Only if you shower first.”

He rolls his eyes. “So no kiss?”

Your lips part, eyes dropping to his as though the mere mention makes them a target. The smirk is back.

“Not even a little one?” he whispers, moving closer, reminding you how much you need to tell him. You gently place your hand over his face, pushing him away.

“Nope.”

He huffs, but his grin is sly. “You’ll probably be asleep by the time I get into bed.” He gets up off the sofa, stretching

“Probably.” You reach out to grab his bag, but you’re startled by a kiss to your temple. You look up at him and he gives you a lopsided smile. But he doesn’t say anything, just takes his stuff and leaves you in the living room.

You press your hand over your heart like a southern belle in a bad period film. You’re not sure what your heart is doing. You’re not sure your heart knows what it's doing.

You eventually make your way to your bedroom, checking the doors and turning off lights. It’s more early than late for bed, but jet lag is a bitch. You curl up under the sheets, inhaling the scent of your laundry detergent (who knew that felt like home). The sound of water running in your bathroom causes your eyes to drift shut.

It’s in that sleepy fog that you feel your bed dip with his weight. You reach out, almost instinctively now. His hand clasps yours.

“Okay, jagiya?”

“Okay,” you whisper, tired enough that your inhibitions are almost gone. But you’re too aware of the power of the words you wish to say.

It’s about timing, right?

He wakes you with another kiss. This time, on your nose. The softness of it, the sweetness draws you out of whatever dream island you were on.

“Yoongi?”

“Morning.” His voice is effectively rumbly and despite the heaviness of your limbs, you feel much more alert.

You squint your eyes open to see him right above you, looking down as though this is normal. Waking you up after a night by your side is just… normal.

You immediately cover your mouth with your hand and he smiles.

“I really don’t care.” Never mind that you can smell the mint of your toothpaste on him.

“I do.” You maneuver away from him, trying not to laugh as his lips chase your covered ones. He lands a kiss on your fingers, not too far off from where your lips are. You roll out of your bed, avoiding his legitimate grabby hands and hurry to the bathroom. You attempt to tame your hair before brushing the morning out of your mouth. You look like you’ve been sleeping and as you spit and rinse, you remember all the things you’ve been turning over in your brain for what feels like days and weeks, maybe even months. Turning over like those rock tumblers, smoothing the rough edges away until something acceptable is left.

You really hope it’s acceptable.

When you return to your bedroom, he’s slipping on a t-shirt. You pause and he catches your gaze. He sighs, making a sheepish face.

“I couldn’t get off work today.”

Of course he couldn’t. It’s a very important ‘last step’ of his schooling. He needs to be there.

You nod. “Of course. You’re going in early?”

He sits up, opening his drawer and grabbing a pair of clean boxer-briefs. With his eyes squarely on you, he strips the underwear he slept in and puts on the new ones.

Your cheeks heat at his ease stripping in front of you, especially when there’s no aim for sex.

“If I go in early, I can get off early. And come home to you.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

His words are so powerful. Does he understand how much his words mean to you?

“Oh.”

He approaches you, still clad in just a t-shirt and his underwear. He tilts his head to the side.

“That okay?”

“Yes.”

Your response has him grinning wide, all teeth, and moving in to kiss you.

You have to tell him.

“Yoongi.”

He stops. “What is it?”

You open your mouth, but close it. Maybe you’re really aware of everything or maybe you read him better, but is he nervous? Is that the little shake in his voice?

“When do you have to leave?” You look beyond him at the clock on your vanity. He turns too.

“Like 15 minutes.” He looks back at you. “Bad timing.”

Isn’t it just?

You press your lips together. You can tell him this much. Let him decide what to do with the information.

“The night I called you.” You watch him take a step back as you begin. “Um, when I was drunk?”

“You said you were tipsy.” The teasing is in his voice, there beneath the worry.

You force a smile to your face. “Same thing. I ended the call.”

He lets out a long breath before backing up to sit on the bed. “You know it doesn’t matter, right?”

You blink at him, taken out of your carefully thought-out, though rather lame, speech. “Huh?”

“Whatever happened. With that guy. It doesn’t matter.”

You don’t feel very impressive in your pajamas, standing in your bedroom. But you cross your arms anyway.

“How could it not matter?”

“I mean, to me. Whatever happened. You still–” He swallows. “I mean, you aren’t acting like you want to break up.”

Your eyes widen. “I’m sorry?” You can hear your voice drift into that shrill range and you work to keep it even. “Why would I share my bed with–? No. No. I’m not, but you–”

His head lifts at that, having dropped after his bombshell. “But me?”

You drop your arms. “Can I just… get this out?”

His smile is tiny, but encouraging, like he can’t help but be fond. “Go on, sweetheart.”

The endearment makes you falter, but you strive on, determined. “I kissed him.”

He waits as though you plan to say more. “And?”

“That’s it. I was a little drunk, and he was nice and handsome and I figured, maybe you had a point. Maybe I just want you because you want me. So I kissed him.”

He swallows again and you watch the movement of his throat. “I see.”

“Do you?” You walk to him, intent on finding the right words to make him understand. “Do you understand that the kiss was nice, but it wasn’t you? Kissing him was like… eating my favorite meal, but not made right. He wasn’t right.” You stop walking when your legs touch his bent ones. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you just lay them lightly on his knees. “He wasn’t you.”

Yoongi’s face can be completely unreadable, but at the moment, you think he’s in shock. He thought you’d slept with Val, which is both frustrating (you’ll never agree with him) and sad.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to kiss me if you knew I’d kissed someone else.”

He encircles your wrists with his fingers, a little too tight. “I thought you had slept with him. And I still wanted you. A kiss…”

You interrupt him. “Do not say a kiss is nothing.”

His hold loosens. “I won’t. I just… “ His head drops and rests on your upper chest. “When you hung up, I hated myself for saying it. For encouraging you to be with someone else.”

Well, that is satisfying.

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so smug,” he replies, not looking up. “I still think–”

“No.”

He sighs. “I know.” He runs his hands up and down your forearms, raising up his head.

“Promise me you’ll never suggest it again?”

He purses his lips. “Yeah.” He glanced over at the clock, halting you from continuing. “I have to go.” He stands up, causing you to back up a few steps. Without hesitation, he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt.

There’s no other way to describe kissing him. It’s the same motions, the same body parts touching as anyone else you’d ever kissed, but it was different. It is different.

You realize you’ve rarely kissed anyone, loaded with feelings as you are right now. A sad commentary on your love life, but even the first night, kissing Yoongi was different.

Better.

“I’ll be home before supper, okay?” he says against your mouth. You kiss him again, gripping his t-shirt. “Can I use your car?”

“Yes. I plan to not do anything all day.”

He smiles, making you open your eyes to gaze at him. “I’m jealous.”

“You wanna stay and ‘not do,’ with me?”

“If I stay, we’re definitely doing something.” He punctuates the suggestion with another kiss, lingering this time, his fingers tracing along the curve of your ears.

“You might want to put on pants before you go.”

“You think?” he says, chuckling before letting go of you. He walks around to your closet. You watch as he pulls a haphazardly folded pair of jeans off the shelf in the corner. As he puts them on, he speaks again: “You emptied a drawer.”

“Yes. I thought you might need one.” You don’t say that you debated it for about three days before clearing out the ridiculous amount of t-shirts you own (how many is too many?). You don’t say that you’ve never made space in your home for someone. A guest room is one thing. A drawer is something else entirely.

“Thanks.” He buttons his jeans, allowing him to slide his hands into his pockets. “You sure about the car?”

“Of course. I might sleep more.”

He bites his lower lip to keep from grinning too wide before pulling you in for a hug. “I’ll hurry home.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you for telling me. Even if it doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It matters to you. But it doesn’t change anything for me.” He rubs his cheek on the top of your head. “You can show me all your pictures when I get back.”

You just nod, holding him closer.

“Jagiya?” He notices. He notices everything.

“It was a long month.”

His breath catches before he replies. “Yeah.” He draws back. “Go back to bed.” Another kiss to your forehead and he heads out of the bedroom. You don’t move for several seconds, listening to him gather his things, including your keys. When the door closes, you mouth the words you want to say, trying them out.

You don’t give them voice. Not yet.

---

You doze for an hour or so after he leaves, your nose buried in his pillow before drifting off, wondering how he smells both comforting and desirable (much like the man himself). It takes a little while, your brain back to dissecting your plans, thoughts, feelings, and in general, the very makeup of you.

But jet lag is stronger than your ability to overanalyze and sleep does come. When you wake again, you feel better; maybe not emotionally, but your brain is less hazy. Enough to go through work emails that you avoided during your trip (out of sight, out of mind), learning that someone left suddenly and you are now no longer an assistant professor.

You pause, staring at the email.

You send a quick text.

:: I just got promoted.

It’s several minutes before a response comes in.

bff:: bout damn time

yoongi:: while you were gone? that’s talent

You smile at both texts.

:: I’m kinda still in shock.

yoongi:: i’ll bring home something to celebrate, okay? gotta go. congrats, birthday girl

The moniker surprises you. He seems to prefer ‘jagiya’ to anything else, saying it like it’s your real name. Does he still think of you like that? The bold but naive woman who approached him in a club, resulting in a one-night stand that has now lasted almost half a year, at least in communication.

You grab the book you’d taken with you on the trip, that you’d never gotten round to finishing and decide that maybe you’ll forget for a few hours, enough to finish the book and perhaps Yoongi will be home.

You close your eyes at your own thoughts. Home.

It’s not completely gone from your mind, but the book is entertaining enough to make two hours pass relatively quickly. You haven’t moved for those two hours and you can feel it. So, you close your laptop and walk back to your bedroom, standing in the doorway to see the stack of jeans on your closet shelf.

You’ve lived most of your life alone, and often in your own thoughts and feelings. Many times someone you offered your heart to wasn’t interested, citing reasons that you fall short. Making you feel like you misinterpreted anything that had appeared like affection, fondness, or interest.

You aren’t making this up now, right? You’re not alone in this. You can’t be.

Inclined to picture the worst scenario, you comfort yourself that this might be devastating, but you risked it. You won’t play it safe.

“Hey.”

You jump, so completely in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the car approach, the door or even his footsteps. You spin around to see him at the end of the short hall. He holds up a bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Something sweet and bubbly. You like that.”

“You’re home for lunch?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, walking toward you, glancing at his watch. “A late lunch. It’s nearly three, jagiya.”

Your grasp of time is really off currently. He leans in to kiss you.

“You didn’t hear me?”

“I was… thinking.”

He draws back, eyebrows raised. “That sounds ominous.”

He’s not wrong.

“You’re not denying it.” He sets the bottle on the washing machine, placing his hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on? You just got promoted. I thought I could take you out for dinner. I’d really like to see you tipsy when I can actually touch you.” His smirk is mischievous and when you don’t smile back, his eyes lose their mirth. “I thought we were good.”

“We are. I just…” You should wait, right? For the right moment, for the perfect setting. “I need to tell you something.”

His hands drop from you, a glaze over his eyes. “That’s… not good.”

“It could be.” Why are you talking? Just say it. He’s taking you out to dinner for a tiny promotion, something that no one but those who care for you would do: your parents, your bff.

“Jagiya… I really don’t want you–”

“I love you.”

Your confession would interrupt the man you love who almost sounds like he’s saying he doesn’t want you. But you’re trusting him. And yourself.

“What?” You had no idea his voice could go that high.

You take a deep breath, deciding to relish the words because who knew when you’d get to say them again.

“I love you.”

Gobsmacked.

You’ve never actually seen the expression so clearly on someone’s face, but Yoongi is gobsmacked.

Which makes your confidence teeter just a little.

Maybe you should have waited for a nice dinner, the setting and atmosphere all romantic. Maybe not in the middle of your hallway, the bottle of something sweet and bubbly dripping condensation onto the white metal lid of your washing machine. Maybe wearing something a little nicer than yoga pants and a t-shirt. Maybe with Yoongi having styled his hair, not under a beanie.

Maybe you fucked it all up.

He still hasn’t said anything.

“You don’t have to say it back.” That’s what they say in the movies, right? Even though that is probably the only thing you want to hear in this very moment of your rather uneventful, certainly boring life.

What would it be like to hear someone say ‘I love you’ and not because it’s family or friends? The love; eros, romantic, the wanting of someone for life. A partner. A person you choose.

A person who chooses you. Chooses you first. Not last, or in second place. You’re the one he chooses.

“Yoongi?” You reach out to put your hand near his nose, just to make sure he’s breathing. It’s silly, but he really looks frozen.

“You love me.”

Can you get an allergic reaction from words? Your face feels so hot, like the sun is beneath your skin, blasting outward.

“Yes.”

Is this what it means when writers write ‘time stopped’? You always thought it might be a good thing. The world disappears and time stops. But right now, all you feel is a weird combination of both relief (you finally said it) and anxiety (what the fuck is going to happen now?).

“You… love me.”

This is not how you saw this going in any imagined scenario.

“Yes.” You move your hand to rest on his cheek. His eyes close. “I think you are one of the most wonderful men I’ve ever met. Ever known. I know I always seem nervous or jumpy, but being with you is so safe. You are–” Oh great, you’re gonna tear up. How many times has he seen you cry by now? “You’re the person I always want to be with.”

He releases a shuddery breath before turning his head to press his lips to the inside of your palm. Your heart rate, already rather staccato, speeds up. He meets your eyes and you curse how not helpful the one hall light is in revealing anything about his gaze.

Like a brighter light could help you understand this man.

“Yoongi?”

He shakes his head, moving in toward you, ushering you backwards and into your room. You stumble against the side of your bed. His hands fit round your waist to help you sit on the edge.

Perhaps you are now gobsmacked.

The hand kiss meant something good, right? He wouldn’t do that if he was bothered, or burdened, or just in it for sex, right?

You want to speak again, but you press your lips together and wait. Hoping that he’ll say something to ease the marathon of thoughts in your head.

“I am so fucking in love with you.” It comes out of him like water released from a dam, bursting and gushing. His head is dropped, as though the mere act of speaking has exhausted him.

Now time stops.

He looks up, those dark eyes sharp and burning.

You can’t speak.

“You’re so giving and warm. You have your shit together. You don’t need a barely-making-it-by grad student, almost out of school, with no secure job in a completely unstable industry. I live with guys, pretty much everything I own fits into one tiny bedroom.” He swallows and you see his fingers dig into your bedspread on either side of your hips. “You don’t need me.” He tilts his head to the side, half-smiling at you. “You’re crying.”

You hadn’t noticed. You wipe your eyes, mostly so he doesn’t go blurry. This is the moment of all moments to be savored. To be remembered.

“You’re also the person I always want to be with.” His hands find your hips, one thumb dipping under the waistband to touch your skin.

He waits, that little half-smile never wavering. You try to stop crying. You are more or less unsuccessful.

“Please say it again.”

“Which part?”

“Any.”

He chuckles, low and deep, before leaning in to kiss you softly. “I love you.” He cuts off any reply, mouth back on yours, not softly. You open to him, your hands eagerly seeking his hair as he nudges your knees apart with his leg.

Can you hold him closer? Can you hold him too tightly? You want to be so close that not even air can separate you. He groans when you tug his hair after dislodging his beanie.

His mouth leaves yours only to trail down to your neck. You gasp and he chuckles into your skin.

“My pretty, sensitive girl.” He looks up at you, frowning. “You’re still crying.”

“I’m… overwhelmed.”

He makes a face at you. “You’re dumb. How could I not fall in love with you?” He gently pushes you so you fall back on the bed, letting him climb over you, his arms bracing so only his lower half touches yours.

You shudder.

He smirks.

“I thought… we were doing dinner?” he asks playfully, sliding his leg back between yours, pressing his knee right against your core. “Aren’t you hungry?”

You glare at him, even though you’re trembling with need right now.

“Now you say something like ‘Yes, I'm hungry. Hungry for you’ or you know, some variation.” He looks so pleased with himself that you grab his shirt by the collar, pulling him down so you can kiss that stupid smirking mouth. He grunts at the move, but acquiesces to sliding his tongue along yours, one hand guiding your leg to bend and wrap around him. His other hand slips under your t-shirt, calloused fingers pleasant against the soft skin of your stomach.

Then your stomach growls.

He breaks the kiss, rolling over and laughing hysterically. You can feel your face burn with embarrassment and you cover your betraying body part with your arms. He’s still giggling when he rolls to his side to stare at you.

“Let’s go out.”

You stare back. “Us?”

“Yeah. Let me take you out. We’ll eat, drink, be merry.” He leans in, nosing and kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I took tomorrow off.”

“You did?”

He reaches out to lace his fingers with yours, resting both hands on your stomach. Which growls again, making him grin.

“Well, my sort of boss made me.” His eyes move away from your clasped hands to your face. “When I asked off early to be with my partner who’d been gone a month, she told me to take tomorrow off too.”

Partner.

“Is that what you call me?”

He shrugs. “Girlfriend always seemed so…”

“Young?”

He rolls his eyes. “Kinda. Just not right for what we are.” He brings your clasped hands up to his mouth, kissing yours lightly. “Partner.”

“If I say that with a southern accent, it’ll be weird.”

He grins and kisses you. “Pardner.” It’s an atrocious attempt at the dialect and you snicker.

“Keep your day job, Min Yoongi.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but once again your stomach makes noise.

“I’m gonna shower. We’ll leave in thirty?”

It’s much later. After he takes you to his favorite Cajun restaurant. After he slides in next to you in the booth, hip to hip. After he teases you for your sensitive mouth, but makes sure you have plenty of water and cocktails to drink to abate the burn. Afterwards you order crème brulée for the both of you, but you eat all of it as he grins and sips his whiskey.

It’s later. After you get an Uber, swaying slightly as he ushers you into the backseat, giving your address to the driver. You know you’re tipsy, drunk more on him and his presence than anything you consumed. He kisses you once in the back seat, squeezing your thigh to get you to stop. Which does nothing to lessen the new kind of burn. You just want him so much.

It’s after all that that you’re back home in your bedroom. He’s pulling off his army jacket (never mind that it’s midsummer and hot outside) to hook on the back of your bedroom door.

“Yoongi.”

He turns to give you his attention.

“I love you a lot.”

His smile is so soft. Almost like he doesn’t realize he’s smiling.

“Yeah?” He walks toward you. You’ve planted yourself on your bed for safety as you are still spinny from everything. “Cause I’m pretty?” He wears arrogance so well.

You nod, enjoying his face so close. You cradle his face in your hands once he’s on the bed with you.

“Pretty. Inside and out.”

The smile goes back to soft. He kisses your nose.

“You too, birthday girl.” He moves to kiss you solidly, pressing you back onto your pillows. “I really, really want to be inside you right now.” He meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod, taken with the gruffness of his tone, the lower register giving you tingles. He starts to peel away the simple sundress you’d put on for dinner. He starts to tug it down your frame, but you shake your head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Won’t go over my hips.”

His flash of smile is dark and tempting. He reverses, sliding it up, his hands along your sides, making you tremble. When it’s over your head, he kisses you leisurely, letting the fabric keep your arms above your head, restrained. You have a moment of doubt, of fear that he’ll leave you like this, unable to touch him.

He continues to kiss you, biting your lower lip as he removes the dress from you entirely, letting it fall on the side of the bed.

“I won’t ever do anything without asking, or checking in with you, jagiya.”

You’re so easy to read.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, looking down at your underwear-clad body. “No apologies.” He sits up on his knees, his hands running back down your sides until he’s at your waist, his thumbs right under your ribs.

You squirm.

“Ticklish?” He doesn’t really want an answer, continuing his path now at your hips, his fingers brushing along the width and roundness of them, where the bone protrudes slightly, where it’s all cushioned because you will never be skinny. “I had dreams of your body, its shape when you were gone.”

You try and sit up, but he hooks a finger in your underwear, tugging it down just a bit. He chuckles when you squeeze your legs together.

“You did?”

“I keep thinking I can somehow get that into my music. But no effect quite works.” He raises up off of you, removing your underwear completely. “Fuck, I have missed every part of you.”

You turn your head, unable to watch him stare at your cunt like that.

“Embarrassed, jagiya?”

“I’m still adjusting to someone wanting my body… and me.”

He waits until you look back at him, eyes both heated and soft before sliding down to kiss and lick your folds. You make an indescribable noise and he laughs against your skin. You try and squeeze again, but he has one hand on your inner thigh and he’s holding you open.

A month is a long time and you hardly feel like you have time to enjoy his gifted mouth when you come, your body shuddering with waves of release. He doesn’t move away until you push at his head, causing him to sit back up and wink at you. He removes his shirt, wiping his face on it and letting it fall, probably next to your discarded dress. He’s quiet when you sit up, shaky from your orgasm, but determined to get rid of his pants and underwear. He idly traces his finger along the cups of your bra.

You shove down his pants to his thighs, then his boxer briefs. He hisses when you take him in hand.

“Too harsh?” you ask, worried you gripped him too hard in your eagerness to make him feel good.

“No…” He grins sheepishly at you. “Just really missed your hand.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a hand.”

He wraps his own around yours as you stroke him, smearing his precum to make him slick. His hand tightens around yours making you look up.

“It’s yours.”

You feel tears again, so you lift up to your knees to kiss him. He sighs into your mouth, his free hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers in your hair. He pulls firmly, making you bare your throat to him. The sounds his mouth makes against your skin only add to the already obscene soundtrack.

Then his hand stops yours from moving.

“You good?” you ask as he loosens his hold on your hair. His face is flushed, glistening with exertion, lips shiny and pink. You kiss him, breathing him in. He inhales sharply, hands on your shoulders to push you back on the bed. He moves some of your pillows, propping you up some, his hand gently keeping your head from hitting the headboard. “I love you.”

He looks up. “I love you. Saranghae.”

You mouth the foreign word back.

He smiles, eyes bright before he puts one more pillow behind your head. He lifts one of your legs and slides in. You both moan in tandem.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” You barely can speak, but you get that out. His nose flares at your teasing and his only retort is to pull out and push back in, rendering you silent.

No matter how long you get this, you know it won’t ever be ‘just sex’ to you. It still mystifies you: both the ordinariness of it, and the sacredness of it. It’s just bodies, doing something that bodies have been doing for millenia. And yet.

Yet.

There’s no way to put it into words, just how much having Yoongi this close affects you. You won’t come from this. You don’t. But it doesn’t matter. He will. Tugging on his hair, kissing his jaw, his neck, moving in rhythm with him will make him feel good.

Just like he makes you feel good.

You hope you make him feel as good, cared for, and loved as he does for you. That’s what love is, right? Just giving and giving to the other person as they give and give to you.

You hope so. You can’t wait to know for sure.

When he falls on top of you, exhausted and spent, you play with his hair, feeling his rough breath panting against your chest. You kiss the top of his head.

“You good?” you ask after a few minutes.

“Yeah, jagiya.” He kisses your collarbone. “I’m good. I might fall asleep like this.”

“Okay.”

You feel his body vibrate with his chuckles. “I don’t think it’ll be comfortable for you.”

“I don’t care.”

He pushes himself up and off you, pulling out and you both wince. “Come on. Let’s clean up and go to bed. We can sleep in tomorrow.”

You nod tiredly and take his proffered hand and get off the bed too. You clean yourself up in the bathroom as he strips the bed. You pull on one of his t-shirts from his drawer and he smirks at the sight of you in it. While he pops into the shower, you put on new sheets.

Your phone, discarded on the dresser, flashes with a message. You smooth out the comforter before opening your phone to see.

bff:: hell yeah he loves you! don’t forget to hydrate while having marathon sex. you don’t want to pass out.

You show Yoongi the text when he comes back in and you’re laughing. He smiles wide, gums and teeth showing.

“Should I tell her we’re about to go to sleep?”

He takes your phone from you, setting it back on the dresser. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you under the clean sheets and against him.

“Let her think that and I’ll make it up to you with marathon sex and water to drink in the morning.” He buries his face in your hair, holding you close. You turn to face him, hands resting on his chest. His eyes already shut, face smooth in repose.

“Do you think you can say ‘I love you’ too many times?” you ask quietly. He scrunches his nose, telling you that he heard you.

“Don’t know. Let’s find out.”

—–

crossposted to ao3

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© 2020-21 btsarmy9593: BTS belongs to BigHit and they are just inspiration. I am fully aware that my stories are not them, in any way. They are far better than any thing I could write. The rest is from my little brain. Please do not steal. Why would you do that?

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