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#yoongi angst
pasteljeon · a year ago
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core pride (m)
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❥ summary: ot7 where you’re rich and lonely so you adopt 7 hybrids. chaos ensues.
❥ genre: hybrid au, wolf!namjoon, tuxedo cat!yoongi, golden retriever!hoseok, tiger!taehyung, calico cat!jimin, bunny!jungkook, honey bear!jin
❥ warnings: brief description of assault/violence, panty sniffing, sub jimin, sub jungkook, ur once again the meat in the jikook sammich, bathtub sex, lotta angst, some fluff
❥ length: 6.6k
❥ notes: tis my first ever attempt at a hybrid au. please be kind :( let me know what you think <3
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Winter, Year 20XX
The car beeps quietly, the sound piercing the stillness of the night as you glance up, watching as the powdered flakes flutter silently onto your coat. They sparkle in the muted glow of the streetlamp, soaking your hair and tickling your eyelashes.
Snow crunches beneath your boots, your steps freshly printed upon a new layer as you make your way to the door.
It is pointless to try and enter without perforating the peace. There are no lights on, but that is only because they do not need the artificial shine to recognize your silhouette. The sound of the tires pulling into the driveway, the slow beat of your heart, the steady rising and falling of your chest, the smell of damp clothing, the sweet touch of your shampoo and something indescribably you. They know it is you.
“Noona!” The faint, rapid thumping fades as his strong arms wrap around you, ignoring your muffled protests and burying his face in the crook of your neck. Another pair of arms circle your waist, a shiver whispering through your body at the feel of soft lips against the top of your ear.
“Hello, boys,” you sigh, the weariness weighing heavily on your limbs as you sink into their embrace. “You’re getting yourselves wet …”
“We missed you,” the one behind you disregards your weak attempt at chastising them, tail curling around your arm as he scatters featherlight kisses onto your jaw.
Jungkook says nothing, hands fumbling with the belt of your thick coat. He helps you shrug it off, hanging it on the side to dry.
One hand in each, they lead you to the master bathroom, carefully guiding you in the absence of light. As you pass the living room, you notice another body peeking from the corner.
Slitted eyes linger in the pressing darkness, raking over you once, and disappearing on your next blink.
The candles flicker, the lavender scent soothing and casting a warm yellowed glow to the room and you stop to touch Jungkook’s cheek. He exhales shakily, nuzzling your hand. One ear droops, covering the left side of his face, as if to hide his insecurity.
Jimin walks forward respectfully, twisting the knob to adjust the temperature until it is deemed appropriate and waits, perched on the porcelain, for the tub to fill, before dropping a rose bath bomb into it.
“Oh, bunny,” you murmur, watching sadly as he sniffles. Jungkook scrubs his eyes furiously, almost angry at his uncharacteristic show of emotion.
His body sags, arms clutching your waist tightly as he kisses you back hard, tasting salt and copper.
“Sorry,” he whispers, forehead pressed against yours. He dips his head to suckle the bite on your lower lip, running his tongue over it lovingly.
“Take off your shirt,” you say in response. He obeys, lifting his arms as his shirt comes off, fluttering to the ground. He arches at the feel of your hands running down his front. The deep ridges of his stomach are thrown in sharp relief in the shadowed light. This is what he has been working on, you realize, as your fingers dig into the defined v-lines that dip into his sweats. Jungkook whines at the pressure, body jerking as he staggers onto you. His skin is hot, and a shudder ripples down his spine when your palm meets his pectoral to steady him.
“Get in the tub, baby,” you say. Jungkook moves as if underwater, lethargic in the heat that knots his stomach. He kicks his sweats off, nothing underneath, and sinks into the hot water with a lewd groan.
“Kitten.”
Jimin rises at the sound of your voice, shirt gone in the next instant as he sinks to his knees before you. His gaze is reverent, tender, his touch gentle but firm as he strips you slowly. Covering every inch of bare skin revealed with his lips as he unbuttons your blouse, unclips your bra and unzips your skirt. His nose presses against your panties, inhaling deeply as his tongue flicks out to scent your core. The sight is obscene, so dirty it is enough to make you blush, if you were new to Jimin’s obsession with your taste.
“Smell so good,” he pants, suckling your clit through the soaked fabric. The bulge in his boxers is mouth-watering, and you can already feel the weight of his cock pressed against your tongue. His tail twines your ankle, and you stifle a moan at his feverish licks.
“In the tub, love,” you say softly, tugging at his black locks. Jimin mews and nods, shoving his briefs off before settling in the water next to Jungkook. They watch with hungry gazes as you step out of your panties and sink into the bath leisurely.
They wait, unmoving and hardly breathing, as you close your eyes, body loosening as the heat soaks into your sore muscles.
When the ache lessens, you stand, the water line edging just below your breasts, them greedily consuming the sight of the droplets sliding down your shoulder blades and perked nipples as you make your way to him.
Jungkook watches with half-lidded eyes, expression dazed and thoroughly fucked out already despite the minimal stimulation thus far. Your bunny, so easily tamed and pleased, with a sex drive so intense you could scarcely surface for a moment’s rest.
“Nnng,” he gasps when you flatten your palms to his pecs, raking your nails over his nubs. His chest pushes out to seek your punishing touch despite his furrowed eyebrows and cherry-bitten lips as if unable to decide if the stimulus was welcomed or not.
His cock, still impossibly hard, nudges your entrance from below the water. Jungkook has the audacity to blush when he feels it. “I—I’m—mmf,” his apology is swallowed by your kiss, his eyes rolling back as he keens into your mouth.
An arm snakes around to cup your right breast, thumbing your nipple. “Ahh,” Jimin hisses, biting back a needy whimper when you grip his cock.
He presses himself against you, the heat of him bleeding into your back. “My pain slut,” you coo as you release Jungkook. The bunny hybrid slumps back, lips slick with drool as he grinds desperately against you, gaze unfocused.
Your collective sounds echo delightfully in the wide expanse of the room, water splashing over the edges of the tub as the movement of their hips push waves swelling over the surface. They cannot resist the innate urge to brand evidence of their devotion onto your skin, the marks blooming and scattering like the wind over your thighs, stomach, and neck. Between two hard, hot bodies, they grip you with strong arms and you throw your head back, a faltering gasp caught in your throat as Jungkook ducks his head, dark locks plastered to his forehead, to sear a new constellation on your collarbones. Jimin’s sharp teeth are coaxing another violet flower to bloom across your jugular.
Your legs tremble when you finish, exhaustion seeping deep into your bones. The two seem to exchange silent conversation, and Jimin sets you down gingerly before allowing Jungkook to scoop you up. He steps out of the bath, the water a quarter of its initial level.
You open your mouth to protest, but Jimin kisses the pad of your finger. “It’s okay, noona, I’ve got it.”
Jungkook carefully helps you into the shower, the tiles cool against your burning skin. You lean heavily against him, smiling as he rubs your nose with his affectionately. Reaching for the shampoo, he works up a gentle lather, massaging your scalp soothingly. You sigh blissfully, closing your eyes briefly before stretching for the soap, running it over his abdomen.
The frosted glass opens quietly as Jimin steps inside, having finished draining the water. Jungkook rinses your hair, and you turn to Jimin to drizzle some on his while the younger scrubs at his curls. A faint thumping sound can be heard again when you rub Jungkook’s ears. He flushes hotly at your soft giggle.
By the time you are all finally clean and properly bathed, you are feeling slightly more refreshed and awake.
“Thank you. My good boys,” you whisper, kissing the crown of their heads. You smooth over their fringes, smiling fondly down at them. They are sharing the same room tonight, too tired to fight over who would warm your bed. Jimin purrs sleepily, and Jungkook merely blinks up at you tiredly, doe eyes soft and sweet.
“Sweet dreams.”
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“Hey. Sorry I’m so late.” He stirs at the sound of your voice, hushed and melodic, eyes remaining closed even as his ear flicks. The mattress sinks slightly under the added weight.
“They were really worried,” he rumbles, raspy from the drag of sleep. “I know.” You stroke his hair, and he chuffs happily, melting. It has been three months already, and yet you have made little progress with some, while others still suffer from severe anxiety whenever you were away for too long. With your chosen field of study, that adjustment was difficult. Today has likely been one of the worst. You know because you are almost six hours late, and there is a stratum of palpable tension that lines the atmosphere of the house, one only slightly weakened by the physical announcement of your return.
“Tell us next time,” Taehyung murmurs, tail winding around your bicep. “Please. They were almost beside themselves. It took hours to calm them down. I worry about you.”
“I will. I’m sorry.” He accepts your chaste kiss as an apology, fatigued as he is. He is already drifting off, hugging the pillow close to him as you shut the door quietly behind you.
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Namjoon is on the balcony when you find him. Like his counterpart, he is almost immune to the cold, with only a shirt and shorts. He is gazing at the stars, or what little of it is visible through the smog of the city. His ear twitches when you enter, but he makes no other indication he is aware of your presence.
You draw your shawl closer to your body, moving to stand a few feet apart, knowing he is still wary of you. It has not been easy, this tentative truce. The two of you are still fostering trust. Such a fragile concept, you think. So gruelling a task to establish, yet so easily destroyed.
“I was wondering if I needed to tell the others to pack again.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you answer, smile crooked. You know he is trying. It is a joke, if you ever heard him utter one.
He finally looks at you. “Okay,” is all he says. His dimples crease, so you know to read between the lines to hear he really means; good.
“Good night, Namjoon.”
“Good night, owner.”
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“I’m glad to see you’re okay.” Seokjin offers you a small smile, the one that makes his cheeks plump up like a loaf of bread.
“Thank you.” He lays back down, still watching you cautiously, as if to ready himself in case you struck. Your heart twinges a little, but there is not much you can do tonight. Tomorrow is a new day. You will try all over again tomorrow.
“We really like it here,” the hybrid blurts suddenly. He coughs, embarrassed, as his honeyed skin reddens. You laugh, the ache softening just a bit.
“I’m happy to hear that.”
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“Don’t. I don’t care. I was just checking if it was burglar or some shit,” the older of the two grumbles without even turning to you. He is a lump in the dark, curled up in the middle of his bed.
Hoseok simply rolls over.
You take a breath. Tomorrow. You will start all over again tomorrow.
Tonight, you just want to sleep.
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“Good morning, noona!”
You smile as the two bound over to kiss either side of your cheek. The mixture of maple syrup, butter and batter must have woken them up, and if they are up, it is likely the other boys are just moments short from trickling in.
“Sleep well?” You place two plates on the table, clearing your laptop and files to the coffee table. One is heaping with pancakes, the other is reasonably stacked.
Jungkook finishes one in a single gulp, and beams. “It’s really good!” You squeeze his hand in gratitude before returning to the stove to finish making the rest just as the boys begin filtering in.
Seokjin, Hoseok and Yoongi take their individual seats at the table patiently with their phones in hand.
“Hi, beautiful.” Taehyung slides an arm around your waist, brushing your locks back as he smiles, kissing you softly.
Namjoon trails in, shuffling toward the fridge as he yawns. “Ah—” He fumbles with the tall glass and you watch in slow motion as it falls and shatters on the tiled flooring of your kitchen.
“Are you okay?” You exclaim, switching off the stove immediately and rushing over. Taehyung stops you from picking up the pieces, grabbing the sweeper as you gesture at the hybrid to step to the side with you.
Namjoon is frowning down at his hand, and upon spotting the cut, Seokjin, miles ahead of you, moves to pull the first aid kit in one of your cupboards instantly. The wound is already spewing a fair amount of blood, and you would have been more concerned had he been a man with solely human DNA.
“This will sting a bit,” you warn, but Namjoon does not even flinch as you gingerly wipe the gash with white alcohol soaked in a cotton ball. You wrap a bandage around it firmly, and tell him not to press on it before it fully heals. He mumbles a thank-you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Yoongi standing.
“Wait, Yoongi!” You call, hiding the hurt that flashes across your face when you see him roll his eyes. 
“What?”
“I have something for you. Please, eat, and I’ll show you.”
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Yoongi trails after you reluctantly as you lead him into the right wing of the mansion. It is scarcely used, furniture mostly curtained off with a thin layer of dust coating the surface of the covers. When they had first moved in, you explained it was because the place was big enough without the extra space. There was nothing interesting within, just more hallways and empty rooms.
It was not entirely true.
“My father always preferred the right wing. There’s more sun here, better views. I spent most of my childhood here,” you begin. Yoongi’s mouth tightens, but he does not protest. It is the first you have spoken about yourself beyond the niceties of your job and how your fortune came to be. He listens attentively, even as his tail swishes agitatedly.
“After they passed, I couldn’t see the place the same. I couldn’t live there anymore. The memories haunted me, I suppose,” you continue. “But out of it all, there is one thing I regretted closing off. I think you might be able to find better use for it.”
There is no door, just an impressive awning that leads into what appears to be a ballroom. Each step muted on the polished floors. You keep this room clean, he realizes with a jolt.
Yoongi skids to a stop, heart fluttering at his throat when his gaze falls upon the clothed bulk in the middle. He could recognize that form anywhere, and his face twists when you pull back the silk fabric. The impact frees a stray piece of hair, the lock falling over his eyes. He makes no move to push it back, face paling in horror and anguish.
“Yoongi? Yoongi? Hey, are you okay?” He refocuses to find your worried expression staring at him, your hand shaking his shoulder gently.
Immediately, he jerks his arm out of your hold, baring his teeth as he hisses. “Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t want that shit.” He hurls a venomous look your way, the fur on his tail fluffing out in alarm as he bristles.
“I’m … I’m sorry, I thought—” You are taken aback, hand falling limply to your side as you recoil.
“You thought wrong. You’re better off burning that shit,” Yoongi spits. The anger radiates off him, his ears flattening as he turns on his heel and stalks out.
Snapping out of your stunned daze, you hurry behind him, struggling to catch up, but he has always been lithe and quick on his feet. Yoongi storms through the living room toward his room, startling the boys still loitering in the area when he slams the door loudly. Hoseok gets up immediately and races after him.
They all swivel their attention to you when you arrive moments later, and your expression drops when you realize Yoongi has already disappeared.
“Bogum said he used to play the piano,” you say after a beat, voice small as you stare at your feet. You should be used to the rejection by now, but it still hurts, still makes your heart throb, the disappointment and continual failure swells in your chest like a tumor.
“I have the next three weeks off for the holidays. Let me know if there’s somewhere you’d like to go or something you’d like to buy,” you say flatly, avoiding Jungkook and Jimin’s mirrored concern as you trudge toward your own room.
“___—” You only shake your head, lips pursed. Shame crawls up your spine as you roughly wipe away the tears welling in your eyes. “I’m fine, Tae. I’m just tired. Please wake me at five so I can make dinner.”
Taehyung freezes, hand pausing where it is reaching for you, frown deepening as his heart clinches painfully when he scents the tint of salt in the air.
You shut the door quietly behind you right as your knees give out, collapsing into a heap against the wood. It has been months now, and if anything, your relationship with Yoongi is deteriorating. At some point you think he was starting to tolerate your presence. Hoseok still refuses to so much as acknowledge your existence.
You are just so tired. But Taehyung had begged you, the day you decided to take them in, he had begged you not to give up on them. That they all had personal baggage, trauma enough to drown anyone else. He had asked you to be their lifeline, and you are starting to wonder if you are in over your head after all.
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“I wish you would give her a chance. She’s serious about us, you know.” Yoongi snorts, pulling the covers further over his head. “Go away, Taehyung.”
“She’s the one. I know it.”
“She’s just going to toss us on the streets when she’s had her fun. That’s all they do, these rich, bored humans,” Yoongi mutters. He picks at a frayed strand of the quilt he has been meticulously unravelling.
He hears the tiger hybrid sigh, and Yoongi stretches out, resting his head on his arm as he closes his eyes. “Just … please try. She’s a good person. All she’s ever done is try to help us.”
Yoongi grunts, rolling over.
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You flinch, nearly cutting off your finger, when Yoongi takes a seat next to you after a week of tensed silence. Life had carried on as usual, with the three that seem to genuinely like you, the two that accept you, and the two that abhor you. You wanted to take them skiing at the alps up north, but Hoseok had dug his heels in and practically growled at you when you tried to suggest it. The youngest had looked so crestfallen you pulled him aside and hugged him, promising you’d take him next year instead, with or without his hyung. You would have gone without him this year, except all your friends had left the country for the holidays and you didn’t want to risk asking a stranger.
“You can’t woo me with gifts,” Yoongi coughs. He is looking away, chin propped on a hand.
“I … wasn’t trying to,” you say slowly, returning to your chopping. You pour the vegetables into a bowl, setting it to the side before you move to the stove, drizzling oil onto the pan.
Yoongi turns to watch you, for the first time a little uncertain as to the way you seem to shy away, avoiding his gaze. You seem almost resigned.
“I’m … sorry.” He cringes at the words. They sound too forced, too cold. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just … I haven’t played in a long time now.”
You make a noncommittal sound, and Yoongi’s nose twitches at the delicious smell of kimchi stir fry.
“I’d like to maybe … give it another shot. Or something,” he mumbles, rubbing the inside of his wrist absently. It’s one of his anxious ticks.
Your heart leaps, your movements stuttering in surprise. Are you allowed to be hopeful? You want to be.
So you say, “Okay.” And set a bowl before him with a small smile. His lips quirk, head inclining in gratitude.
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It is a bit jarring, the way Yoongi lets you sit next to him on the bench. He does not move away, even as his body stiffens.
He’s … trying. He thinks you don’t notice the way his fingers tremble as they are placed on the keys, the way his tail sways restlessly. His ears are flattened to his head, the mere act of sitting at the piano taking a toll. You don’t need hybrid senses to know he is struggling to keep face.
“Hey. Don’t force yourself,” you say softly, Yoongi’s hand jerking when you hesitate in reaching for him. “I … I’m fine. It’s time, anyway.”
Then, he takes a breath, loosens his shoulders and presses down on the keys.
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It gets a little better. Yoongi takes the days as they come. He rediscovers his love for the instrument, the first he’s ever played. His first love, if he has ever experienced such a concept.
With it come the memories of loss and grief. He cries for a long time the night after his first performance with you. It was cathartic, almost. Like he could be reborn from the ashes of his sorrow, like the awning hole inside of him could begin to heal, finally. And in some ways, it does.
He finds your company reasonable. Comforting, if he had the balls to admit it to himself. You rarely speak when he plays, just listening, and sometimes he catches you with glistening eyes that you hastily scrub away. His pieces are often melancholic. They were angry at first, full of rage and pain, until that too, was swept by the currents of the storm. He was always so exhausted after each session.
Now he has begun composing something new. You would stand, thanking him in that sweet voice of yours, sometimes quivering and other times a mere whisper. You never pitied him, he knew, but your sadness told him it was time to let go of the past.
He ignores Hoseok’s disapproving gaze every time, opting to pat the space next to him. “This one is a duet. Play with me.”
You look so bewildered he stifles a chuckle. “But I don’t know how to play.”
“I’ll teach you. Come.” You do, and he urges you to relax as he guides your fingers over the correct keys for the first line.
He hasn’t played for the other boys yet. For whatever reason, this feels sacred to just the two of you. It’s peaceful. He wants to keep it this way, just for a little while longer.
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“It’s Christmas in three days. Would you guys like to celebrate?”
They look so excited. Even Hoseok glances up from his laptop to consider your proposal. In the background, Seokjin sneezes loudly. You throw his room a sympathetic frown. The eldest hybrid had fallen sick from the snowball fight from two days ago with the maknaes. You’d left his room after feeding him some congee and checking his temperature.
“Great! I’m going to the market for some supplies then. I’m going to pick up some medicine for Jin as well. We can all go pick gifts once he’s better. Would anyone like to come along?” You ask distractedly as you search for your car keys.
Yoongi growls in exasperation when Taehyung nudges him expectantly. Jungkook and Jimin both beam so eagerly the pianist grits his teeth and drawls with great reluctance, “I’ll go.” Namjoon doesn’t protest, only shrugs as if to say do what you want.
You stop in the middle of buttoning your coat in pure shock. He’s been surprising you a lot lately. “Uh … okay, let’s go.”
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Yoongi stares up at the sky, streaks of fuchsia fading rapidly as the evening set in with chilly winds. His ears prick uncomfortably beneath the beanie he sports, unused to the compression. He’s waiting outside the pharmacy, leaning against the brick walls, bags weighing on each arm as people pass, laughing and chatting, without a second glance. Hybrids aren’t gawked at, but those without an owner at their side were held with suspicion and likely a dial to the hybrid protection services (read: hybrid prison). It is illegal to be wandering the streets alone.
Yoongi turns when he hears your familiar footfalls exit the store. Wordlessly, he takes the small brown bag you’re holding. He starts walking toward your next destination before you can object.
“Wait, Yoongi—ah,” you dig for your phone, the ringer making him cringe. He does, moving to the side with an audible sigh. You give him an apologetic look before answering it.
“Oh—hi, Bogum! Yes—yes. Ah, about that—I have a draft written up and I was wondering if you could take a look at it sometime soon. Mmm, I know, but it’s important it’s done as quickly as possible, I need it for when I’m gone,” you’re facing the other way, talking animatedly with the cell resting against your ear as you dig for a pen in your purse. His breath stutters, stomach dropping instantly.
“What is he talking about? What do you mean, when you’re gone?” He says sharply, and you glance up to see him right in front of you, eyes narrowed and teeth bared.
“What?” You ask, putting a hand over the receiver. Yoongi sneers. “I always knew it was too good to be true. I’m done.” He drops the various bags onto the snow, and you shrink back in confusion and fear when he leans in to whisper, “Go fuck yourself. I’ll make sure you never see any of us ever again.”
“Don’t bother coming back. We’ll be long gone by then,” Yoongi tosses over his shoulder as he leaves. He relishes in the way your expression contorts in horror. He’s much, much faster than you, and he knows this market by heart. It’s not far from your house and he can easily beat you by foot.
“Yoongi!” You cry out, but you know it’s useless. Tears blur your vision as you blubber a quiet I have to go, I’ll call you later to Bogum who calls your name worriedly on the other line before pocketing your phone. You kneel, trying to gather all the bags at once. One is crushed at the bottom and you open it gingerly to find a smashed fruit cake oozing out of its packaging. You can still make out a crooked Merry Christmas Eve! scrawled lopsidedly at the edges.
You won’t make it in time. Muffling a sob, you sink to the ground, ignoring the way the snow seeps into your leggings. You really are pathetic.
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“Please! Stop!” You pause, head cocking as you shut your trunk. Were you officially going crazy? Peachy, you scoff inwardly. You wouldn’t be surprised.
“P-please, let me go!” A scream tears across the parking lot. You glance around wildly, and no, you are not crazy because people duck their heads at the sound, whispering to one another as they scurry toward their vehicles. Yoongi is likely already home, and you know he’s smart, careful and capable of caring for himself.
So you grab your phone and a can of pepper spray and head toward the sound. You can’t be like them. You have to be human.
And you think your knees will give out, the pure heartbreak you feel when you round the corner of the street to find a young snake hybrid curled in a fetal position on the ground, three much older, scrawny men circling him, jeering and kicking.
He can easily overpower them, you realize, but he doesn’t want to. If he does, it’s only another reason for HPS to lock him away for good. He would rather suffer this moment than be chained forever. It’s enough to make your lip curl in distaste, fury building at the sheer injustice.
“Hey! Leave him alone,” you shout, marching up to them. The men stop, one squinting at you briefly before bursting into loud guffaws.
“You? What is a little lady like you going to do?” He crows. The last word is caught in his throat as you punch him in the stomach.
“I said, back off!” The other two look at each other, flabbergasted, and the man screams at them to do something as he’s on the floor, clutching his belly in pain. They charge at you, but you only roll your eyes at the added layer of sexism on the list of hell ridden crimes they are already guilty for. You’ve taken many, many lessons as a child, including mixed martial arts.
It can’t even be called a fight. They’re rolled onto the curb in the next heartbeat. You kneel next to the wounded hybrid, who tries to get up. He wobbles, and you coax him into leaning into you for support.
“Thank you, miss,” he croaks. “You didn’t have to, but thank you.” You wipe the blood on his lower lip gingerly. “Where’s your owner?”
“He went to get the car,” he answers softly. You give him a knowing look. He glances away guiltily.
“Yuto? Yuto!” Distinctly, the two of you turn at the sound of a new voice. Headlights sear your eyes for just a moment before someone hurtles out of the driver’s seat. “Holy shit, what happened?” The man cries, clutching at the injured hybrid. Yuto (?) winces, allowing the newcomer to sling an arm over his shoulder.
“I got jumped,” he whispers. “She saved me.” The man looks halfway into tears, reaching over to take your hand. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here.”
You accept his gratitude with an awkward smile, patting his hand gently. “You shouldn’t leave him alone on the streets, especially at night.”
“It’s not his fault,” Yuto protests immediately. “I insisted.”
His owner shakes his head furiously. “She’s right. That was stupid of me.” He turns to you again, eyes shining. “Thank you so much. Truly.”
“Not at … all.” Huh? The world suddenly tilts, and you look down at your hands. There’s something dark dripping on your jacket, staining the fabric and you swipe at it lethargically, bringing it close. Oh. It’s blood.
The pain sharpens, and you gasp aloud at the fire spreading through your veins. Your knees do give out this time, and you can finally make out the sounds of a hiss, a piercing scream and someone calling for you before your body drops to the ground with a muted thud.
The last thing you are thinking is how you’d inevitably failed them after all.
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Yoongi shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, the next gust nearly pushing his beanie off his head altogether, and he finds himself wondering if you were cold.
He violently shakes the thought away before opening the door. He sits down to unlace his boots, when Namjoon comes barrelling toward him. The other boys follow in suit; even Seokjin is padding around swaddled in a blanket. He scents the rising panic and anxiety in the house and he straightens instantly, alert.
“Yoongi, where the hell have you been?” Their leader bursts out. Yoongi has never seen the wolf hybrid so frazzled before.
“At the market?” He doesn’t know what kind of answer Namjoon was expecting, but it certainly was not the truth because his face twists in anger.
“Listen, Joon, she’s planning to leave us—” Yoongi goes on, and Jimin steps forward to slap him. The crack of the impact has his head jerking to the side, the sting setting in quickly.
“What. The. Fuck.” He says lowly.
“No. Where the fuck were you?” The typically soft-spoken and sweet hybrid screams. Yoongi stares in shock, flinching at the sound. Hybrid senses were heightened enough to hear the tiniest whispers, and his ears ring at the blow.
“If you mean ___, she’s probably on her way back,” Yoongi answers slowly. “That’s why I left, I found out that—”
“She’s in the hospital, Yoongi.” It’s Taehyung. His voice is hoarse, and he’s standing in a shadowed corner. His tail drags the ground as he moves, bangs hiding his expression.
“What?” The words taste like ash.
“She was stabbed while helping another hybrid,” Jimin seethes. He clutches his wrist, hand throbbing but he can barely feel it. Only registers the adrenaline and fear rushing through him.
“We’re waiting for Luna to come pick us up. She’s ___’s friend.” Jungkook sounds so small, so fragile when he speaks.
Yoongi’s legs buckle and he collapses, unblinking as he gawks at the floor. What did he do?
.
.
.
“There you are. Take it easy, now.” You groan, eyeballs burning as you pry them open with difficulty. It takes great effort to move your arms, and you stop when you feel a sharp tugging into your inner elbow.
“Fucking IVs,” you croak, and Luna’s smile focuses as she leans down to steady you. “How long was I out for?”
“A few days. It’s Christmas. A miracle, some believers might say.” She presses one of the buttons at the side of your bed, and a nurse appears shortly after.
“Your vitals are good. Doctor will be in momentarily,” the worker says, checking the equipment and making a few markings to your clipboard.
“You scared the shit out of them. You scared the shit out of me,” Luna informs you. Taking a glance around, your room is crowded with vases upon vases of your favourite flowers and several handmade art pieces you know are from Jungkook and Taehyung.
You lean back with a sigh. Your abdomen aches, and you know the scar this time isn’t going to fade.
The doctor walks in before you can reply. He gives you a full diagnosis of your condition and declares visits can start as early as tomorrow morning. Luna leaves with him, kissing your cheek and warning you not to overextend. You can only nod, sinking back into your pillow.
.
.
.
When you open your eyes again, the clock at the side notifies you it is just past ten.
And sitting by your side is Yoongi, face buried in his hands.
“Oh, Yoongi,” you breathe. He’s visibly shaking, ears flat and tail unmoving.
“I should’ve never left you alone. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry,” he rasps. He chokes on the words, rubbing his eyes furiously. He doesn’t have the right to cry. He pushes the chair away and gets on his knees, ignoring the strangled sound that escapes your throat. His forehead touches the ground and he doesn’t care that the floor is probably gross and full of viruses and bleach and disinfectant and a million other things. “I’m—so—sorry.”
“Yoongi,” your voice breaks.
“No, no,” he looks up, blinking away the tears as he fixes his gaze on you. “Don’t—don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“Come here, silly kitty,” you whisper. His lower lip trembles and he lets out a sob. It’s loud and ugly and he scrambles to climb onto the bed, carefully weaving through the various cords and he curls up next to your injured side and he stuffs his face in your shoulder and he cries and cries and cries.
He cries until he’s empty and he falls asleep like that, eyes swollen and red, snot running down your hospital sheet, tail twined over your wrist, engulfed in your warmth.
.
.
.
“My original owner was an old man.” You can barely make out the words, so soft and unsure. He’s speaking into his pudding. Lunch came and went, and you roused him gently, knowing he likely hadn’t properly eaten since the incident.
Hospital food is hardly luxury but it’s food and the poor hybrid had already begun to look malnourished, complexion pale and cheeks sunken in. It was the stress and guilt that ate away at his ability to function.
“I was abandoned on the highway. The runt of the litter, I suppose. I didn’t come from one of those fancy breeding places. I was a bastard child. He found me, digging in his trash.” You stroke his hair, and he finishes the pudding in one bite, setting it down before snuggling back into you.
“He took me in. He was kind, and taught me how to play the piano. He was a retired pianist, and his wife had died the year prior. His son had been in the military. Died the first year out. He taught me to love the piano, to love music. Gave me a light and purpose when I had none. He gave me to the shelter when he passed. I had a lot of pent up anger. I ran away a lot. Didn’t know how to deal with the grief, I guess. He was all I knew. So I started picking fights to work through it, and Bogum would always be the one to drag me back to the shelter. Nursed me back to health every time. He never punished me, and I think the disappointment was what really broke me. I was ready to die. I picked a fight I knew I would never recover from. Hoseok was the one that saved me then.” Yoongi’s wet lashes tickle your jaw.
“Hoseok was also a different man then. He smiled a lot, laughed a lot. He was like sunshine personified. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to him. He taught me to control my anger. Through him, I met the rest. Jimin taught me to understand it. Namjoon taught me to release it through alternative channels. Like composing. I wrote a lot of songs there. Things were good for a while. Then they came.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Who—”
“Sorry, but visiting hours are ending.” Yoongi lifts his head to find your nurse smiling at the two of you apologetically. She checks your vitals once more before exiting to give you privacy.
Yoongi untangles himself from you reluctantly, nuzzling your cheek.
“Come back tomorrow, mmkay?” You squeeze his hand.
He nods, unable to meet your gaze even as his own cheeks flush lightly.
“Promise?”
Yoongi shakily takes your hand and kisses your ring finger. This time he does look at you, eyes ringed with gold as he says, “Promise.”
6K notes · View notes
kimnjss · a month ago
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cyberslut | myg sm au
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banner by: @dee-ehn
🖇 synopsis:
— he has no idea who you are... up front, you’re sweet and innocent - but in reality you’re the exact opposite. running your own nsfw account, where your favorite topic is his hands.
[ cyberslut: a person who will act openly sexual on the internet, yet in real life will act prudent and contained. ]
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pairing: jock(fuckboi)!yoongi x nerdy(virgin)!reader
fic type: social media au
side ships: (platonic...) vmin.
genre: smut!! college au, secret identity, tutoring au, slight themes of infidelity...
warnings: yoongi and his friends are dicks :/ - yn is way too horny all of the time... there’s a lot of sexting... no full nudity.
*BYR: yn knows yoongi is the guy she’s posting abt... yoongi does not know abt yns acct (until he finds out). yoongi nd yn have never talked before the start of this fic.
status: completed!
A/N: timestamps make sense throughout the fic. if u want to be added to the tag list, send me an ask! + if you’ve asked to be on my permanent taglist, you do not need to ask to be added to this one !!
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parts:
bonus drabbles...
prologue: homeroom hottie
character profiles: yn, her alter ego, nd besties
character profiles: yoongi nd the boyz
part one: invasion of privacy
part two: private sessions
part three: pretty prints
part four: went viral
part five: malleable substances
part six: fellow fish nerd
part seven: long night
bonus: fuck me
part eight: fucking prude
part nine: under the bleachers
part ten: buzzer beater
part eleven: mentally fucking
part twelve: deductive reasoning
bonus: turn the page
part thirteen: teachers pet
part fourteen: surprise me
part fifteen: emotion sex
part sixteen: sexy mermaid
part seventeen: not finished
time jump: untapped ass
part eighteen: give a fuck
part nineteen: not dating
part twenty: away game
part twenty-one: at your pace
bonus: nervous and excited
part twenty-two: petal
part twenty-three: too messy
part twenty-four: drunk yoongi
part twenty-five: being stupid
part twenty-six: superior couple
part twenty-seven: iconic parties
part twenty-eight: twenty minutes
part twenty-nine: risk it
part thirty: reformed fuckboy
part thirty-one: nice change
part thirty-two: public event
part thirty-three: bars and clubs 
epilogue: on purpose
epilogue: fucking nerd
end
4K notes · View notes
honeymoonjin · a year ago
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𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 yoongi x reader || 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 24k || 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 smut, fluff, angst
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 it may be misfortune that brings you to min yoongi’s door looking for a place to stay, but luckily holly lodge has a vacancy.
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 explicit sexual content, cursing, unintentional voyeurism, non-explicit mxm (taejin side pairing), protected sex, kinda-sub!yoongi, oral (m receiving), fingering, yoongi lowkey being a pillow princess, smut with a whole lot of feelings, body worship (m receiving), praise (m receiving), this was more vanilla than expected, cowgirl/riding, hand-holding during sex, this isn’t jerk-off material it’s slow burn softness so be warned
many thanks to @jamaisjoons for the gorgeous banner
--
A distant crunch of gravel is the only warning you get. You look around absentmindedly, down the steep slope of the hilly fields, and see a bus pulling away down the windy path that had brought you here several hours ago.
"Oh, fuck-!" You make it less than a third of the way down, half-stumbling, half-running, before you give up, realising it's no use. "Oh, fuck," you repeat with a sullen sigh, sinking down to the dirt path.
What was meant to be a day-trip to the renowned Boseong Green Tea fields was apparently going to be longer than a day.
The sky was steadily growing darker, and through the vibrant hedgerows of green tea plants that lined the hillside, a fog was starting to collect. Consulting your phone tells you it's later than you thought.
You stand up again, brushing the dust off the back of your jeans, and slowly plod your way back up to the peak of the hill, where a flat area with some benches provides a decent lookout. The several small cafes and restaurants at the base of the fields have no lights on, and a metal grille has been slid down over the windows of the ticket booth. It's deserted.
Your roaming data works up here, although it's a little more patchy than you'd grown used to around the rest of the country, and you use the last of your dying battery to google some places to stay. With any luck, you'd be able to phone in to a hostel or motel and book in a place. You just hoped the walk wasn't too far in the dark. But as the sun slips lower and lower in the sky, and you call a seventeenth number, you begin to lose hope.
"Even just for one night?" you barter nervously, biting on your nail as the older lady on the other end sighs.
"I'm sorry, dear, we're all booked out. You should've called in advance. Spring is a busy time of year."
You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I wasn't even meant to stay. I missed the bus back."
"Are you at the Boseong-gun bus terminal? I'm sure there are other busses coming in no time."
"I'm still at the tea fields," you admit, "it was a bus from out of town. Please, I'll walk down to the main street myself, I just don't want to stay outside all ni-"
"Wait- At the plantation? Have you tried Holly Lodge yet?"
You frown. "No. I didn't see that name come up when I searched online for accommodation."
A laugh rings out, though you sense it's not directed at you. "No, dear, Min wouldn't have put it online. But it's far closer to the fields, and I would venture a guess that it's the one place in Boseong that won't have been flooded with guests."
You feel yourself inflate with hope. "Do you have the phone number? Thank you so much!"
"I don't think the owner even has a phone. If he does, I certainly don't know the number. But- Where on the plantation are you right now? Can you get to the top?"
"I'm at the top," you answer reflexively, "but are you sure there's room there? I'd hate to show up unannounced."
The lady on the phone laughs again, slightly condescending. You get the vibe she's not the biggest fan of 'Min'. "He won't have any customers. It's just a small bed-and-breakfast, but he's so far away from the town centre, and he makes no effort to advertise. It's a wonder he's still open, to be quite frank. Anyways, if you're at the top, turn around away from the entrance."
You bite your lip uncertainly but do as she says. You haven’t looked back this way, but you see now that there’s a winding path down the other side, a skinny trail of flattened grass leading into the distance. “Do I go down the other side of the hill?”
“Away from the main fields, yes,” the motel owner replies in a slightly impatient voice. You imagine she can’t appreciate the late-night call for such a busy time of year. “Down at the bottom, there’s a patch of trees.”
Feeling your toes beginning to go numb in your shoes from the cool, damp fog rising, you begin to pick your way down. “I see them.”
“Just beyond them is Holly Lodge. It’s not far. Why he chose to open a bed-and-breakfast behind Boseong Fields is beyond me. I imagine he couldn’t afford anywhere else. I’m sorry dear, the place is probably poor quality, but I’m sure it’ll do for a night.”
Stumbling down the hill in the dark, picking up momentum as you go, you squint into the small thicket of trees in the valley. Perhaps it’s desperation making you see things, but you swear there’s the slightest glow coming from between them. “Thank you so much for your help!”
“It’s fine,” the older lady assures you, “and if you happen to stay longer, I’d be more than happy to reserve you a room for tomorrow night so that you don’t have to stay at that place any longer than necessary.”
You scrunch up your eyebrows. How bad was this place? “I appreciate the offer, but is it okay if I call you back in the morning? I might be able to get tomorrow’s bus back.”
“Alrighty, dear. Best of luck to you. Bye now.”
You pull your phone back and swear lowly when you see your battery life on its last legs. You have a charger in your backpack (along with some water and snacks, something you’re relieved you packed last-minute before coming) but it’s no use unless the Holly Lodge has a place to plug it in, and at this point, as you make it to the foot of the hill and start winding your way through the trees, you’re not expecting anything.
What you do know is that you were right; the light you saw peeking through the trees is growing steadily closer, warm and flickering. It’s unsteady underfoot, but you doggedly push ahead, the glow being the only thing lighting up the landscape. The sky is a deep black, slightly murky with cloud, and you very nearly crash into a few trunks on your way, but after a little over ten minutes, you break into a grassy clearing and sigh in relief.
In front of you lies a modest house, barely more than a cottage, attached to civilisation by a gravel road that pulls away at a 90-degree angle from where you came from, running adjacent to the side of the hill. At its foot, a little wooden sign with white paint reads, ‘HOLLY LODGE, visitors welcome.’ It seems that you’ve entered through the backyard - if that’s what you could even call it. The side of the house is covered in an expansive trellis, lined with vibrant pink azaleas. They’re lit up from below by a tiny campfire, casting a tall shadow on them of a person sitting-
Your eyes fly wide and a stranged sound comes out of your throat. There’s a man crouched over the fire, frozen, a wooden skewer still hovering over the flames that lick at it. He’s wrapped a tartan blanket around himself, bunched up under his chin, and the light of the flames cast an orange glow over his clear skin and brown hair, which hangs low over his brow in soft curls.
You blink. He doesn’t move. “Your meat’s burning,” you point out.
That shocks him back into action, and he whips it back out of the fire, but the damage is done. The entire underside of what looks like lamb is completely charred. “Fuck,” he growls bitterly, “thanks a lot.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. Perhaps the lady on the phone was right, and this place really wasn’t ideal. “Excuse me, I just… Do you have any rooms available?”
His mouth dangles open, lips just plump enough for it to be a pout, and you wait as his catlike eyes look over you, glancing back through the trees where you came. “...you want to stay?” he asks finally, the sour edge gone from his voice.
You point at the sign out front awkwardly. “This is a bed-and-breakfast, right?”
He stares for a few moments more, then jumps up off the ground suddenly, letting go of the blanket. It tumbles to the grass around him, revealing a matching set of white-and-grey striped pyjamas. He bounds over to you, hopping barefoot in the grass, and comes to a stop in front of you, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why didn’t you go to any of the other motels? You- you came from the fields instead of from the road.”
You bite your lip nervously. If he turns you away, you’re fucked. The moon is high in the sky, a waxy blot lighting up a patch of clouds, and you know that sky will be your roof tonight if he doesn’t let you in. “Yeah, I missed my bus back home and since it’s spring, there’s no space. Do you have a room?”
He twitches his nose and lifts a hand up, fiddling with his ear. “The power went out,” he admits, “so you can’t have a hot shower or anything.”
Your chest inflates with hope. “That’s okay,” you reassure quickly, waving your hands at him, “I just want a bed for the night, I’ll pay anything.”
He scrunches up his face at this. “I can’t charge you; it’s past midnight. You’re barely getting a proper night, and like I said, the facilities aren’t really working. Come on, let me show you to your room.”
He leaves the tiny bonfire burning away on its bed of rocks, and grabs a flashlight that was lying on the grass beside his blanket, before scurrying around to the front of the house, gesturing with a blanket-covered paw for you to follow.
You do with a quirk of your lips. This man, who couldn’t be older than his mid-twenties, was stomping about like he was grumpy, yet he looked sweeter than anyone you had met so far. Was this really the same Min that the lady had spoken so lowly of on the phone?
You can’t see much detail inside when the two of you enter. He guides the torch straight down a hallway, not bothering to show you the bathroom or kitchen or anything except a small bedroom with a single bed and a bedside table.
“Here it is,” he states awkwardly, pressing his lips flat into a half-smile. “It’s not much, I’m sorry. If you get into pyjamas, I could handwash your clothes for you.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Oh, wow, you don’t have to do that! Besides, I don’t have any other clothes with me. I’ll just have to sleep in this.”
His eyes go round with concern. “That won’t be very comfortable.” He scratches behind his ear. “You could, uh, I mean, I could give you some comfier clothes to wear?” You can’t bring yourself to say anything, only staring at him dumbfounded. The man loses his composure and laughs awkwardly, shaking his head and staring at the floor. “Sorry, that’s crossing the line, I shouldn’t-”
“I would really appreciate that,” you cut in, “sorry, I just… That’s really kind of you. Thank you.”
A shy smile tugs at his lips, and if the torch was facing him more, perhaps you could recognise his cheeks pinkening slightly. “Oh, I-” he falters and laughs breathily again, gathering himself. “No, I’m not- I-” he tamps down his grin by biting down on his bottom lip, fixing you with a flustered look of gratitude. “I’ll go grab something now. Just wait here. You can have the torch.”
He disappears into shadows, then returns immediately, passing over the blanket. “And this. Just a minute.”
And then Min is gone again. You listen in bemusement at the pitter-patter of his bare feet on the wooden floorboards, fading into nothingness, a few thuds of drawers opening and closing, and then him returning with a bundle of clothes. You school your expression when he gently reaches out to hand over the clothes.
“It’s just a t-shirt and some basketball shorts,” he apologises, “but they’re clean and they’re comfy. I assume you’ll be needing the torch when you get changed? I can shut the door behind you.”
You give him your most grateful smile. “If it’s not too much bother. Thank you so much.” Once he makes it to the door, he begins to swing it shut, but a thought strikes you. “Wait!” He pauses, head sticking out in the crack, the wooden door pushing his cheeks out. You force yourself not to smile at the cute image he provides, but instead clear your throat. “Oh, uh, what’s your name? Min, right?”
His eyebrows lift below his curls in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, I called a lady on the phone when I was looking for a place to stay; the Boseong’s Best Motel? She said you were in the area.”
His gaze lowers to the floor, and his voice flattens. “Mrs. Na? What else did she say?”
You sense it’s a sore topic. “Just that… that you might have a free room.”
He smiles sadly, like he knows that’s not all, but nods. “Well, Min is my surname.” His face disappears further into the shadows. “My name’s Yoongi.”
--
You sleep well that night.
Better than you have in years, in fact, and with heavy curtains drawn across the one window in the room, the break of dawn doesn’t rouse you like it normally would. Instead, you drift in and out of consciousness all morning, happy to kick off the blankets as it warms up and stretch out.
It’s not until you hear a loud clatter that you’re snapped out of it, and you jump up, eyes flying open and wandering around the room.
The pyjama-clad man from last night, Yoongi, is hunched over the bedside table just beside you, eyes and mouth wide open as he watches you wake up and stretch. You raise your arms high over your head and let out a groan as your muscles ease.
“Goo’morning,” you murmur, hands dropping by your sides again. It’s not until he stays silent, swallowing hard, that you look down at yourself and swear, grasping at the sheets.
The basketball shorts he gave you were so old that the elastic was spent, and they wouldn’t stay on, so you had opted for the simple option of your underwear from earlier, and the baggy off-white t-shirt he gave you. However, that meant that your legs were fully exposed, and two points peaked the fabric on your chest.
“S-sorry,” he stutters, and ducks his head to pick up the cutlery he dropped on the floor. You clutch at the heavy cotton sheets, tucking them under your chin, and wait as he delicately places the cutlery on a fabric napkin that sits beside a plate of steaming eggs on toast, sunny side up, and a small mug of what smells like black tea. “I can get you a new set of cutlery if you want.”
“It’s okay.” You try and send him a grateful smile, but his gaze is fixed on the floor, cheeks bright red.
“I didn’t mean to look,” he confesses in a voice so hushed you almost miss it.
“It’s okay,” you repeat. “Thank you for bringing me breakfast.”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing much. I, uh, I’ll be outside if you need me.” When he leaves, it’s like he’s in a rush, shuffling his feet on the floorboards, knocking his leg on the foot of the bed and his shoulder on the doorjamb in his haste to leave.
After he stumbles out, your stomach growls, and you take that as a sign to enjoy the breakfast he’s so generously prepared you. After quickly opening the curtains and the window, you return to your bed. The eggs are perfectly salted, with a sprinkle of paprika, and you place the plate on your lap, munching away slowly as you look out the window.
The sun’s streaming in, and with the added light you can make out the details on the plate as you clear it. The edges aren’t perfectly round, and by the way the egg yolk pools in one corner, it’s not level either. On the brim, faded teal lettering spells out H O L L Y  L O G D E, with a little cartoon drawing of what looked like a dog’s face. You finish your final mouthful and replace the place with the cup of tea, noting the uneven thickness of the handle and the same careful painting on the side. Did he make these himself? With the state of the property, and it’s apparent lack of success, you can’t imagine he had the means for official branding.
You blow onto the surface of the liquid gently, and take a tentative sip. It’s the perfect temperature to warm you up inside, and while you’re not usually a fan of tea, this one seems to have a unique taste; not quite black tea, not quite green tea, with a sweet tang to it. It’s delicious, and it’s gone quicker than you would’ve liked.
When you emerge into the back garden, still wearing his shirt, but with your jeans back on, you spot him squatting over a brown planter box against the exterior wall. The trellis of climbing azaleas provides a gorgeous backdrop; the vibrant shades of pink petal and green leaf bask in the sun’s warm rays.
He hasn’t noticed you yet, and you take the time to quietly hover just behind the corner, out of sight. With golden heat on your face, lush grass under your feet and birds singing in the trees, you could almost convince yourself you’re in paradise. Min Yoongi, the one person in town who would give you a place to stay, certainly fits within that ideal. You had assumed he’d be in a baggy t-shirt and shorts, if the clothes he gave you were anything to go by, but you’re pleasantly surprised to see him in a thin pastel purple sweater, poking out from a worn pair of overalls.
In the silence of the morning, you can hear what sounds like muttering, and you strain to listen in to his pouty voice as he squats over the planter box, brown curls ruffling slightly in the breeze.
“...probably thinks you’re rude,” you think you hear him say, “or a pervert. The one customer since opening and you scare her away. Silly Min Yoongi. What if she shuts us do-”
You duck back and cough noisily, before rounding the corner, pretending like you weren’t just eavesdropping. “Good morning,” you say to him again brightly, and the young man does a double-take at your attire. You probably should’ve put on a bra underneath the shirt.
“Good morning,” he responds reflexively, “are you, uh, heading off now? Did you enjoy breakfast?” His voice trails off cutely at the end, like he’s unsure he should even ask.
“It was great, you’re so generous. I’m curious, though, what’s the brand of that tea? It’s really good.”
Yoongi’s eyes go wide, his pink lips rounding into a surprised ‘o’. He swallows, and stands up, brushing some stray soil off on the front of his overalls. “You liked the tea?”
You nod hesitatingly. “Uh- yeah. I couldn’t recognise the flavour, though. Is it green tea?”
“Oolong,” he clarifies, mouth quirking in a disbelieving smile. “You really liked it?” You nod again, and his eyes sparkle, a shy smile lifting to reveal his gums. “I made it myself,” he reveals, “here! I’ll show you my tea plants!” The sudden burst of joy dissolves away, and he deflates. “Oh, but you probably need to head off, huh?”
A strange yearning stirs inside you. The feeling that you’d do anything to keep that smile on his face a little longer. “There are actually no busses on a Sunday, so I’m stuck here for another night anyway.” You immediately regret your word choice. He flinches when you say ‘stuck here’ and loses your gaze, frowning at the grass.
Before you can revoke your statement, he’s shrugging gloomily. “I, uh, I know this place isn’t as well run as the others. I’m really sorry, you know, about the electricity. I used the hot coals from the fire last night to make your breakfast, I hope it was warm enough. Like I said yesterday, it’s not fair to charge you for subpar service, so...”
“No, no! That’s not what I meant at all, honestly! It was just a bad choice of words.” He’s not convinced, kicking his foot against the ground and tugging at his earlobe uncertainly. “The whole missing-the-bus thing was a real nightmare, and I’m just glad I found you and Holly Lodge, because it’s been the only thing keeping me from going nuts.”
“Huh?”
Your heart breaks at his sullen face, the way his cheeks puff up slightly when he presses his lips together in a pout. “Really, Yoongi. I’m so grateful to you for even letting me stay here, let alone being as kind as you are. I’m happy to pay for the room, fuck, I’ll pay double. And if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate being able to stay another night.”
His gaze searches yours, and eventually a soft smile pulls across his lips. “Thank you…” His eyes fly wide open. “I’m so sorry, I never got your name! Oh wow, that’s poor of me, I’m sorry, I-”
“Yoongi,” you interrupt gently. “It’s fine. My name’s Y/n. It’s my fault, I should’ve introduced myself, but I was pretty tired.”
He scratches behind his ear again. “Well, then. I think it makes us about even. Truce?”
You laugh softly. “Truce. And if you’re not too busy, I think I’d like to check out that tea plant of yours.”
He smothers a proud grin, opting for a simple nod, before he’s making his way around the back of the house, where there’s a bit of humid shade. “My grandma was the best at making tea,” he explains, “she knew all about harvesting times and growing conditions, and her secret trick was to add strawberries.”
“So that was that sweet aftertaste.”
He nods eagerly. “Exactly.” The soil here is damp under your bare feet, slightly springy, but Yoongi pays it no mind, waving a hand towards a large hedge that lines the back of his garden. You pause in your tracks. The edges of the leaves are browning, curling up in a way you’re certain isn’t healthy. “This is it?” You hope your voice doesn’t sound disappointed, but you are a little confused.
He pouts. “I know. It’s not very impressive, is it?” He gnaws at his bottom lip for a few moments, running his hand over the dry leaves. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. It’s never been like this before, but after my… Now that I’m here by myself, it’s just been getting worse and worse.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “But the tea I had this morning-”
“-was the last cup of my grandma’s final batch, the one we made together. None of the tea I’ve tried to make is any good. I try cutting off the dead parts, but it still tastes funny.”
All this talk of ‘last’ and ‘final’ makes you worry about the wellbeing of his grandmother, but you don’t dare ask, having upset him enough this morning already. “It just looks like it’s not getting enough nutrients. You might need to buy something to improve the soil quality.”
He blinks at you. “You know how to grow tea?”
“No idea,” you admit, “but I do know how to grow a lot of other plants, and I’m sure I could learn.” An idea strikes you, and you flash him a smile. “How about this? In lieu of paying you for the room tonight, I can help you get the tea back to health again. With how good that cup was, it’s practically a public service.”
A tentative smile plays at his lips, but he’s still confused. “What do you mean? Surely you can’t save it by tomorrow?”
Now it’s your turn to fidget nervously, clutching your hands together. “I, uh, I don’t really have anything waiting for me back home. I was planning on staying in Busan or Seoul for a while, but I think maybe I’d… maybe I’d rather stay here. Only if you don’t mind! And of course, I’ll pay for the room-”
A hopeful grin breaks out across his face, unabashed. “No charge! If you really think you could bring back the tea plants, that more than covers the room fee.” At your stupefied look, he clarifies, “this was my grandma’s pride and joy. It really means a lot to me. More than money. Thank you, Y/n.”
You discover many things about Min Yoongi on that first day.
That he has a dog, for instance, which he needs to pick up from the vet later that morning.
You also discover that Min Yoongi does not own a car.
“How much longer?” you venture, hoping your tone isn’t too whiny.
“Not long.”
You pout at his back, watching the dogged way he walks the uneven gravel path, slowly descending as it twists through the trees, around the back of the fields and towards the Main Street. “You said that last time.”
He turns his head back quickly, a cheeky grin on his face, and you try to ignore the way your chest leaps at it. “You were the one that wanted to come.”
“I wanna check out the town. If you want to save that tea plant, you’re gonna need some decent fertilizer. Is there a garden center here?”
With his legs slightly bent in those baggy overalls, and his arms swinging by his side with every step, he radiates enthusiasm, but your question causes him to pause. “I...assume so?”
You skip a little to catch up to him. “I mean, we could always just ask one of the other residents. Someone’s bound to know.”
His smile falters. “We could.”
You bite your lip, regretting the weird change in tone. In an attempt to bring his cheery disposition back, you bump his shoulder lightly with his. “So, you have a dog, huh? Your place isn’t exactly fenced. She must be well trained.”
“He,” Yoongi hastily corrects, though the corners of his mouth lift. “Holly’s an old boy, he’s not the type to wander away. He doesn’t even need a leash to take him back home, he’ll just walk along beside me.”
“What’s he at the vet for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
The gravel merges with smooth paver stones as you emerge onto the Main Street. You spot a sign with a cat and a dog silhouette. Yoongi straightens up and begins rushing along faster. “Check-up,” he explains absentmindedly. “He was my grandma’s dog, so you can imagine he’s got some years on him. Prevention is the best medicine and all that.”
The door to the veterinarian jingles overhead, and the young man at the counter glances up from the small grey kitten in his arms with a heart-shaped beam. “Oh! Hi, Yoonie-hyung! Here for Holly?”
Yoongi’s cheeks puff up at the nickname. “He’s all good to go? No issues?”
You eye up the little name badge pinned to his polo shirt. Hoseok. “Same old. The doctor will send the tests off like usual. Just a sec; I’ll go get him from out back.” The boy carefully sets down the kitten into a small plastic kennel on the desk with four others. You can’t help but smile as you watch the baby animals squeak and snuggle up to each other. After washing his hands with some hand sanitizer, the receptionist gets out from behind the desk and disappears through a side door.
You wait for a moment, then decide to fill the silence. “When did you open Holly Lo-”
You’re cut off by the gentle tinkling of the bell above the door. Yoongi glances back quickly, and his whole demeanor changes, shoulders hunching and head ducking down. You frown, and turn around to see an unfamiliar lady approaching.
She’s old enough to be a grandparent, flabby skin on a skinny arm trembling as she carries a cat kennel with a yowling tabby inside. “Oh, Hoseok!” she calls out in a ringing tone, glancing past the two of you. “Chestnut needs his check-up, where are you? Is the doctor free?”
You would raise your brows at her impatience when there are clearly other people in line, but instead you’re just concerned at Yoongi’s reaction. His elbows are up on the higher ledge of the desk, and he’s practically hiding his face behind his forearms.
Subtly, you step out a little bit from the desk, concealing him. Unfortunately, the lady notices the movement and fixes her sour stare on you.
“You aren’t from here,” she states. “And no houses have been sold, so you’re obviously not moving in. What’s a tourist doing in a vet?”
“Um.” You give her a confused stare, a little taken aback by how forward she is. “Pet check-up,” you finish lamely.
Hoping she would leave you alone from there is clearly naive. “Day trip? If you’re staying overnight, I can recommend a good place to park up. I own a hotel and it’s the best wa-”
“I’m good,” you interrupt, “I’ve got a place to stay. But it’s very kind of you to offer.”
She narrows her eyebrows, drawn-on and smudging slightly into her wan foundation. “Wait a minute. Something’s fishy. You were the one calling at an ungodly hour in the evening looking for accommodation, weren’t you?”
You glance at the door that the receptionist disappeared behind, willing him to return. “Yeah.”
“Mrs. Na told me she said you could-” She freezes and stands up straight. Her eyes slide behind you suspiciously. “Min.”
Though you don’t turn around - some instinct in you thinks you shouldn’t turn your back on her - you can imagine what the B&B owner must look like. His voice is so small. “Hi, Mrs. Soh.”
“Finally got a customer, huh?” The room feels to shrink with every word that drips with the seasoned condescension only an elderly person can give.
Yoongi shuffles forward a little on the plastic linoleum floor. “That’s right, Mrs. Soh. Next time you speak to Mrs. Na, please thank her for sending Y/n my way.”
The lady openly rolls her eyes at this, and you have to bite hard on the tip of your tongue to stop from lunging at her. “Mrs. Na wasn’t giving you a hand-out, boy. We aren’t about to help the business that took everything from us.”
Your eyes wide, you stare at the poster on canines and felines pinned to the far wall. “Should we ring the bell? I don’t know what’s taking so long.”
You regret bringing the attention back on you as Mrs. Soh scans your face with an entitled curl of her lip. “And you. I’m surprised you’re actually choosing to stay with Min. His place is a pigsty, isn’t it? Maybe you feel bad for him, girl, but let me tell you: the only good thing about that bed-and-breakfast is how it’s a perfect example of karma. His grandmother monopolises and terrorises the tea markets while she’s alive, and now that she’s kicked it her spawn can’t do anything right.”
You forget all about respecting elders and let out a shocked scoff. “What the fuck is your problem?”
As she splutters, Yoongi’s hand wraps lightly around your elbow, tugging you backwards, but you only spare a quick glance at his sullen face before turning back to the woman across from you.
“First of all, you’re delusional if you think I’m going to stay with any of you after the way I see you treat others. Secondly, how dare you insult someone like that, let alone a dead person? You must be the meanest person in this fucking town. At least, I hope so, because I certainly don’t want to meet anyone nastier than you.”
Like magic, the very moment she opens her mouth, the door bursts open, and out comes Hoseok, a curly tan dog at his feet.
“Holly!” Yoongi cheers with more than a hint of relief, and the dog darts forward, claws scrabbling on the floor as he spins in excited circles. After reuniting with his pet, Yoongi busies himself with the payment, while you try determinately to avoid Mrs. Soh’s gaze. You wouldn’t be surprised if by nightfall everyone in town knew you as the bitchy tourist, but you didn’t even care, too occupied with steaming in your own rage.
The moment Yoongi takes a receipt from Hoseok’s hands, you wrap yours around his and tug him away from the desk, huffing at the cheery jingle of the door that accompanies you upon leaving.
“Woah, Y/n, slow down, Holly can’t run!”
You force yourself to take a steadying breath and return to a normal pace, the older dog happily trotting along on Yoongi’s other side.
He lets the two of you walk in silence for a while, until the sounds of the Main Street fade away, and all that you can hear is the crunch of gravel underfoot, paired with the metallic tinkling of Holly’s collar. You’re still holding onto Yoongi’s hand, but you swear you feel him squeeze slightly every time you loosen to let go, so you let them swing between you.
The ambient noises calm you down enough to feel like talking again. “I didn’t mean to snap,” you apologise. “But I haven’t felt that angry in a long time. What’s her deal?”
Another squeeze, or is that his fingers trembling slightly. “Ah, you get used to it,” he jokes with a smile, though it fades when you throw him a sad look. “No, seriously, I try not to let it bother me anymore. I just… don’t go into town much anymore.”
You nod slowly, watching your feet to make sure you don’t trip over the odd protruding rock or root. You don’t know if it’s wise to broach the topic, but it keeps seeming to come up. “...Your grandma’s tea was really popular, huh?”
He laughs lightly. When you flick him a confused look, he shrugs, jerking your hand with it. “I was wondering how long it would take you. The elephant in the room and all. My grandma lived here, at Holly Lodge, though it was just a house until I inherited it. She made tea, her own strain. It got popular among the locals and, soon enough, tourists were catching on too. They stopped going to the markets. Most of the ladies that own accommodation branch out into selling food and produce. Tea is a popular option, as you could probably guess. They lost their business to her.”
“That’s just life. And besides, that’s a problem they have with her. Why are they being so rude to you? You don’t even sell tea anymore.”
“Because they can? I don’t know. Listen, I’ve explained it, if you want to leave and avoid all this drama that’s fine but I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He drops your hand, and a strange but unpleasant feeling cuts into you.
The slight incline back isn’t so bad, but his breathing is shallow and his gaze is trained on the ground. Your lips droop down in guilt. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” you say softly. “I’m sorry, I probably made the situation worse for you by yelling at her. I shouldn’t have done it.”
He’s silent for a moment. The air darkens slightly, a wash of cloud moving over the sun. “Please don’t say that.” His fingers stretch out towards your hand, then fall back.
You don’t speak the rest of the way back.
--
You try not to stare. You try your best to occupy yourself with the dog at your feet, who gently paws at your hand if you halt your stroking of his thick curls. But as you sit on the floor and listen to the satisfied grunts of Holly, lying on his back in the sun, you can’t help but glance up every few seconds to the man in the kitchen.
It’s strangely domestic, the way he potters around the room, fully focussed on his task. Every measurement of flour, sugar, butter, is perfectly precise and done with care. It’s warm in the kitchen - he told you earlier it’s so the dough will rise when he rests it - and in the sun his skin seems to glow. He’s humming to himself as he kneads; a song you’ve never heard before but one you hope to hear many times again. Although he tied his hair up in a little bean sprout on the top of his head, a few stray wisps have broken free, and his pout deepens every time he has to blow them out of his eyes. The little white apron hooked around his neck and fastened at his slender waist is dusty with stray powder and smeared with runaway globs of dough.
You don’t want to break his concentration, but you feel strange sitting and silently watching him. “Jack of all trades, huh?”
He jumps and turns quickly to you, knocking over a thick paper bag of flour with his elbow, sending white grains flying into the air. His eyes fly wide open and he futilely cups his hands over where the flour is spilling out of the bag, which lays on its side on the bench. With hands full, he pushes it back up to standing, but everything in his hands is dumped onto the benchtop, including the perfectly kneaded round of dough. His shoulders droop.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” you hastily apologise the moment your voice returns to you. Ignoring the dog that whines and paws at you, you stand up and rush over to him, grabbing a tea towel on a hook and dousing it in tap water to begin cleaning up. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright, I’m sorry.”
“It- It’s okay,” he assures haltingly, still awkwardly waving his white-covered hands in the air like he’s not sure what to do with them. You move quickly, cleaning up the majority of the spill for him, the towel coated in a flour-water goop by the time you’re done. When you straighten up, the man in front of you crinkles his nose, like it’s itchy, and sighs, though at his situation rather than you. He wiggles his white-covered fingers. “Thank you,” he says, “trying to grab the flour probably wasn’t the best…”
He trails off as you grab his wrists gently, leading him to the sink where you turn on the tap and run his hands under the steady stream. He waits, obediently turns his palms up for you to squirt a pump of hand soap onto them, and lathers up as you return to the other side of the bench to clean up the rest of the spilt flour.
You hear the water stop, and moments later he’s at your side, picking up the puffy ball of dough with a care that most people would reserve for a small child. Cradling it to his chest so as not to drop it, he uses one hand to delicately brush away the pile of flour on the surface. “It’s alright,” he mumbles softly, and you’re unsure whether he’s speaking to you or the dough, “it’ll be fine. Maybe a little dry, but still good.”
You fold over the top of the bag of flour and let your hands sit heavy on it, still clutching at the paper. “Yoongi.” He swallows hard and looks up when you say his name, absentmindedly patting the dough. “You’re a really kind person, you know that?”
He blinks, setting the dough on a clear patch of the wetly glistening bench. “What do you mean? I’m doing what any host would do. Welcoming my guest.”
You bite your lip, unsatisfied with the response. “Clearly not any host would be kind. I know that after this morning. Besides; it’s more than that. You made me eggs this morning on hot coals-”
“This is a bed-and-breakfast,” he replies weakly, “and that’s just because the power’s out. I’m not sure when it’ll be fixed actually, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise. I…” You sigh, scanning his face. He really doesn’t get it, you realise. How special he is. “I’m so happy to be here, Yoongi. I’ve never met someone as kind as you. And I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. It’s clear this means a lot to you.”
He ducks his head, moving past you to open a drawer, fiddling around tubes of parchment paper and foil to pull out some plastic wrap. “Thank you, but it’s really nothing. I’m just happy for the company.”
As you lean against the bench and watch him gingerly knead the dough into a rough log shape, before rolling it up in the plastic wrap, you realise just how true that must be. A thought strikes you, shatters that solemn line of thought. “Wait… If the power’s out, how are you gonna bake the bread?”
“Oh!” He glances up, seemingly relieved at the change in topic. “Well, I thought I’d make some and save it until I can get the repair guy out here. I have an icebox around the back of the house that I’m using as a temporary freezer. Then, when we get power again…” He lifts up the dough with an odd quirk to his lips, like he’s cracking a secret joke only the two of you know. “Celebratory bread.”
Uncontrollably, a beam breaks across your face. “Sure, Min Yoongi. Celebratory bread.”
--
The two of you share a bonfire that night. You suspect it’s the first time, at least for a while, that he’s had company. Human company, at least.
“Come on, boy, not too close,” he warns Holly, whose nose continues to dip out towards the flames even as his owner gently pats his rump. The light casts Yoongi’s face in a deep orange warmth; you didn’t pick up on it last night, but his eyes practically glitter with the reflection of it. His hair is no longer up in a hair tie so the thick mop of curls - only somewhat looser than Holly’s, though a rich brown instead of the caramel of the dog - hang low on his brow, lopsided and dishevelled from changing into pyjamas.
The two of you had stuck to yourselves, for the most part, that afternoon. You’d taken advantage of an old bicycle he had dug out of his tool shed to go back down to the main town, spending hours at a cafe, shamelessly torrenting their wifi to research more about tea plants and how to grow (or, more importantly, revive) them. After the waitresses got a little too antsy with your continued presence, and once you felt confident in your task, you got directions to a hardware store and bought some decent soil. An employee there - a respectable albeit slightly clumsy young man who seemed like the epitome of customer service - offered to deliver the heavy plastic sacks for you, and so you returned home satisfied with a day well-spent.
It was another rustic barbecue for dinner. After disappearing into his room to change into a matching pair of baby pink cotton pyjamas, the bed-and-breakfast owner quickly set up a fire on the bed of blackened rocks and charcoal in his backyard. With a practised ease he raised the flame into a blaze, and every time he leant forward to cook some more meat, you watched with a strange fixation as beads of sweat collected at his temples, sticking down strands of hair and warming his cheeks to a rosy glow.
“Do they fit a bit better?”
His sudden question reaches your ears with a delay, and by the time your eyes focus again, he’s watching you curiously. “Fit a bit…? Oh! The clothes. Yes, thank you so much.”
With the clothes you came in currently drying on a rack in your spare room, Yoongi had lent you another raggedy shirt and a pair of plain blue boxer shorts. With how little fabric there was, you suspected they were underwear rather than proper pants, but as long as they stayed up you were happy.
His eyes dart to the side and his lip quirks. “I feel a little overdressed,” he admits, “giving you old clothes while I have proper pyjamas.”
“No, you look cute,” you protest automatically, before sputtering in embarrassment. “I- I meant, it’s fine, I don’t mind you wearing…” You trail off, coughing awkwardly.
With his cheeks so red from the fire, the only way you can tell he’s flustered is the flash of his gums as he smiles, ducking his head. “Ah,” he deflects softly, “you’re just messing with me, I’m not cute.” He doesn’t make eye contact with you for a moment, quietly cutting off strips of beef onto two plates. When he speaks again, you almost miss it over the crackle of flame, and you get the feeling he never intends for you to hear. “Not as cute as you,” he murmurs, and your heart short circuits.
In an effort to pretend like you didn’t overhear, you reach for one of the plates, scooting closer on the grass in order to reach it. The two of you eat in comfortable silence, enjoying the warming effect of the beef settling in your stomachs. He clearly has more of an appetite than you, and keeps munching away long after you’ve pushed your plate away. The grass is warm and dry from the heat of the fire, and so you lie back on it, letting your gaze reach the heavens.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” you muse, “at first I thought it was silly to have accommodation so far from the rest of the town, but I get it now. I don’t ever want to leave.” You attempt to lilt your voice, as if it’s a joke, but it falls flat. You don’t think you’ve ever been so genuine about something in a long time, and that scares you. You’ve only been here a day.
You hear wet noises, and lift your head off the grass to look over at your companion, who’s hurriedly chewing on an over-full mouthful of meat, blowing out his cheeks. You grin at the sight, propping yourself up on your elbows as you wait, and he does his best to flick you a chastising glare as he finally swallows. “Well,” he makes out with an empty mouth, “you know Holly Lodge is always happy to have you as long as you wish to stay. If you really do want to stay.”
Having said his piece, he promptly fills his mouth again with a thick slab that probably should’ve been cut in half first. You grin at the way his eyes widen unconsciously as he chows down, reflecting the hypnotic orange flicker in front of him. “Yeah,” you say gently, “I really do.”
--
It’s odd how days become weeks without you noticing. The days get so hot and humid that an evening fire, which had begun to feel routine, is no longer possible. After tilling the soil around the tea plant and doing some serious work on it, the leaves fatten up and return to their former glory. Yoongi’s face softens every time he walks past you working in the garden. You don’t know which thing he’s more happy to see between you and the thriving shrubbery.
Time passes as if in a dream, the bed-and-breakfast feeling like a slice of paradise separate from reality. The electrician comes, an eager yet very methodical apprentice by his side, and with the return of the electricity comes the celebratory bread, enjoyed with a strawberry jam of Yoongi’s own making. You spend your days in the garden and your evenings with Yoongi, sharing solace in each other’s company as you watch old movies or play convoluted card games. For someone that’s normally always on the go, you feel yourself settling in to this world.
Yoongi’s curls slacken as his hair grows, becoming shaggy over time, and one late Friday night he sets up a wooden stool in the bathroom and asks you to trim it. One lopsided cut later, things like these become normal for the two of you. He acclimatizes quickly to your presence, and you feel yourself changing too, melding your lifestyle into his. Even though you purchase some well-fitting shorts (as well as more underwear and feminine supplies), on the third day a pile of shirts was left on your bed and you’d been wearing them ever since. Eventually they begin to feel less like his shirts you’re just borrowing and more like your own, and you’re not sure how to feel about the niggling bud of disappointment in your chest when each one of them comes back from the wash smelling like your perfume instead of the sweetly floral scent you had begun to associate with him.
The domesticity of your situation doesn’t hit you until a Wednesday afternoon, when the sun melts the air around you into a wobbly haze, and you finally make it back home from a trip into town to grab some emergency groceries. Yoongi got weekly deliveries for the most part, but he had tried (and failed) to make some homemade ice cream the day before and the two of you were in urgent need of some milk. With a relatively mild morning, you felt safe to go on foot rather than bike, but the heat set in quickly and your feet are burning by the time you slam open the front door and step into the cool of the house.
“Yoongi,” you call out automatically, “I’m home.” The word slips out so naturally, that you think it can’t have been the first time you’d referred to the small cottage as home.
A happy gasp echoes down the hallway. “Y/n,” Yoongi cheers from a distance, “we have butterflies and bees out here, come see!”
A contented smile spreads across your face at the sound of his voice, and you slip your shoes and socks off, going through the lounge and out the back door of the house. Your heart billows in your chest every time you see him, but the delighted beam on his face makes you feel lighter than air.
Too hot for even the lightest of sweaters, Yoongi has taken to various short-sleeved shirts and button-downs. Today he’s in cream fabric shorts and a peachy satin shirt, feet bare like yours as he stares up the side of the exterior wall in wonder. Though you hate to look away from him, the way the sun casts his normally dark curls into a bronze halo, you make your way out into the garden, grass cushioning your sore feet as you turn to see what’s brought out this wonder in him.
Amongst a background of vibrant pink azaleas, you can spot fluttering movement where several monarch butterflies bask in the warm rays. Throughout the garden, honeybees aimlessly zip around, a gentle buzzing in your ears. “They’re beautiful,” you muse, “I guess the hot weather brought them out.”
The man across from you stays silent. You ponder the wildlife one more time before returning your gaze to him. Gone is the awe-filled gleam in his eyes. They’re turned down at the edges now, staring lower than your face. “You’re sunburnt,” he remarks with a frown, before raising his eyebrows in a more urgent expression of worry. “Quick; get inside!”
You apparently don’t move fast enough. The young man shoots forward, fingers slipping between yours and tugging you by the hand. You let him drag you inside, back into the slightly dim and blessedly cool house. “It’s okay, Yoongi,” you protest half-heartedly, but he doesn’t pay you any mind, squeezing tightly on your hand as he winds his way down the short hallway and into his bedroom.
Letting go of you to press at your shoulders and urge you to sit on the edge of his bed, Yoongi disappears back out into the hallway, only to return moments later with a bottle of green-ish clear gel. You eye it suspiciously, but he remains serious. “Aloe vera,” he explains, “it’ll help with the pain.”
“It doesn’t even hurt that bad,” you protest weakly, though even as you shrug, the drag of the fabric against the raw skin causes you to wince. Yoongi rushes forward, sitting on the bed beside you. You hiss when he gently pushes up the short sleeves of the baggy shirt, exposing the line where your usual skin tone becomes harshly reddened.
“This’ll help,” he repeats softly, and begins to rub the cool gel onto your skin. You sit in silence, watching him out of the corner of his eye as the bridge of his nose crinkles in concentration. “You should really be more careful,” he scolds, though there’s no bite to his tone. “Please don’t ever leave the house without sunscreen on days like this.”
“Okay, mom,” you joke gently, though he doesn’t laugh. “Really, Yoongi, it’s no big deal. You don’t have to make a fuss.”
His hands leave you. You look up after a moment, wondering why he’s gone so silent. His face is downtrodden, staring haplessly at the gel still smeared across his fingers. “I’m just trying to take care of you,” he mutters.
Your heart breaks at the hurt in his tone, but quickly a laugh jumps out. He glances up at you reproachfully, but you just grin and point to his head. “There’s a petal in your hair, at the back,” you explain, “it must’ve been there since you were outside.”
“Oh.” He begins patting down the back of his head, but somehow he misses the bright pink petal entirely.
You reach forward, and he goes stock still as you tentatively card a few fingers through his hair, lifting the azalea out of his messy curls. “Here,” you announce, handing it over to him, “you should keep it.” He curls his fingers around it, staring at it with an unreadable expression. “It could be good luck.”
When you leave his room, after thanking him for the aloe vera (refreshingly cool on your tender skin, you have to admit it helped), he stays on the bed, eyes glued to the petal in his palm. He doesn’t come back out until dinnertime.
--
The first day Min Yoongi gets real customers is a few weeks later, late on a Saturday morning. The two young men are a strange echo of you two months ago; turned away from every other hostel and motel in the town center, they find themselves at the doorstep of Holly Lodge, desperate for a place to stay.
However this time instead of lack of vacancy, the problem for them was a lack of tolerance. With hands firmly intertwined, they proudly announce they’re ‘pre-honeymooning’; a concept you had never heard before but it seems to be an excuse to take a vacation more than anything.
While the two of them fuss over the cuteness of the little cottage, Yoongi pulls you aside. “I can turn them away if you need,” he offers. “I only have one spare room and you’re using it.”
You furrow your brow in shock. “What? Yoongi, I’m not even paying for that room! You need to put your business before me. Besides, I could always sleep on the couch.”
He’s not happy with your answer, flicking a worried gaze over to the couple, who have made themselves at home on the old couch, heads ducked together as they whisper back and forth. “I mean… I suppose,” he gives in, tugging at his earlobe nervously. “But you don’t need to sleep on the couch. You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he seems antsy to get back to the visitors, so you let it drop. As Yoongi sits down in an armchair across from them, you slip into the kitchen to begin brewing some tea, the first from the revived tea plant.
“So, the two of you are happy to stay?” Yoongi questions shyly. As the three of them begin to discuss prices and facilities, you quietly observe them. You watch the couple, the way the younger, with hair dyed a vibrant blue, leans in to the side of the older, who wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him close. The brunette, introduced to you earlier as Seokjin, mindlessly plays with the fringing on his fiance’s jacket, as the fiance, Taehyung, looks up at him with adoration in his eyes. It twists something deep inside you, to see them so...intimate, and soon enough you can’t bear to look at them, instead flicking your gaze over to Yoongi.
Yoongi. It is an odd feeling, seeing him return to his shy, easily-flustered self. In recent weeks he seemed to have grown comfortable with you, but this brings back memories of your first few days at Holly Lodge. As the kettle bubbles away, you watch Yoongi’s cheeks lift in a flattered smile as Seokjin points out a framed photograph on the wall, one Yoongi had mentioned some time ago he took. Back then, back when you stumbled in on his garden desperate for shelter, you were too hung up on your own misfortune to really notice him, but now it’s clear to you just how much this place means to him.
There’s a blur of movement out of the corner of your eye, Taehyung waving a hand towards the garden. Instead of following the gesture, Yoongi’s eyes dart over and are met by yours. His eyebrows lift when he catches you staring, but he looks back at the couple, mouthing something you can’t hear over the whistle of the kettle.
You clear your throat, shaking away the weird lingering emotion in your chest, and quickly pour four cups of tea. Upon your return, you notice there’s nowhere for you to sit. The young couple are taking up the couch, and Yoongi occupies the only armchair. You pass out the three cups and hover for a moment. Do you even need to be here? You’re technically just another guest, and this conversation doesn’t really involve you. But then again, the spare room isn’t your room anymore, and you’d feel weird going into Yoongi’s bedroom without him.
Yoongi, sensing your hesitance, pats the arm of the chair and squishes himself into the opposite corner. You suppress a grin; an easier solution would’ve just been sitting on the floor, but it’s too late to say no to him now. You perch awkwardly on the cushioned arm, having to lean into Yoongi’s shoulder slightly to keep your balance.
He takes a sip from the steaming mug, and gasps softly, glancing up at you. “Boseong Breakfast?” he questions in wonder, and you give him a short nod. “This tastes just like... “ The space between his brows crinkles slightly, but he forces himself to brighten his expression again, turning back to the men on the couch. “Y/n grew the tea herself in our garden outside. I hope you like it!”
Your eyes prickle, and you bite down hard on your tongue, staring into the murky depths of the tea in your hands. Our garden.
Taehyung’s eyes flick back and forth between the two of you curiously, pausing for a moment. “You guys make a cute couple,” he states finally.
Your eyes fly wide open, automatically turning to Yoongi, expecting him to speak up and explain, but it seems Yoongi was waiting for you to be the one protesting too. The two of you stare at each other for a moment. “Uh, we’re not a couple,” you remark, addressing Taehyung directly. Out of the corner of your eye, Yoongi nods in affirmation. “I’m actually just a guest, I’m just helping out around the garden while I’m here.”
Taehyung doesn’t reply, simply raising an eyebrow. Seokjin, still with an arm around his partner, swallows a sip of tea and drums his fingers against the homemade ceramic mug. “We’re looking to stay for a while; a few weeks, possibly a month. Would you be able to house us for that long? We understand if you’ve got prior bookings to fulfil.”
Yoongi leans in to you slightly, his elbow nudging your thigh. “I better check my calendar first,” he quips with a gummy grin. You let out a laugh at the joke, but the other two don’t join in, just staring at you and Yoongi in slight confusion like they’re trying to work something out.
You realise how it must look, you practically perching on Yoongi’s lap, and quickly stand up, taking a seat on the carpet in front of the coffee table instead. “Anyways,” you begin, “I usually do a load of washing every day, so if you want I’m happy to do it for you. Now that it’s ready, I have more tea than I know what to do with, so help yourself to that, too. If you need anything, just let Yoongi or me know.”
“Breakfast is at 9,” Yoongi helpfully supplies from the armchair. “I usually make lunch and dinner if you’re around. Thank you for choosing to stay at Holly Lodge. I hope you have an enjoyable time here.”
The two share a meaningful look, noses almost brushing at their proximity.  The elder breaks away to take another slow sip from his mug of tea. “I’m absolutely positive we will,” Seokjin replies with a beam.
--
It doesn’t feel right. His bed is comfortable, sure, but you’re all too aware of the man over the edge, curled up in blankets on the floor. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come up?” you offer unsurely. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
“It’s fine.” His voice comes to you slightly muted by distance. “Holly is keeping me company down here.”
You frown, unsatisfied. You roll over so that you’re facing him. “The sheets are super itchy, maybe I should’ve washed them first.”
He lets out a tired chuckle, resonating in his throat. “That’s just the sheets. They’re cheap.”
“I don’t know,” you murmur, “the sheets on the other bed seemed fine.”
He shuffles a bit, sitting up. “The other sheets are Egyptian cotton, that’s why.”
You raise your eyes. “Why are you suffering in these then?”
He’s silent for a moment, mouth flat. “Sheets are expensive.”
Your heart breaks for him. Spending all his money into the perfect guest experience, when he hadn’t even had any guests until you showed up. “I’ll buy you fancy sheets for your birthday, then.”
He scoffs softly, fisting his hands in Holly’s tan curls absentmindedly. “My birthday isn’t until next year. March.”
You shrug. “And?”
He fixes you with a baleful expression. “You’ll be long gone by then.”
In the dim lighting of the evening, you can barely make out a gleam in his eyes. A sudden exhaustion takes over you, and you can’t bear to look at his dejected form anymore. You close your eyes, making yourself as comfortable as you can under the covers. The pillowcase smells like him. “Will I?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Yoongi?” you ask into the night, voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Mhm?”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor,” you admit. “Can you come up here?”
A pause. “With you?”
You can’t analyse his emotion with the careful way he speaks. You crack your eyes open again, staring down at him, at the way he hunches over uncertainly, cradling the sleeping dog in his lap. “I’ll stay on my side, I promise.”
His nose twitches. He tugs nervously at his earlobe. “You’re on my side,” he remarks. Your eyes widen and you begin to shuffle back. “No, no! You can stay. You can have that side.”
You scoot back over, continuing to face over the edge as he stands up, gently setting Holly down on the blankets, and comes around to hop in beside you. Though it’s summer, the cottage is always cool, and you shiver at the rush of air when he lifts the blankets. “Cold?” he questions in a murmur.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
“Here.” A weight falls over you, and you open your eyes to a dishevelled and tired Min Yoongi, folding the duvet in half so that it lays over you twofold. You go to protest, knowing he’ll be even colder than you now, but you can’t ruin the satisfied smile that plays at his lips as he pats it down, tucking the sides so that you’re snug.
Once he’s done, he disappears from your sight as he shuffles down under the bare sheets on the other side, humming happily. You let your eyes fall closed again, and breath in deeply. “Night, Yoongi.”
“Goodnight, Y/n.”
You snuggle your face further into the pillow. “Sweet dreams.”
--
“How did you two meet?” You glance up from the bed of herbs you’re tending to, squinting in the sun.
Taehyung, who’s taken to lounging in the sun outside as you work, sprawls his legs out on the warm grass. With his head tipped back to receive the rays, he sighs out happily. “Senior year,” he divulges, “we were both auditioning for Romeo in the school play, but Jin got the part instead of me. We were kinda rivals at that time, I guess. But one of my friends convinced me to audition for Juliet as revenge, and somehow I got in. We started spending more time together, and…” He shrugs. “The rest is history.”
“That’s cute.” A bird chirps in the trees, like it’s sounding out its agreement. You return to gently pressing seeds into the lush soil. “I wish I could have a meet-cute like that.”
He laughs, rich and warm. “Looks to me like you’re already in one.”
You avoid the temptation to look over to the cottage, where you know Yoongi is, inside making lunch with Seokjin (who turns out to be a brilliant cook). “No,” you deflect weakly. You can’t seem to find anything else to say, and so you clear the thought from your head entirely. “Anyway. When are you guys getting married?”
He huffs at the way you change the topic, but is only too happy to indulge. “Next year sometime. We’re in no rush. Love isn’t on a schedule, you know?”
You hate the way your mind slips to how you and Yoongi have been quietly enjoying each other’s company for the past two months or so. That’s not the same, you reason. Yoongi is just a kind person, that’s all. Anyone would grow fond of him. “I bet it’ll be a beautiful wedding,” you offer, “you two seem so in love. Besides, you’re both the hottest dudes I’ve seen in my life so I’m sure the wedding photos will be fantastic.”
He laughs boisterously, mouth widening and eyes crinkling, and it draws the attention of the two men in the kitchen, the taller of which gives a jaunty wave to his fiancé. Through the open window, you can see as Seokjin then turns around, makes a comment that causes Yoongi to flush, and claps him on the shoulder. Yoongi looks up towards the two of you, but his eyes narrow and he puts his back to you, returning to the food.
Your cheery disposition vanishes, and the air darkens as the sun dips below cloud. “I’m gonna head into town later, there’s a twilight market I want to check out. The two of you are welcome to come with.” 
Frowning at the sudden shade interrupting his tanning, Taehyung gets up, wiping the grass stands off his shorts. “Yeah, why not?”
“Honestly, you don’t have to, I don’t mind cooking!”
Yoongi’s protests go unheard. The engaged couple, who had earlier gone off on their own tangent at the street market, were determined to use some of the fresh produce they picked up to prepare a meal.
“Come on,” Seokjin pushes, “let us treat you! You’ve been so hospitable to us. Y/n said she worked in the garden as a thank you, so we can cook you a nice meal.”
The owner ducks his hand, delicately resting it in his hands, splayed fingers barely covering the happy grin. “You’re too sweet, really,” he gushes. “That would be really lovely.” Upon Seokjin’s insistence, the four of you had cracked open some soju, and it seemed the half-bottle Yoongi had consumed already was getting to him, cheeks shiny and pink. You can’t help but smile fondly at the sight of him getting all shy at the slightest display of kindness.
“What do you say, Y/n?” Taehyung questions. “Wanna come make him a meal?”
You pull your gaze away from Yoongi. “Huh? Oh, you’d be better off without me. I’m a terrible cook.”
Taehyung’s eyes glimmer in the glare of the low evening sun. “My Seokjinnie can teach you. Come on, it’s guests serving the host tonight.”
You agree reluctantly, and the two men grab one hand each, dragging you into the kitchen. You giggle at their enthusiasm, feeling a little past tipsy yourself. “What’s on the menu, head-chef?”
The brunette purses his lips in a wry smile and reaches into one of the bags, starting to empty out the various ingredients on the bench. “Don’t worry, young grasshopper, it’s very easy. We’ll make some fresh pasta sauce and have spaghetti bolognese.”
In the end, ‘very easy’ seems to be an overstatement. After finishing off another bottle of grapefruit soju you find yourself, clumsy with the warmth of the alcohol in your belly, furiously attempting to dice some onions on a chopping board.
As Taehyung manages the tomatoes reducing in a pan, Seokjin latches onto your flailing limbs, arms wrapping around you to gently clasp your wrists. “Careful, careful,” he chastises, “you’ll chop off a finger. Tuck your fingers under, and here, cut like this.”
You pout as he guides your hands, the knife cleanly slicing through the onion half you had previously been hacking at. “Okay, Mariah Carey. No, wait; what was that old lady chef’s name? Martha Stewart. Okay, Martha Stewart. Not everybody can be an incredible cook, you know?”
Taehyung chuckles under his breath at the other end of the kitchen. “We should not have given her alcohol,” he remarks to his fiance.
With a dawning realisation and a slightly running nose, you realise the cut onion is beginning to sting your eyes. You squeeze them shut, letting Seokjin continue to chop on behalf of your hands, but that only forces the tears out. “Ouch,” you whine hopelessly, leaning your weight back onto Seokjin’s broad chest.
“Oh-!” Seokjin stops chopping, simply holding your wrists in the air as the knife dangles pathetically from your dominant hand. “Tae-bear, can you come help?”
You let out another whine as Seokjin slowly walks backwards, you half-following half-stumbling back. Once there’s enough room between you and the bench, Taehyung slips in. “Oh, darling,” he coos, “that onion was being mean to you, hm? Open your eyes.”
You do so, but keep them in a pained squint. All you can see between a blurred layer of tears is his blue hair, and the patch of colour swirls in your vision. “So mean to me,” you repeat dumbly as warm hands gently wipe under your eyes, clearing away the tears that run down your cheeks.
“Goodness, she’s definitely had too much, how many bottles did you give her?”
You feel Seokjin’s chest rumble against your back as he replies. “Like, two? It’s not even strong stuff.”
You hum happily. “You’re strong stuff,” you say, though you don’t even know who you’re talking to. The sting is finally fading from your eyes, and once Taehyung gently pats the last of the tears away, you let out a tired sigh, going even more limp against Seokjin. “I’m not hungry anymore,” you complain, “don’t want bisghetti.”
Taehyung chuckles. “Okay, I think I’m gonna take you to your bedroom now, missy, you better have a lie-down.” The knife is pried from your fingers and strong arms lift you off of Seokjin, keeping you upright as you potter out of the kitchen with Taehyung.
Behind you, you hear Seokjin sigh. “Sorry, Yoongi,” he apologises, “we wouldn’t have given her so much if we knew she was a lightweight. She’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. I can finish off the dinn-”
“Yoogi,” you cry, wriggling in Taehyung’s grasp. You hadn’t spoken to him since you started making dinner and that’s been far too long. Taehyung tries to shush you, but you twist around to face the dining table, where Yoongi sits. You go limp when you see him. Staring blankly into the middle distance, he has a strange look on his face, lips and brows frowning in disapproval or annoyance, but eyes soft with concern. Your nose tingles viciously and tears well in your eyes. “‘re you mad a’ me, Yogi bear?”
He looks up at you suddenly, face smoothing out as his eyes widen. “Of course I’m not, Y/n.” He trails off unconvingly at the end. “Just get some sleep, okay?”
You frown, somehow unsatisfied, but nod, letting your cumbersome feet carry you to his bedroom. He sleeps on the couch that night.
--
When you wake up, your memory is fuzzy but it’s clear by the way Yoongi treats you that you must’ve done something wrong.
You don’t understand it, but he seems cold to you, sulking. Over the space of a week, you spend so little time in his company that it feels like he must be actively avoiding you. To compensate the niggling sensation in your heart, you spend more time with the boys.
They cheer you up a lot, never questioning what’s got you so gloomy. Maybe they can already tell. But you waste away your days building up a modest garden in Yoongi’s backyard in the mornings when it’s cooler, and finding stuff to do with Taehyung and Seokjin in the afternoons.
Though you still share a room with Yoongi, the night after you got drunk he chose to sleep on the floor again, and you didn’t have the heart to ask him back up. You’ve been sleeping on his side for so long that his pillow no longer smells like him anymore. You don’t sleep well these days.
You find yourself waking naturally long before he does so that you can tiptoe out of his room and get ready alone. At night, you press your ear to the door and wait to hear his little snuffles and grunts of a deep sleep before you creep in. It seems odd to have any negative feelings towards him, but he just doesn’t seem the same as the man you had grown so used to sharing a house with.
Tonight, he woke up as you were sneaking inside his room, and so the two of you lie in dim silence, both all too aware of the other. Holly is curled up beside him, you can hear the gentle snoring, but Yoongi is completely quiet. You can’t even hear him breathe.
The total lack of sound in Yoongi’s room means that another noise is amplified. You wrinkle your brow at the odd, low pitched rumble, barely audible. You know it’s coming from outside the bedroom, though where exactly you couldn’t say.
Just as you’re about to pass it off as nothing, it sounds out again, louder this time. A moan.
Realisation dawns on you when you hear it again, drawn-out and dripping with pleasure. Taehyung and Seokjin are having sex in the next room over.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you whisper into the dark. “Have they no shame?”
It’s loud enough this time that you can hear the words themselves.
“Ah, Jinnie-hyung.” You screw up your face and huff.
“...they did say ‘pre-honeymooning,’” Yoongi reasons reluctantly.
You sit up, bunching the blankets in your lap as you glare down at the bed and breakfast owner. “So you’re on-” you break off as the undeniable high pitch of a whimper echoes throughout the house. “So you’re on their side? They’re fucking in my bed!”
He frowns at you, though it’s far from intimidating with his ruffled brown curls and sunshine yellow pyjamas. “It’s not your bed, it’s the guest bed.”
You raise an eyebrow. “They’re fucking on your Egyptian cotton sheets.”
A fury you’ve never before seen lights up in his eyes. “My sheets!” The begrudging way he crosses his arms over his chest makes him look like a petulant child, and you snort out a laugh. “Hey,” he cries out in a stage whisper, barely louder than the pleasured moans that seem to be rising to a fevered pitch, “don’t laugh at me! Those sheets were expensive!”
You pause for a moment, trying to stay composed, but then you hear it through the thin walls.
“Fuck, cum in me, hyung!”
You clap a hand over your mouth, barely in time to muffle your desperate laughter.
Through tears, you see Yoongi try to fight the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth, but soon enough he succumbs, shoulders shaking and eyes squeezed shut as he laughs silently. The two of you endure a minute or so of loud cries of climax, before all goes still.
You lower your hand. You stare at each other for a moment, but after nothing happens, you sigh out in relief. Yoongi goes to plump up his pillow as you fuss with the duvet. “Thank god that’s over,” you proclaim, “now we can finally-”
“Does my Tae-bear still want more, hm? Greedy boy.”
Yoongi’s face drops. He stands up suddenly, thrusting out a hand in front of your face. As quiet whines and sighs reach your ears from the other room, you stare at it blankly. He waves it impatiently. “Come on,” he instructs, “I can’t take this anymore. Let’s get out of here.”
Though you’re uncertain what he means, you reach out and take his hand. It’s warm, and his fingers slip between yours naturally, clasping tightly. Before leading you carefully to the door, Yoongi grabs a blanket off the floor and hands it to you. He opens the door so gingerly that you can hear nothing more than the brush of the wood against the carpet.
The two of you tip-toe down the hallway. Directly outside the guest bedroom, you’re close enough to hear not only Taehyung’s desperate moans, but the pants of exertion from his fiance. Whatever Seokjin was doing to him in there, it was nothing short of athletic.
Holly, having been woken when Yoongi got up, pads down the hallway behind you happily. You wince at the jangle of his collar, but the two loud men don’t seem to notice, or at least don’t care enough to pause.
When the two of you reach the living room, Yoongi drops your hand to fiddle with the key to the back door. He slides it open and you step out in confusion, waiting for him and Holly to come through, Yoongi sliding it shut behind him, locking it and pocketing the key in a tiny breast pocket on his pyjama shirt.
Once the door shuts behind you, you no longer have to remain quiet. “What are we doing?” you question.
Holly follows faithfully as Yoongi makes his way down the backyard barefooted; determined not to be left behind and burning with curiosity, you jog to catch up. You leave the even footing of the grass and begin picking your way through the trees, going in a slight incline up the hill.
“We weren’t gonna get any sleep listening to them going at it like rabbits anyway,” he explains, “so I figured we could chill out here for a few hours and come back inside before it gets too cold. Hopefully they’ll have tired themselves out by then.”
You frown, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Fine then,” you allow, “where are you- oh!” You’re cut off as Yoongi stumbles on a tree root, falling forward onto his hands and knees. He gets up quickly, brushing off the dirt and twigs from his palms. Even in the dim lighting, you can see his cheeks are red with embarrassment, so instead of poking fun, you just move on. “Tomorrow I can go down to the convenience store and buy some earplugs. Unless you want to talk to them about lowering the volume of their nightly activities?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Get the brand that comes with three sizes, I’ve got small ear canals.”
You bark out a surprised laugh. “I’m sure you do, Min Yoongi.” You let the jingle of Holly’s collar fill the air for a few moments, and your companion seems happy enough with the comfortable silence. He seems to be picking out an intentional path, though there is no evidence of a well-tread route he’s taking. It’s not until Yoongi comes to a stop in a small clearing, about a third of the way up the hillside, that you open your mouth again. “What’s this?”
Yoongi sits down in front of you, patting the grass. He waits for you to sit until he begins to explain. You shake out the blanket, laying over your two laps as he speaks. “I would sneak out of the house in the middle of the night all the time when I visited my grandma, pretending to be Indiana Jones or something. I found this glade one day and it became my nightly routine to come here at eleven or twelve pm and watch the stars.” He trails off in a wistful tone, craning his neck to look up.
Naturally, you follow his gaze. Blurred in the edges of your vision are the trees that surround you on the hill, but directly above is an open expanse of blackish navy, pricked with stars. The air is fresh, and you breathe it in deeply, feeling the cool air open your chest. You let your body tip back, lying down on the grass.
Yoongi’s voice comes from above, still sitting up. “One day I came back around two or three in the morning. Instead of being in bed, my grandma was waiting at the door for me. I thought she was mad - she wouldn’t speak to me all day - but that night when I went to leave she came out of her room and handed me a torch.” You can’t help but smile at the way Yoongi speaks, deeply entrenched in his own memories, voice hushed in nostalgic wonder. “Ever since that point, we did this together. She once told me that at night, the sun puts a big blanket over the earth to say it’s time to go to bed, but since it’s so old, it has holes in it. That’s what stars are. Ah, it sounds silly now, but at the time…” His voice changes, flattens. “I haven’t been here since she passed away. I couldn’t go alone.”
Your heart breaks for him. “I’m so sorry, Yoongi.” You don’t know what else to say.
He sighs out heavily, the burden of loss. “Yeah.”
At some point over the next few hours, he lies down beside you, the two of you quietly contemplating the abyss above. Now that you’re looking at it different, it does look like a blanket. Thick blackness with pinpricks of light. You wonder what’s on the other side.
The air cools down. It’s still humid, but instead of warming you, it condenses on your neck in a cloying sweat, and beads on the grass. The tip of your nose is chilled pink, and you keep having to rubbing your hands together to warm them. You don’t want to interrupt this strange solemnity in the air, but once you begin to shiver slightly, you have no choice. “Can we head back now, Yoongi? I’m sure they’ve finished by now.”
“Hm? Yeah, okay.” He sits up and stretches with a groan, sticking out his arms and rolling his wrists. When he goes lax again, he sticks his fingers into the little pocket on his pyjama shirt. “Oh. Oh no.”
You frown, sitting up yourself. “What?”
“Must’ve fallen out when I tripped over,” he mumbles, “shit.”
“What?”
He tugs at his earlobe nervously. “I lost the key.”
“Y- what? So we’re locked out?”
“Well, just until tomorrow. When Taehyung and Seokjin get up, they can let us in. I’ll go down to the locksmith, get a new key made in no time.”
Now that you know you’re stuck here, the cold seems more insidious. You shiver again. “That doesn’t help us now, Yoongi! We’re stuck out here for the night because you wanted to go fucking stargazing.” His hurt look cuts through you like a knife, and you rush out the breath you’re holding, anger dissipating in a moment. “No, I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. I just… we’re gonna freeze out here, Yoongi.”
Guilt worries at his brow, and he tucks his knees up to his chest. “We can do our best to stay warm. The grass is still mostly dry, and there’s no wind or anything. If we huddle together under the blanket we can conserve body heat. It’s just one night.”
You stare at him for a moment, then nod begrudgingly. “Fine then,” you acquiesce. “We cuddle in order to survive tonight, and then never speak of it again.” With a flourish, you lie back down, tugging the blanket over you and turning your back to him.
Instead of a warm body, you’re met with silence. “Um,” Yoongi says finally, “I- Never mind.”
You twist your head around. “You what?”
He rubs at his cheek in embarrassment, though the dark pink blush firmly stays. “I like to be the little spoon.”
After a moment’s pause, you swivel around, holding the blanket up for him. “Come on then, little spoon,” you say softly, “get comfy.”
He offers you the smallest smile of gratitude, a flash of teeth peeking out, and turns, shuffling back until he’s pressed up against your chest. As you lower the blanket over the both of you, your arm naturally slips over his torso, curling over his tummy. The warmth of his body in your arms certainly is a respite from the cold, and clearly he agrees, because he lets out an unconscious grunt of happiness. You remember grinning into the darkness, ready to make a teasing remark, but sleep takes you before you can even open your mouth.
--
You had expected that night would bring Yoongi back to normal. That whatever strange mood had affected him in that week would be dissolved with the night you spent together under the stars. However, the next morning Taehyung and Seokjin convince you to stay at the lodge playing board games with them while Yoongi goes alone to the locksmith for a new key, and when he returns home to you curled up between the two of them, watching some dumb early-2000s rom-com on the TV, it seems his earlier grudge has returned with a vengeance.
There’s a strangely hostile tension in the air that afternoon, and when you and the boys finish up watching movies you pretend to accidentally fall asleep, just so you don’t have to go back to the room.
You begin to favor spending time with the other guests rather than Yoongi. It almost feels like you’re outstaying your welcome, but Taehyung and Seokjin seem enamoured with your company, and so day-in day-out you’re hanging out with them. After a couple weeks, you begin to view them as genuine friends. You get the impression that they hadn’t planned on staying as long as they are. Taehyung’s blue locks are beginning to grow out, hints of natural black peeking out at the roots. Seokjin has the (probably ill-founded) idea of buying bleach and dye at the supermarket, which is why you find yourself in a pair of gloves, lathering bright red hair dye on his scalp after dinner one night.
When Yoongi finished doing the dishes and saw Taehyung mixing the dye, he simply huffed and told him not to get any on the floor, then disappeared into his room. He was going to bed earlier and earlier, you noted, as well as getting up later in the mornings. You couldn’t remember the last time you held a conversation with him.
Now the three of you remaining in the kitchen sit cross legged on the floor, chatting away as the dye sets. Taehyung, with a plastic shower cap covering his hair, bangs his head back against the cabinets. “I wonder what colour I should have for the wedding,” he muses.
Seokjin’s eyes crinkle at the thought. “At the rate you’re dying it, it’ll be straw by the time you walk down that aisle.”
The younger grins, boxy. “You’ll still love me, even with scarecrow hair?”
“Of course,” Seokjin answers without hesitation. “Besides, it would grow back healthy in no time.”
“Would you love me even if I was bald?”
“Let’s not get hasty here,” he jibes, lifting his eyebrows in mock concern. “Don’t worry, Tae-bear. You’re the only man for me.”
The two laugh fondly, then fall into a silence. You know it’s a personal question, but you’ve known them for a while, so you ask anyway. “Have you guys always known? That you were attracted to men, I mean.”
Taehyung smiles, nodding languidly. “Well, both of us are bi so it’s not just men. But for me, yeah. I always knew, and then when I was in college I was a complete Casanova. Boys, girls, everyone in between. Life was a buffet.”
“Oh,” you exclaim curiously, “so you’ve been with men and women then?” He nods again. A thought strikes you. “That’s something I’ve always wondered, actually. Who are better to kiss; guys or girls?”
Taehyung scratches lazily at his scalp through the plastic cap. “Most guys are great kissers, but there’s nothing nicer than women’s lips. Luckily my Seokjinnie has the prettiest lips in the world.”
You look over as Seokjin, sitting across from Taehyung, purses his lips playfully, before shrugging. “I wouldn’t know,” he admits, “Taehyung is my one and only.”
The aforementioned pushes off the cabinet, leaning forward with an unreadable look in his eyes. “Do you want to try?”
Seokjin tilts his head in confusion. “Hm?”
“If I gave you permission and Y/n agreed to it, would you want to kiss her right now?”
“What?” You gape incredulously at Taehyung, but he’s dead serious. Looking back over, Seokjin is silent, nibbling at his lip. He’s considering it. A wave of heat rushes through you, akin to excitement. He’s one of the most attractive men you’d ever seen in your life, and you can’t deny that physical connection is something you’ve been missing in your past few months. “Are you sure, Taehyung?”
He sends you a salacious wink, turning back to Seokjin. “Think of it as a wedding gift,” he bargains, “I don’t want you to marry me feeling like you’re unfulfilled, or that you’re missing out. As long as I’m the one that gets to be beside you every night, I’m happy.”
Seokjin’s eyes soften, then dart over to you. “Y/n…”
That’s invitation enough. You lick your lips, wetting them before crawling over to the older man. He pats his thighs, and you swing a leg over, steadying yourself on his lap. His hands are light on your hips.
“Just like it’s me, Seokjinnie,” Taehyung instructs. “Well, maybe a bit gentler than if it was me. You can kiss her, hyung.”
Though the statement was directed at Taehyung’s fiance, you take the initiative to duck your head down, eyes slipping closed the moment you feel his lips brush yours. He lets out an unsure sigh, muffled against you, and you feel his fingers curl, digging into your flesh slightly.
“That’s it,” Taehyung soothes. You hear the rustling of fabric, and you crack an eye open to see him sidling up beside Seokjin, watching the two of you. “How is she, hyung?”
You work your lips against Seokjin’s for a few more moments before pulling back. The man below you has flushed skin and dilated pupils. He swallows, throat bobbing. “Soft,” he makes out.
You run a finger over his lower lip, watching it bounce back. “For someone who’s never kissed more than one person before, you’re definitely the best kisser I’ve ever had.”
He grins under your touch. “I bet Taehyungie is better.”
There must be something in the air. The hair dye fumes getting to you, perhaps. Or maybe you’re just deprived. Either way, you feel your inhibitions falling away, and an arousal-fueled confidence takes over. You send Taehyung a lustful look. “Only one way to find out.”
The tiniest nod reveals his consent. Seokjin keeps you steady on his lap by gripping your hips with strong hands, and you lean over, placing one hand on Seokjin’s shoulder and the other on Taehyung’s, ducking your head to capture his lips with yours.
They’re somewhat thinner than Seokjin’s, and you find yourself missing those plump lips against you, but the younger man more than makes up for it with his prowess. His hands wind into the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you in deeper. You let out a whimper into his mouth. Unlike Seokjin, whose kiss was pure and curious, this embrace is dripping with passion, and you find yourself drowning in it, mindlessly grinding your hips into the budding hardness below. Seokjin grunts, but you barely hear, lost in Taehyung’s grip, the tip of his tongue swiping teasingly against the flat of yours.
Suddenly, Seokjin goes stock-still and the hands wrapped around your hips go iron-tight. The sudden pressure breaks you out of your haze, and you pull away from Taehyung in confusion, the latter making a confused hum, eyes fluttering open.
You freeze as you hear a cabinet open and close behind you. Unable to look, you stare at the faces of the two men you’re currently sprawled on top of, as they lower their gazes in embarrassment at being caught out. You wait, listening to Yoongi hastily grabbing himself a glass of water, before he leaves quicker than he appeared.
Once the kitchen goes silent again, you slide off Seokjin’s lap, dejectedly staring at the floor. Shame burns in your chest, mixed with regret, and all you want is for the ground to swallow you whole. You swallow down the dryness in your throat. “C-can I sleep in your guys’ room tonight?” you ask with a small voice.
The two of them look ashamed, pitying. You hate it. You hate your lack of self-control. Seokjin nods silently, and the three of you make a solemn pilgrimage into the guest bedroom. Though the two of them fall into slumber soon enough, you lie awake on the floor in a bundle of pillows and blankets, imagining what his face must’ve looked like when he walked in on you messing around with two taken men. You don’t know which one would’ve been worse: seeing a look of anger, disgust, or disappointment on his face, or you never turning around at all.
--
When you wake up the next morning you’ve made up your mind. If you hadn’t already, you’ve definitely overstayed your welcome by this point. The boys don’t stir at all when you quietly tiptoe around their room, tugging on your jeans that you had kicked off the night before, too emotionally drained to bother with pyjamas. They look peaceful and content; there’s a lump in the middle of the bed where Taehyung has swung his leg over Seokjin’s hip, and his face is tucked into the crook of Seokjin’s neck. Their hands have found each other in the night, fingers lazily intertwined as they rest over the covers. Your eyes prickle at the sight.
In the kitchen, you eat alone. On the bench, the one that gets the most sun, is a tea towel with a pile of half-dried tea leaves. You wonder if Yoongi will continue making tea once you’re gone. Part of you wants to sneak out to the plant and take some of the leaves with you; that tea is the best you’ve ever had. But you force yourself to remember that you have no right to that plant. It was easy to see this as more than what it was, especially when Yoongi had been so generous and hospitable, but you’re a guest. At the end of the day, you’re nothing more than a traveler passing through. He’ll forget about you when new guests arrive. That’s how these things were meant to be, you reason. For fear of making too much noise, you forgo the ritualistic cup of Boseong Breakfast. Your stomach roils in yearning of a hot cup to soothe you, or perhaps that’s just the dread at knowing you’re about to leave.
Your stuff is still in Yoongi’s room. Shoes, backpack, wallet. You don’t fancy leaving here with nothing but a cellphone, so you turn the knob painstakingly slowly, leaving it open and using the light of your phone screen to find your way. Though you internally scream at yourself not to, you find yourself guiding the light onto his sleeping form, casting him in the weak cold glow.
He’s curled up in a tiny ball, barely occupying a third of the bed. Instead of on the floor, Holly is right beside him, stretched out languidly in the middle, head resting on the pillow right beside Yoongi’s face. His face reflects strangely, and you frown, risking a few steps closer.
Once you’re beside the edge of the bed, you lower the light to face the floor so you don’t wake him. He’s back on his side of the bed, the one you had temporarily occupied in a time that already felt so long ago to you, and every few seconds he lets out a small grunt or sniffle. Turned in towards the center of the bed, towards Holly, his hands are folded under his face, pressing his cheek up, revealing the dried tracks of tears that glimmer on the skin. You bite your lip harshly and force yourself to turn away and keep searching for your stuff.
But as you swivel around to check this end of the room, a sudden bright reflection hits you right in your eyes. You hiss loudly, squeezing them shut. Upon a second, more cautious glance, you see the culprit is a framed pane of glass sitting atop his nightstand. Careful not to suffer the glare again, you hold your phone up to inspect it.
It takes you a moment, but when you recognise that sliver of vibrant pink, your breath rushes out of you in an overwhelmed sigh. Pressed between two panes of glass so that it lies perfectly flat and preserved, the azalea petal you had picked out of his hair that distant spring day. He really kept it.
Tears threatening to well up, you quickly stand up straight again, caring less about making noise and more about finding your stuff and leaving quickly. You find your backpack in the bottom of his closet. Remembering at the last moment that you’re still in one of his baggy t-shirts rather than the one you came in - when had you started seeing them as your own clothes? - you tug it up over your head, quickly shimmying into the cold fabric of your shirt.
“What are you doing?”
You freeze at the familiar voice, croaky with sleep. “I… I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He’s sitting up; you can see his form out of the corner of your eye, but you keep your head down, not wanting to look at him for fear of what expression would be plastered on his face. “Are you going somewhere?”
You tense your lips, nodding tightly. Now that he’s awake, there’s no need to be quiet, so you rush out his room, leaving the door ajar behind you. It’s lighter out in the living room, the first few inches of the sun as it creeps over the hills above, sending a thin streak of orange light across the carpet.
It takes a few moments, probably since he’s still groggy from just waking up, but Yoongi rushes frantically down the hallway, bursting into the living room. He halts, watching you going through your stuff to make sure it’s all there. “Where are you going?” He stands there, shoulders slumped in dejection as you just shake your head mutely. “Are you leaving me?”
You let out a shaky breath. “I want to apologise for my behavior last night,” you say instead. “I wrote down your bank account earlier, the one you gave Seokjin and Taehyung. When I get back home I’ll reimburse you for however many nights I stayed here.”
“Home?”
“I can’t keep staying here like some freeloader,” you explain, “I’ll get out of your hair so that you can run your business.”
“You don’t have to go,” he protests, though his voice is small, barely reaching your ears.
You let out a frustrated groan when the zipper on your backpack jams, tugging roughly at it. “It’s for the best,” you insist, though you can’t tell who it is you’re trying to convince, “I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome.”
“What does that even mean?” he questions in a wobbly voice.
You huff, chucking the half-open backpack on the couch and facing Yoongi. “I can read the signs, Yoongi. For the past few weeks you’ve been avoiding me like the plague and glaring whenever I’m around. I get it, okay? I’ll get out of your hair.”
“It’s not like that,” he defends. He pushes his curls back off his forehead, sighing out shakily. “I didn’t realise that’s how you were… It’s not you.”
You scoff bitterly, crossing your arms over your head. Both of you have given up being quiet for the sake of the other guests, and at this point you couldn’t care less if they woke up. “Oh, well then by all means, tell me what your problem is. I guess I’m too stupid to understand your fucking smoke signals.”
He furrows his brow in annoyance. “Are you serious? It’s not like you’re the poster child for mature communication.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yoongi shrugs with a petulant frown. “Fuck, I save your tea plant, harvest and prepare the leaves, do the laundry, help with Holly, entertain the guests, and-”
The muscles in Yoongi’s jaw pop when he tenses it. “You are a fucking guest! I didn’t ask for you to act like a housewife! I didn’t ask for you to do the laundry, or plant the herb garden. I didn’t fucking ask for you to suck face with the other guests in my kitchen! So don’t act like such a goddamn saint.”
You hear a door open and shut in the distance, but nothing can distract you from the pent-up rage that’s rolling off you in waves. As the sun steadily rises, the house is lit up in it’s rays, and you curse the daylight for showing you Yoongi more clearly, the way his eyes glitter with unshed tears of frustration. “Why does it matter to you what I do with them? I wasn’t aware there were rules against guests kissing at Holly Lodge. But then again, you’ve never had guests before so I guess you never got around to writing any.”
His face crumples. “That’s not my fault,” he mutters. “I wanted guests to come. I always wanted guests to come.”
You curse yourself for getting so heated, knowing this is turning ugly, but you can’t help yourself. Picking up your backpack, you storm across to the front door, calling out over your shoulder. “Don’t worry, Min Yoongi,” you snap, “you’ll get plenty of guests after I leave you a five-star review on Yelp. ‘Beautiful sights, expensive sheets, emotional turmoil. The best accommodation in Boseong.’ Have a nice life, Yoongi.”
Your hand is on the doorknob when his phone rings, a cheery ringtone of birds chirping. You don’t know what it is that makes you hesitate, but you hover at the front door long enough to hear him mumble, “oh, it’s the vets.”
Your hand falls. As much as Yoongi has hurt you, Min Holly is the sweetest old dog you’ve ever met, and curiosity keeps your feet planted.
“Hello? No, no, it’s okay, I was already awake… Ah, okay, thanks for the- He what?” With a growing feeling of dread, you swivel around in your spot, watching the emotions on Yoongi’s face play out like a movie; confusion, concern, fear. “Will he be okay?” He lets out a shuddering breath, looking around frantically. Looking for Holly. “And how quickly can I get him the operation?”
You let the backpack slide off your shoulder, gently hitting the carpet. His hand is over his nose and mouth, but you can see the wet glistening of his eyes and the way his shoulders shake. You know you’re probably the last person he wants to see, but you can’t bring yourself to leave him. Not now. Not when all you can think of is the pressed petal on his nightstand, framed like something precious. Not when you’re beginning to think that maybe you read his cold shoulder wrong after all.
“I… Can I call you back? I don’t think I can afford that, I need to contact someone who can. Okay. Yes, okay. Thank you for the call. Bye.” His voice cracks on the last syllable, and he barely manages to end the call before a broken sob is torn from his throat. “Oh, god.” His knees give out, and before you can process a response, you’re rushing forward, crouching on the floor in front of him.
“Yoongi, I’m so sorry,” you say in a hush, feeling your nose prickle with the warning of tears. He heaves another sob, crying some words you can’t make out. “Yoongi, I- You said there was someone you can call, take a deep breath, you can give them a call and get it sorted, okay?”
He wipes his face with shaking hands and blinks up at you. There’s no sign of animosity or lingering anger; when he stares at you, all you can see is a raw vulnerability. “My brother,” he manages to say in a thick voice, “but I can’t do it, I can’t speak to him.” He lets out another wail, and you sense there’s something deeper there, but you don’t have time to question it.
“Okay, I’ll call then. Unlock your phone for me, Yoongi, I’ll call.” He does so, typing in the string of numbers, 46559, three times before he gets it right with how violently his fingers tremble. “What’s your brother’s name, Yoongi?”
In the corner of your eye, you see two half-asleep young men padding down the hallway. You wave them away behind Yoongi’s back, mouthing get Holly at them. After they disappear, you bring your attention back to the bed-and-breakfast owner, who’s tucked his knees under his chin, looking more childlike than ever in his white pyjamas with daisies on them. “Joonie,” he hiccups, “call Joonie.”
Though there’s no Joonie listed as a contact, you assume Namjoon is the same person, and so you call it, reaching out to tentatively rub Yoongi’s back as it rings.
The call clicks through after only a few seconds. The voice is deeper than you were expecting, and authoritative. “Yoongi-hyung?”
With wide eyes filled with tears, Yoongi’s head picks up and he stares at you balefully, listening to the call. You put it on speakerphone. “I’m calling on behalf of Yoongi,” you explain, “I’m a friend.”
“The first call in years and it’s not even him,” he mutters, “go figure. What’s up?”
You bite your lip awkwardly. “Uh, it’s Holly. I don’t really know the details, Yoongi only just got the call, but he’s very sick. He needs an operation, urgently, it seems like. Yoongi would call, but he’s really upset at the moment.” You lock eyes with Yoongi as you speak, unable to tear your gaze away from the deep well of pain in them.
“Shit,” his brother curses, “is he there now?”
Yoongi gives the tiniest shake of his head. “He’s gone to grab some tissues, I think,” you lie, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “But Yoongi can’t afford the treatment. I think he’s hoping you could pay for it.”
Namjoon pauses on the other end of the line for a moment. “Your voice sounds distant, so I’m assuming you’re on speakerphone. Hi, Yoongi-hyung.” You bite your lip, but the crying boy just clasps his hand over his mouth again, a fresh wave of tears. “But anyway, of course I’ll pay. There’s just one thing… If I do this, hyung, Holly is staying with me. He needs proper care and treatment, especially if he’s having surgery. The veterinarians are better in Seoul, anyway. I can make sure he’s getting the best help. Understand, Yoongi?”
Clammy fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling the cellphone a little closer. “Okay, Joonie. I understand.”
You hear some typing in the background coming from Namjoon’s end, but Yoongi’s attention is caught by the familiar jingling from down the hallway. As Holly enters in a speedy jog, Yoongi reaches out to the dog with grabby-hands, letting out a shaky sigh of relief when the dog jumps into his arms, immediately lying across Yoongi’s lap. The young man cradles his companion, tears wetting the fur on his head.
“I’ve shuffled around a few appointments,” the voice from the phone announces, and you jump at the sudden noise. “I’ll be there by this afternoon. Thanks for the call…”
“Y/n,” you supply.
“Thanks for the call, Y/n. And I’ll see you soon, Yoongi-hyung.”
--
Seokjin and Taehyung decide to make their goodbyes. They sense, rightly so, that it wouldn’t do them well to stay, and as it is they had lives to get back to. The house seems quieter with them gone, but you suppose had they been here that cheery energy would’ve disappeared.
Yoongi and you spend the day in silence, quietly sitting on the couch, staring at the turned-off television screen emptily, as Holly sleeps soundly, snoring away in Yoongi’s arms. It feels more like a funeral, this weird, drawn-out goodbye, and once Yoongi receives a text saying Namjoon has landed, he solemnly wanders around the house, collecting all of Holly’s food, dog bed (that you’d never seen him actually use) and all of his favorite toys.
For the first time, you hear the crunch of gravel as someone arrives in a car. Namjoon looks nothing like Yoongi in the bigger picture - taller, bulkier, straighter hair - but they have the same glimmer in their eyes, the same round faces. For all that Namjoon seems to be the more adult one of the two, it’s clear by the way he pulls Yoongi into a tight hug, his whole body curling into it, that Namjoon is the younger brother. As the two of them catch up over some tea, you keep your distance, sensing there were some things they needed to discuss that didn’t concern you.
You decide to take Holly on one last wander through the forest. Now that Yoongi seems to have calmed down, eyes dry, you figure you’ve done your part. Especially with Seokjin and Taehyung leaving, you find it harder and harder to ignore the pull of your life back home, your responsibilities. Your old friends and loved ones don’t text you much anymore, but when they do they ask when you’re coming back to the ‘real world’. University, a career, a house. Things that they seem to care about more than you do. Your stuff is already packed up. When you get back, you can call up the Boseong-gun terminal and see when the next bus home leaves. It’s for the best, you tell yourself.
Namjoon is gone quickly after you return. The house feels hopelessly empty without Holly. If you can feel it, you have no idea how much it must tear Yoongi up inside, and so you put on the television, hoping any noise will fill even the smallest amount of that void.
You make the two of you some ramen for dinner, but both bowls sit untouched. They’ve long gone cold before Yoongi suddenly sits up, muting the ads on the TV. You stare at him uncertainly.
“I… wanted to thank you,” he says slowly, “for staying with me. You didn’t have to, but I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” He picks at some stray dog hairs that are embedded in the fabric of the couch. “I’m scared to be alone again.”
Your face falls. All thoughts of returning home are rendered void. You can’t leave him. “Of course I’ll stay,” you promise in a whisper.
He swallows, shuffling around so that he faces you on the couch. “You’ll stay,” he repeats in a chant. His gaze dips, then flickers back up to yours again. With brows furrowed like he’s unsure of what he’s doing, he leans forward and presses a tentative kiss across your lips.
You freeze. His hand rests on your knee, the lightest pressure, and he kisses you again, insistent this time like he’s begging for a response. Your heart breaks as you reach up and push his chest, separating him from you.
His eyes flutter open and his bottom lip trembles. “I don’t understand…” He retracts his hands into his lap, leaving your knee cold with his absence.
“You’re not in the right frame of mind, Yoongi,” you explain, “you’ve had a long day, and- Yoongi…” He stands up abruptly, and you reach out to him, but he waves your hand away.
“Goodnight,” he says shortly, leaving the room.
You sigh out and tip your head back, banging it against the couch headrest. Why did it feel like no matter what you did, it hurt?
--
You stay. Just like you promised, you stay for him.
You don’t see him anymore, but you drop off three meals a day at his door, and in the middle of the night, when you can’t sleep, sometimes you hear him showering, or grabbing a snack. Sometimes you hear him leave the house, only to return hours later. It feels strangely intimate that you know exactly where he goes on those nights.
You find out through eavesdropping on Yoongi’s calls to Namjoon that Holly got the operation. Though you still don’t know what exactly happened, there’s talk of a cast, and physical therapy. You hope he’s doing okay.
Although you understand Yoongi is upset about his companion being taken from him, you expect eventually he’ll come around. You wait day-in, day-out for him to open the door and come back to reality. You struggle away in the kitchen learning to cook, hoping to entice him with wafts of spice. You start loudly making calls to friends and family, highly recommending Holly Lodge. You even knock on his door in excitement when a little hedgehog trundles into the backyard one day, thinking maybe his pure love of nature will draw him out, but nothing works.
And then, after the leaves begin to burnish in autumn shades, you know you’ve been here too long. You sit down outside his doorway, head leaning against the closed door. “Yoongi,” you call out.
He doesn’t answer. You don’t even know if it’s awake or not. The thought that he might not even be listening gives you a strange confidence.
“Yoongi,” you repeat, “I don’t know what to do anymore. You can’t stay in there forever. I know I said I would stay. And I’ve done my best to keep that promise. But this isn’t healthy, for either of us. Please, just come out and have a meal with me. Come for a walk; we could go stargazing tonight. Anything, Yoongi.”
Silence.
“It’s time for me to leave,” you reveal lowly. “There’s nothing else I can do to help you. I… The bus back home leaves tomorrow, but it leaves early, so I’m going to stay in town overnight. I’ve already called Mrs. Na. She’s got a room for me at the motel.” You sigh out at the continued lack of response. “I’m telling you this, Yoongi, because once I go you need to start doing things for yourself. I’ve thought long and hard about this because I’m-” you break off, blinking quickly to fight the tears that spring to your ears. “Because I’m scared that you’ll forget to eat, and get sick. I’m scared of leaving you alone like this, but I don’t know what else to do.” You sniffle, clearing your throat and standing. “Goodbye, Yoongi.”
--
It takes you longer than normal to follow the gravel road back into town. Mostly because of the way your eyes will fill with tears, and you’ll stumble on the uneven footing here and there. Or maybe it’s your body’s last cry of protest, not wanting to leave at all.
Either way, when you reach it, the motel is nice enough. Check-in isn’t until 3 in the afternoon, apparently, so you mope in the lobby for a few hours, curled up on the armchair. Mrs. Na peeks over her magazine every couple of minutes, but you refuse to look back until she’s waving you over with a manicured hand.
“Single room for one night?”
You nod in confirmation, already fishing around your backpack for your wallet to pay. Having paid for the groceries yourself over the past few weeks, your account is running concerningly low. “Thanks for-”
“Finally got tired of the love shack, huh?”
You blink at the interruption, freezing. “Excuse me?”
The bitter wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen as she frowns at you. “Don’t play coy, dear. You two little lovebirds have been the talk of the town. You stay here for months, and then out of nowhere, you don’t leave the lodge for weeks. I guess there must be trouble in paradise.”
You fight the urge to snap at her, knowing she’ll only kick you out. “It isn’t like that. There were some personal issues that needed sorting out, that’s all.”
She raises her eyebrows patronisingly, turning to reach for one of the keys hung up behind the desk. “The only personal issue I can see is how inappropriate it is for a young woman like yourself to be living with three young men.”
You bite your tongue. Just one night. Instead of replying, you simply hold out the last of your cash, a flat palm ready to accept the key in return.
She takes the cash delicately, making sure not to touch your hand itself at all, and then holds out the key. “I just want you to know that my motel does not tolerate any untoward behavior. You better not be trying to whore yourself out to my custom-”
You jump as a hand cuts into your line of vision and bats the hand away. Mrs. Na recoils in shock, still gripping the cash tightly, and widens her eyes at the newcomer.
Turning around in disbelief, you watch as Min Yoongi reaches over and tugs the notes forcefully from her hand. “I’ve had it,” he spits out.
“Yoongi,” you breathe in awe, but he ignores you.
Wearing a dusty pink sweater and grey skinny jeans, he somehow still manages to strike an intimidating image. His shoulder gently nudges you, pushing you behind him. “No, I’ve had it,” he repeats more forcefully. “You can insult me, you can insult my business, my house, even my family. But I will not stand here and let you insult the woman I love.”
Both you and Mrs. Na gape at him, and this sudden burst of confidence.
Yoongi slips his hand into yours, squeezing tightly. He glares at Mrs. Nah one last time. “And your tea always tasted like shit, that’s why you went out of business. Come on, Y/n, we’re going home.”
He doesn’t let your hand go the entire way back to the lodge. You don’t want him to, either, because your chest feels so light it seems like he’s the only thing anchoring you with this strange swirling inside you. He doesn’t speak, only rushing you back up the slight slope to the lodge, to home, and when you finally arrive you see the door swinging on its hinge in the breeze, wide open.
Yoongi doesn’t address it. It seems like he’s desperate, feverish, to get you inside. In an odd mirroring of your first night together, he leads you directly to the guest room, hand firmly clasping your own.
“Yoongi, what’s going on?”
He tips his chin forward suddenly, then shakes his head and falls back. “Talk first,” he mumbles to himself. Then, back at you: “Y/n. I know I’m not good with words, or silent yearning looks, or smoke signals. So I’m going to be really clear now, just in case you didn’t hear it back at the motel.”
You can’t help but crack a grin at the earnest statement, giggling quietly. Yoongi pouts at you, but returns your smile reluctantly. Your heart leaps. He hasn’t smiled since that night under the stars. “I did hear it,” you admit, “but I sure would love to hear it again.”
“I love you, Y/n,” he confesses, “I’m so hopelessly in love with you that I didn’t even realise it at first. I’m so in love with you that I didn’t know what to do with myself, how to act. I felt like I couldn’t be around you for too long because my heart would ache. But then avoiding you just felt even worse. And when I saw you with the boys…”
“It didn’t mean anything,” you defend quickly, but Yoongi just furrows his brows.
“That’s not what I mean… It made me realize that I had no right to be angry or jealous, because I didn’t even have the courage to kiss you like they did. Even if it meant nothing for you or for them, I hated that I was too scared to do the same.”
You release all the air you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “That day Namjoon came. When you kissed me…”
Yoongi nods, slowly sitting down onto the edge of the bed, looking at your hands, still intertwined. “I wanted to tell you in words,” he admits. “I really was so scared you were gonna leave me, and I didn’t think I could take it. But I just couldn’t say it. So, I did the only thing I could think of.” He lets out a noisy breath, flicking you a sad smile. “But I guess I misread the situation. Even after I saw you with Taehyung and Seokjin I still thought maybe you liked me too. Sorry for making things weird.”
You shake your head, but he’s not looking at you anymore, so you sit down beside him, clasping your other hand over the two of yours. “You didn’t misread the situation. I didn’t want things to go further that night because I thought you might regret it in the morning. But you didn’t misread the situation. I… I’ve liked you for a long time. And I’ve never felt this way before, but I think it might be love.”
His eyes are on you, bright with hope and realisation. Having forgone a haircut for a little too long, droopy curls hang low over his brows, and he scrunches his nose unconsciously at the tickle. You look over his button nose, the roundness of his cheeks. His delicate pink lips slightly parted as he gives you his full attention.
A smile stretches across your face. “Actually, I’m sure. I love you, Min Yoongi. So much.”
His mouth turns up in pure happiness, flashing his gums for the first time in months. He searches your face for a moment, like he can’t quite believe it, then does something you’re not expecting.
He pulls you into a tight hug.
You immediately feel all tension leave your body at the feeling of his arms wrapping around you, chin resting on your shoulder. You bury your face into his neck and sink into his embrace. You think for the both of you, it’s been a very long time since you’ve had one.
“I don’t deserve you,” he praises quietly.
You squeeze him tighter, breathing in his natural scent, slightly floral, like the smell of his garden in spring. “You deserve the world.”
Instead of letting go, after a few moments he turns his head slightly, so that his nose brushes against your neck. You shiver when you feel his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your throat. “Yoongi,” you murmur,  your body already responding to him, head tipping outwards to give him more room.
He works slowly, reverentially, sucking enough to make you tremble, but not so harshly to leave anything more than gentle pink marks. You sigh, eyes slipping closed in pleasure. You can feel his lips moving, like he’s whispering against your skin, making his way lower, but when his teeth scrape your collarbone lightly, you grow impatient.
You press your fingers insistently under his jaw and lift him, immediately capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s simultaneously exciting and reassuring, his lips molding against you as his back arches up, seeking every bit of contact he can get. You slide an arm around him, running it up and down his back soothingly. With the way his fingers curl desperately onto your shoulders, it seems like it’s been a while for him, just like it has for you. “Lie down,” you instruct softly, breaking from the kiss to help lower him to the bed.
You shuffle over for him to put his legs on the bed too, fully on his back, and then you straddle his hips, brushing his face fondly as you join your mouths together again. He seems all too happy to let you take control, eyes closed in bliss and jaw slack as you move lower, pressing countless small kisses down his cheek, jaw, and neck, until you’re propping yourself up on your forearms, laving at the skin. You can feel his pulse jumping under your tongue, and his throat bob every time he swallows. Sometimes, the skin vibrates gently, and you hear him letting out soft whimpers.
It’s not until his neck sports a spray of blossoming purple and dark pink that you sit up, a thought striking you. “Wait; why aren’t we in your bedroom?”
He blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, but eyes wider. “I wanted the Egyptian cotton sheets.”
You laugh breathily, clasping his face gently in your hands. “God, I love you.” His cheeks grow warm beneath your hands as his eyes soften in happiness. With his lips slightly pursed in your grasp, you bend down again and join your lips together.
He tastes sweet, and he has a patient yet passionate way of reciprocating the kiss, straining his face up to deepen it if he feels you pulling away too much. You could stay like this forever. As you feel his tongue shyly begin to slip out of his mouth, darting against your lip in tiny strokes, you feel a familiar sensation billow in your chest. The same feeling you had in those first few weeks, when everything felt magical and separate, like a little slice of heaven. Now, it’s far stronger, because at the center of your paradise is him.
You break off from his lips, nudging his head to the side with your nose and pressing a chaste kiss just below his ear. “Do you want to go further?” you question in a hushed whisper. “We can take this slow if you want.”
Looking up at you, he shakes his head hastily. “Please,” he sighs, “I want you.”
“Okay.” You sit up again, hovering over him. “Have you done this before?” He nods easily. “Let’s take this shirt off, then, hm?” He swallows when you play at the hem of his pink sweater, but nods after a moment.
Although it’s autumn, and he probably should’ve been layering up, it seems like he left the house in a hurry since he’s not wearing an undershirt. As you lift up the fabric inch by inch, more bare skin is revealed, unblemished other than a few moles. You trail your fingertips over them, feeling him shiver beneath you. The thought occurs to you that a time will come when you know the location of every one by heart, could map them out on the planes of his body with your eyes closed. Your heart aches at the thought, overwhelmed by it.
Having been in his room, sedentary for weeks, he’s developed a small paunch just above his waistband, filling out his hips a bit. He blushes, turning his head to the side shyly when you look over him.
“You’re beautiful, Yoongi,” you assure him wholeheartedly. “Absolutely perfect. Arms up for me?”
He obediently raises his limbs, wiggling out of the sweater. Once you toss it on the ground, you quickly remove and discard your own shirt, not wanting him to feel too self-conscious. His eyes light up at the sight of your bra, and you see his fingers twitch.
“Want me to take it off?” you question rhetorically, chucking lightly when he nods. Instead of doing as he wishes, you instead grab his hands and guide them around your back, leaning over so he can reach the clasp. “They’re hooks,” you explain, “so push the two sides towards each other, and then out.”
“I know how to take off a bra,” he mutters petulantly, though he fumbles with the hooks for a few moments, before finally getting them free and slipping the fabric off your body. You pull your arms out, and laugh when he flings it dramatically across the room, so that it smacks the wall and lands in a pitiful heap. “I hate those,” he mutters, half to himself. “They just get in the way.”
"I know something else that's getting in the way," you counter, and stand up off the bed, unbuttoning your jeans and shimmying out of them. "Do you want yours off too?"
He hesitates for a moment. "Can we... Can we turn the light off, or something?"
"Of course, if it makes you feel more comfortable." You quickly pad over to the other side of the room, flicking the light switch by the door.
It's clear that some time has passed since the two of you returned home by the way the room is plunged into a dim evening gloom when you turn the light off. "Too dark," Yoongi mumbles unhappily, and crawls over the mattress to reach the lamp on the bedside table, flicking it on and pushing the head of the lamp down so that it's just enough to see by. His face looks softer in this glow, and more relaxed. He gets out of his jeans quietly and without fanfare, settling back onto the bed.
In nothing but your underwear, when you lie down beside him and pull him into a languid kiss, you can feel the stiff peaks of your nipples pressing against his chest. He shivers in the cool air, mouth slack as you take control of the kiss. You’re all too happy to take things slow, not wanting to rush him, and so you lose track of time, simply kissing him until Yoongi is the only thing filling your thoughts.
After a time, your kisses become more frantic; sucking, nibbling, licking until your lips are swollen and slick. You let your hands roam the planes of his body, flat palms running up his chest and slipping over the curve in his lower spine. You swing a leg over his hips and gently press your heel, urging him closer until there’s nothing but the two layers of thin fabric keeping you apart. 
You sigh into his mouth when you feel a thumb swipe over one of your pebbled nipples, sending a bolt of pleasure straight down to your core. 
“Is this okay?” he questions as he begins to gently roll it between his fingers. You arch your back, pressing yourself into his hand, your kisses growing sloppy. “Feels good?” You groan out your confirmation, clenching your thighs tighter as he keeps the same delicate pressure, tugging lightly at it to see how stiff it can get between the pads of his fingers. 
“Yoongi,” you breathe, “so good.” You bask in the sensation for a while longer, before you can no longer maintain your mouth on his. You clasp your hand over the one of his that cups your breast, gently pulling it away. “I want you, Yoongi.”
He stares at you, eyes wide with anticipation as you lower yourself, getting comfortable between his legs, face just above his clothed crotch. “You don’t have to-” he protests weakly, but you cut him off, patting the top of his thigh reassuringly.
“I want to,” you counter. “You took care of me when I had nowhere to stay, you took care of me when I got sunburnt. You even took care of me with Mrs. Na. So let me take care of you, baby.” 
You slip the fabric of his underwear down over the swells of his ass, watching as his cock springs up and rests on his stomach. It seems silly to say, but he’s got the most beautiful dick you’ve ever seen. Leaving his underwear half-on around his thighs, you take him gently in your hand, mouth watering. 
With a delicate pink head and a graceful curve, he’s smaller than you would’ve expected, but somehow this dainty cock fits him perfectly. It looks beautiful in your hand, and when you pump him, beads of precum pool in his slit, threatening to spill over. 
You take him in your mouth, flicking your tongue against the underside of his tip as you create some suction. He lets out a satisfied sigh, muscles tensing. After taking him deep in order to get him lubricated enough, you slip off him with a pop and begin jerking your wrist, working him to pull more moans from his swollen lips. 
“Feels so nice,” he praises, though he can’t stop from wiggling under your ministrations, the elastic around his thighs keeping him from moving much. 
When you suck him down again, you keep your eyes up, wanting to drink in his reactions. Eyes bunched shut in pleasure, he’s fully unaware of your gaze. 
He looks beautiful, even from this angle, and you’re struck by the fact that this will be the first time of many, that you’ll see him from below like this many times in the future, and that soon you’ll be able to decipher every twitch of his eyebrows and every gasped cry. 
Suddenly his eyes are opening, staring down at you in awe, and you feel your heart swell. You can’t take it anymore. You give him one last flick of your tongue, and crawl up his body to join your mouth to his, reveling in the way his two tastes mingle in your mouth. 
“I need you,” you chant against his lips, “are you still okay to take this all the way?” 
He nods quickly, but rubs behind his ear. “Could we get under the covers? I tend to, uh, fall asleep pretty quickly afterwards so I don’t want to freeze overnight.”
You laugh softly, sitting up to slip your panties off before you tuck yourself under the sheets. When you turn to wait for him, he’s frozen with his mouth hanging half-open. You give him a confused smile. “What?”
He blinks, shakes his head a bit to clear his thoughts, and cracks a wonky grin. “I’m somehow the luckiest and most stupid man in the world.” 
“How do you figure that?”
He kicks his underwear off the rest of the way and scoots under the blankets to join you, propping his head up with his hand as he lies on his side. “I’m the luckiest because I’m in love with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and she for some reason loves me back.” 
You smile softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your skin. “And why are you the stupidest?” 
“It took me this fucking long to do anything about it.”
You let out a loud laugh, reaching out for his hand to entwine your fingers again. The movement feels natural and the warmth of his palm in yours is already familiar and reassuring. “Let’s make up on lost time, then.” 
He grins, teeth pressing into his bottom lip, then gasps. “Wait,” he pouts, “I have to go grab a condom!” 
You push yourself up and reach over his body to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. “Don’t worry,” you assure, “the lovebirds have us covered.” 
In the drawer are three boxes of condoms. You rest on top of Yoongi’s bare chest as you reach into the open one, fiddling around for a square packet in the almost-empty carton. 
Yoongi leans over and widens his eyes. “God, how many times did they fuck in here?” When he cranes his neck, he sees the two full boxes beside the one you took. “How many times were they planning to fuck in here?”
You giggle, sitting up again, but it’s cut off by a drawn-out moan. You look down to see Yoongi latched on to your nipple, looking up at you innocently through his brown curls. You groan again, feeling his tongue swipe against it and his teeth nibble on it teasingly.
He pulls off you with a wet pop, hand coming up to massage at it, soothing away the slight pain from the bite. “Sorry,” he mutters off-handedly, though it’s clear he doesn’t really mean it, “I couldn’t help myself.” 
You grin and swing a leg over his hips, straddling him with his cock resting just in front of your bare pussy. He swears lowly and tips his head back onto the pillows. “Don’t apologise,” you assure, “I liked it. In fact, feel free to do that again anytime.” 
He blushes hotly, and as you bring your hand down to palm at his stiff cock, you marvel at the fact that he’s still so flustered around you. You wonder how long he’ll take to build his confidence, or if he’ll always be your sweet, shy boy in the bedroom. As you let go of his hand to rip open the packet and slide on the condom, you’re not sure which outcome you’d want more. He does look so beautiful splayed out in below you, neck blooming in colour from your markings. 
“Ready?” you check in one last time. Yoongi breathes out deeply and nods, but clutches his right hand out in front of you. You interlock your fingers with him once more and sit up on your knees, using your free hand to line him up. 
His whole body trembles when you sheath yourself on him in one swift movement. His eyes are furrowed shut, lips parted in pleasure. You can see his knuckles whiten as they grip the sheets and your hand. “Y/n,” he breathes out in a tight voice, “go slow. Please.” 
You bite your lip at the feeling of him inside you, clenching your folds to increase the friction as you lift up off him slowly. Creating a slow but deep pace, you let the sounds of his delicate cries fill your ears. He’s not noisy, but just very vocal, every breath coming out as a whine or moan of pleasure. “You’re so good for me, baby,” you praise breathlessly. “My good boy.” 
His hips buck up and you hiss as he inadvertently thrusts into you deeper than before. “God,” he whines hopelessly. 
“I thought you said slow,” you tease, resting your interlocked hands on the bed and trailing the fingertips of your other hand over his chest lightly, feeling the way his dick twitches inside you when you pass over his nipple.
He makes a noise of disagreement, tossing his head side to side when you begin to slowly swirl your hips, grinding on him rather than riding him. “Wan’more,” he pleads. 
You grab his other hand, keeping them both pinned to the pillow on either side of his head as an anchoring point for you to keep yourself steady as you begin to pick up your pace. 
He writhes beneath you so beautifully, and that paired with the grind of his cock inside you brings you to the edge after only a few more minutes. Yoongi is clearly suffering the same lack of longevity by the way his moans are short and high pitched, thighs trembling in desperation. 
Rather than words, you indicate you’re close by bending down and joining your lips together again, wanting to be as connected with him as possible when you reach your edge. The moment he moans your name into your mouth, you feel a powerful orgasm spread through you, coming from within and igniting pleasure in all your nerves. Your toes curl and your pace stutters, but you force yourself to continue as long as you can, grinding on him when you don’t have the strength to bounce up and down. He comes with a cry, clutching your hands so close they hurt, mindlessly babbling confessions of love. 
True to form, he indeed becomes very sleepy very fast, and you have to take the condom off for him as the moment you get up off him, he lets out a tired mumble, nuzzling his face into any skin of yours close enough in his sleep. 
You laugh silently, fondly, and join him under the heated covers, wrapping an arm around his middle, just like that night under the stars. 
You wake up before him that next morning. 
Although it’s late autumn, the sun streams in lazily through the crack in the curtains, casting a warm glow over his delicate body. He grunts unhappily when you separate yourself from him, and in his sleep he turns around, seeking your warmth. 
When you dress quietly, opting for his oversized sweater and some panties rather than your own clothes, you listen to the regular sound of his breathing, feeling it calm you. His hair is sticking up in all directions and he’s drooling out the corner of his mouth, but still, you’ve never seen a more beautiful sight than Min Yoongi. 
The soft pink of his sweater brings to mind a different shade, a vibrant one. The azalea petal that presumably still resides on his nightstand, the one he kept all those months ago. Did he really love you that whole time? 
You smile softly at the thought, and tip-toe out the guest room, towards the kitchen. With the only sound being the chirping of the birds outside, you grab the jar of Boseong Breakfast tea, and pull out two mugs. 
5K notes · View notes
mikrokosmos713 · 2 years ago
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Just Yoongi Things 🎹
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It’s finally Yoonki Min’s turn 
I have always had a spot soft for Yoongi (& Namjoon) since 2013 & nothing can change my mind about them
Like he’s just such a talented, soft & wonderful person, my heart just swells with so much pride & love for this man 
Min Yoon Gi, 민윤기
09.03.1993, Pisces
Yoongi was an underground rapper & producer 
Used the alias GLOSS as an underground rapper
A part of an underground rap group, DAEGU TOWN (D-TOWN)
Auditioned & joined BigHit in 2010 
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He originally auditioned to become a producer
He had to choose between eating or using the money for utilizing public transport
He used to save up money by either skipping meals or walking to his destinations instead of taking the public transport to save up for equipment to compose & produce 
He used to sell his songs & sometimes he did not even get paid for some of his songs 
During one of his deliveries, he got into an accident & injured his shoulders
He did not tell anyone despite being in pain, fearing that if he did, BigHit would let him go & he would not be able to debut as a part of BTS 
IT’S 2AM & I’M FUCKING CRYING, to think he went through so much (& he still has to go through so much) yet he’s such a loving & kind soul
I NEED HUGS 
He trained for 3 years before debuting
His parents opposed to his dreams
But now, they are the most supportive people in his life 
That clip of him doing a full bow to his parents during HYYH Epilogue & crying makes me bawl EVERY. DAMN. TIME. 
His Mother is savage but it’s so cute when Yoongi talks about his Mum 😂 
“My Mum told me she adopted me from under a bridge” 
We all know where he got his savage side from 
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"I always wanted to nap in another country "
In 2014, on his birthday, he handmade gifts for 300 ARMYs, writing cute messages for them as well
In 2015 as well, he took pictures & wrote messages for 39 lucky ARMYs 
Basketball King 
Epik High is very meaningful for Yoongi 
Epik High’s Fly was one of the reasons he became a rapper
How cute is it whenever he talks about Epik High & their friendship 
AGUST D = SUGA backwards + DT (daegu town) 
YOU HOES BETTER BE LISTENING TO HIS MIXTAPE 
IT’S A FUCKING MASTERPIECE 
Namjoon mentioned in his ‘Mono Behind’ Vlive that Yoongi has some tracks like do you see how they love to spoil us & see us suffer 
If this is what suffering is, I’m ready to suffer for eternity 
“Infires?” “Infires man” 
“Inspire mannn” 
*rolls down the sand in Dubai* “Andwaeeeeee valhalla”
NO LISTEN, NO MATTER HOW SAVAGE HE IS, HE’S STILL A BABY TO ME (even though he’s older 😂)
Min Holly’s Dad 
Brags about Holly all the time 
“I’d like to introduce you to my lover, this neck pillow right here” *shows off neck pillow proudly* 
Raises his leg on the pool table & plays 
The time he thought Jungkook wanted to hold his hand but he just wanted the mic 😂
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*in his deep ass voice* Bultaoreune~
When he sang Awake, my vocal king 
He talked about his insecurities when it comes to dancing & singing & how he’s not a good singer nor dancer
*insert every single Seesaw performance* BITCH WHERE? 
“OMG HE’S LIKE JAY-Z OMG” 
“Yeah I’m bad boi” 
“Hey baby what’s poppin” “Yeahhhh baby” 
Dude’s love for Chucky, I was so entertained when he dressed up as Chucky 😂
Kumamon enthusiast
Did you see him run & hug the Kumamon mascot? Like please that video added 10 years to my life, cutie
“I wish to reincarnate as a stone in my next life” 
Finally made his debut on SBS Gayo Daejeon 
He does not shy away from talking & writing lyrics about mental illness
Wrote lyrics about his social phobia & depression 
Have y’all watched clips of him playing the piano? I can watch him all day 
The way he gets so engrossed in the music & closes his eyes while swaying to the music subtly  
He’s absolutely ethereal
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His gummy smile just melts my heart 
When he cried after BTS won Artist of the Year, ahh I still remember watching that moment & being so proud of them 
When he won a MMA as a producer, he was so overwhelmed & shy 
ARGH HE DESERVES IT SO MUCH MY BABY 
His goofy side 
Like please he makes me laugh & roll my eyes so much ILOVEHIMSOMUCH
When he nags at maknae line, it’s so adorable 
That RUN ep where everyone kept touching his neck despite his threats 
Honestly, I wanna mention every single song he composed & produced 
But Tomorrow was the song that made me realize that I was falling in love with BTS as a group & the members individually
Like that song means so much to me cause they released Skool Luv Affair during one of the darkest times in my life & that song made me reach out for help
Jin is the only member who can put him back in his place 
They were roommates for such a long time 
Cuties 
YOONJIN!!
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God he’s so whipped for Hobie 
Like the love he has for Hobie is so sweet & makes me so soft 
How he appreciates Hobie and Hobie’s energy 
I love how he gets so hyped with Hobie & he’s so smiley & goofy
J-HOPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Argh I love Sope/YoonSeok 
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“I lived with Namjoon for 8 years” 
When Namjoon hugged him while he was crying during MAMA & thanked him, making Yoongi cry even more 
PLEASE MY HEART, I LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH LIKE I WILL FIGHT PEOPLE FOR THEM, I WILL PROTECT MY BABIES 
NAMGI FOR LIFE    
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He’s such a softie for Jimin 
“I guess Jimin dislikes me” 
YoonMin
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Holds hands whenever he’s with Tae 
Omg that clip where he kicked Tae on his chest on the couch 😂I died laughing 
TaeGi
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Co-owners of future lamb skewer restaurants 
Jungkook is his kid  
The way Kookie carried him in their Summer Package in Saipan 💜
SugaKookie
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Honestly, he’s just such a talented & special person 
He has gone through so much yet he chooses to live each day with so much love & how he shares his journey with us 
Be it through songs, lyrics or just interviews 
I cried while writing this cause he’s just been through so much & I just have such a soft spot for this man. I’m so happy he’s getting the love & recognition he deserves 💜
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A/N:  Please let me know your thoughts in the comments/ask box cause it means a lot  🙂
Copyright © cityoffandoms-yjn20, 2018. Do not copy, modify or repost.
9K notes · View notes
jimlingss · 3 years ago
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The Truth Between Us | 01
[!!] CO-WRITTEN WITH @gukyi
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⇒ Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 [Finale] || epilogue
⇒ summary: a book deal should be the most exciting time of your life, but there seems to be a constant and omnipresent damper on your mood in the form of a certain min yoongi, who you would just cut out from your life, if he weren’t your editor. but then, the world shifts beneath your feet, and you begin to wonder if maybe you’ve always been looking at life from the wrong angle.
⇒ enemies to lovers au with various other au’s thrown in there
⇒ word count: 14k
⇒ genre: fluff, angst, drama
⇒ warnings: alcohol consumption + mentions of injury
⇒ a/n: hey guys, this is a fic written with @gukyi - we’ve both been working on for so long and for the first half of 2018. so, if you don’t send her a message too, i will come find you and shank you. other than that, thank you for reading and please enjoy!!
You’re starting to hate the color red.
Not just any red. Bright, angry, scarlet red, in specific. Scarlet red is the color of your crushed hopes and dreams, your lowering self-esteem, and your failing career.
It is also the color of the ink that a certain Min Yoongi uses whenever you send him your most recent manuscript. After he receives your email with your formatted, proper, tidy Word document, he prints the entire thing out like the pretentious asshole he is, and decorates every page with dashes of red, vicious marks that criticize each and every letter.
It’s the hue of crimson that bleeds through the white paper, trickling to the black words and marring each emotion you laid delicately down, only for him to cross it out with X’s and O’s like he’s playing a game of Tic-Tac-Toe. It’s the shade you see each time you interact with the bastard. Red ink is what you imagine would flow from out of his body if you launched over the table and stabbed him in the neck with a fork.
Each time you meet up with him to discuss future improvements, he merely hands the paperclipped stack back to you with a frown and says the same thing each time: “Needs work.”
“What?”
You’re done. And you pray some deity, god or higher power out there will give you more patience to deal with this man and not murder him in cold blood. You’d rather not spend the rest of your days handcuffed and crying behind bars - though sometimes and only sometimes, you wonder if it’ll be worth it.
“Do you not understand the words coming out of my mouth?” He lifts an eyebrow up. “I said: ‘needs work’.”
Min Yoongi doesn’t realize that you cried over this chapter, sobbing all over your keyboard from the heart wrenching sadness of the characters. After struggling over writer’s block for the past three weeks, you rushed to make the deadline, pulling all-nighters and drinking enough caffeine to get you hospitalized. But when you were finished, you were satisfied. It’s a masterpiece…
“It’s bad.”
“How is it bad?” You scoff, blood pressure spiking by the second and your temples pulsing. Min Yoongi, on the other hand, is picking some dirt from under his fingernail, appearing indifferent and only irritating you further. “This chapter is everything for the ending. It explains how he’ll sacrifice anything for her.”
“Well, I think it’s unrealistic.” He points to the top piece of paper, taking a casual sip of the coffee in front of him. Min Yoongi likes his coffee pitch black, like what you imagine the color of his heart is. He exhales as his mouth detaches from the rim. “Why would anyone ever want to sacrifice themselves for the sake of ‘love’? Aren’t you being too idealistic? It’s not practical in the least bit. This isn’t some teenager fanfiction. You’re writing a goddamn book that will be published.”
You scowl, your eyebrows knitting themselves together. “I’m sorry you might not be able to understand since you’re a coldhearted, love-hating bastard who’s never been in a real relationship.”
“Wow,” Yoongi chuckles at the low insult. “I thought we were trying to be professionals here.”
You groan, fingers coming up to rub at your temples in anguish. “If you hate my work so much, then why did you even pick my manuscript in the first place?”
The man across from you with his sleepy eyes and ruffled black locks smirks at your annoyance. It’s almost like he goes out of his way to torture your existence or gets off on making you upset. You wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the dirty fantasy he jerks off to.
“You have potential,” Yoongi deadpans.
Potential. That might be your least favorite word in all of the Oxford dictionary. Potential is the word you use when you know someone’s never going to reach their goals but don’t want to tell them that straight to their face. It’s the word you use when you’re talking to children who you know will never amount to anything but don’t want to hurt their feelings. Potential makes you feel useless, a child cowering under Min Yoongi’s glare.
Potential is a possibility. Potential isn’t certainty. Potential isn’t enough.
“Wow, thanks,” you scoff emotionlessly. “Good to know my work means literally nothing. Do you see that?”
“See what?” Yoongi asks, an eyebrow quirked in distaste.
“My self-esteem skyrocketing at your sage words of encouragement,” you tell him, sneering. Pointing to the sky, your eyes follow your finger. “Look at it. It’s all the way up there.”
“Just because you’re writing is like a teenager’s doesn’t mean you can act like one as well, Y/N,” Yoongi remarks in a condescending tone, his deep timbre shaking the hollows of your throbbing skull. “Can’t you handle a little bit of criticism?”
There he goes again, treating you like you’re five. Min Yoongi seems to have a knack for patronizing you, for talking down to you, as if you’re any less of a person than he is. The fact that he’s an acclaimed publisher and that you’re a newcomer seems to have implanted some sort of permanent superiority complex into his brain, one you are determined to demolish.
“You’re an asshole,” you mumble quietly, wondering why on earth you got stuck with an editor like this. No matter what you do or how hard you try, he always rips you down. “Always have been and always will be.”
“Glad to see your first impression of me hasn’t changed.” Yoongi watches as you begin to pack up your belongings, finished with the conversation and exhausted from the ordeal. “Just admit your mistakes and fix them so we can move on. Also, we need to discuss the plans for your ending.”
Your fingers freeze over a file folder. “What?”
“I don’t like it.”
Who does he think he is?
The ending is perfect! It’s the main theme of your entire book and what you decided before you even planned out the rest of the plot! You’ve already rewritten all of your chapters three times each and now he wanted to scrap your most prized part?
“I don’t like you. We can’t all get what we want,” you retort, unable to hold back the snarky comment.
“Good, because I don’t like you either.” He smiles, a rather sweet gesture that contradicts that bitter mouth of his. “Might I remind you, Y/N, I’m the only reason anyone is paying any attention to you whatsoever. If you want me to drop you from this company so you go back to being a jobless, unpublished writer, just let me know.”
“I hate you.”
“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
Your heart is beating faster than it should but only because of the rage threatening to burst a blood vessel at your forehead.
You shove everything as quickly as you can in your bag, balling your fist together and clenching your jaw. Your abrupt move to stand onto your feet and the sound of the chair horrifically scratching against the floor garners the attention around the café; the cups on the rattle with the vase of the daffodil flower centerpiece. Yet, you pay no mind, releasing a shaky exhale, staring the impassive man straight in the eyes.
Red… your eyes flicker to the plastic fork by his side, the one he got for the fucking cake when he came in here and ordered an entire meal; it’s as he bought it to munch on while he observes you losing your mind like purchasing popcorn for a movie. Though when you look down at the table between the two of you, his slice of the dessert remains entirely untouched, the fork still pristine. Resisting the urge to stab him with said utensil, you knock over his paper cup of coffee, hoping it to make a mess all over his clothes and perhaps his ego as well…
Except, it’s completely empty.
The cup hits the table, rolling an inch without any liquid inside.
Yoongi immediately smirks, a shit-eating grin adorning his face, amused by your childish behaviour. Goddamn. Why does nothing work out for you?
You stomp away, refusing to humor him any longer. Holding the manuscript tight to your chest, you exit the coffee shop with a frown and a bad attitude as Yoongi sits there, mellow as ever.
//
Min Yoongi. What is there to say about him?
He doesn’t tick you off and easily crawl under your skin because he’s attractive and you’re trying to deny having some interest in him. No. No. No. This isn’t an enemies to lovers kind of scenario from those terribly cliché fanfictions you wrote when you were fifteen. The kid that’s in that man’s body could have Kim Taehyung’s gorgeous face but with that kind of personality, you’d still be repulsed. It’s simply due to the fact that he’s a jackass that’s always right. Nothing’s worse than someone who’s a correct asshole.
He’s like a talkative and nasty mother-in-law, nagging your ear off, pointing out your flaws and mistakes.
Okay… not even deep down. It’s right in front of your face, really, the red ink circling and crossing off sections of your writing, destroying your beautiful work from the first word on the page. But all the things he points out, you can reluctantly agree with...like if the main lead says something too sappy or you’re being too wordy or the paragraph is too long or if there’s a run on sentence. Damn. The guy is so annoying.
Thus, you spend the next week, getting behind schedule, fixing up all the issues in your work, slamming your head against the keyboard, screaming into your empty apartment.
If the walls could witness your agony, they’d cry.
Ding Dong.
You groan into your hands as they come up to cover your face and wipe away the dried drool on your chin, wondering if your head was making up the noises since all your ears have heard for the past forty-eight hours has been keys being furiously pounded. But before you can even stagger up from your desk and find out if you’re truly hallucinating or not-
Ding Dong. Ding Dong. Ding Dong. DING DONG. DING DONG. DING DONG! DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONG!
“Alright! Alright! Jesus!” You cry, storming over to open the door and narrowing your eyes into someone’s cold glare. “Would you chill the fuck out? Do you want to break my doorbell?”
“Well, if you would answer faster and not leave me waiting out here for five minutes, I wouldn’t have to.” Your precious and sweet editor kicks the door to enter and you step back, whining underneath your breath. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.” You smile sarcastically, watching as Yoongi, the bastard, makes himself at home like he owns the place and pays the expensive rent that makes your spine snap. “Why are you even here?”
“It’s been a week.” Yoongi scrunches his nose at the condition of your living space, if you could even call it that. If you’re being honest, it’s a garbage dump in here. But you aren’t going to clean up for your esteemed guest. Min Yoongi could see you pick your nose or hurl a loogie across the room to land on the window and you still wouldn’t give a fuck.
“Has it really been a week?”
“Did you really lose your sense of time?” He smiles, taking in your frazzled state. “Have you even been eating or showering? You smell horrible. And you didn’t even send me your manuscript this time. Where’s your sense of responsibility, Y/N? How are you even an adult?”
There are two things that flash into the recesses of your brain:
Why were you cursed by the Gods to have to meet Yoongi every week? His duties as an editor apparently require him to track you down without any excuse. Even if you decided to run away, he’d knock down every goddamn door in his path to find you, like a parasite.
Why the hell does he look so good? He’s in a long, taupe trench coat that makes him look like some sort of heir to a rich company, sleek black pants and an oversized turtleneck sweater underneath to make one hell of an outfit. Yoongi should’ve been an editor in a fashion magazine instead of doing this. Perhaps if that was the case, then you wouldn’t have to know Min Yoongi and his terrible personality and attractive face and desire to have your head on a silver platter.
But as you swoop your bleary eyes down his figure, your hand slowly raises and your finger points to what’s in his hand. “Plastic bag. What is?”
You’re too exhausted and tired to speak in full sentences, especially when Yoongi’s mere existence causes you to lose more years of your life.
He seems amused by your behaviour and strolls over to your poor excuse of a kitchen, placing his items on your counter island. “I see that your IQ has fallen in the past week. It’s wine and cheese. I thought it would be less excruciating for us to talk if we have something nice to eat— Y/N?”
You’re already behind him, hopping up and down, salivating like a dog coming back from a long walk on a hot day. You haven’t had much to eat aside from instant ramen and some stale bread dipped in milk.
“Fuck yes!” You hurl yourself across the cabinets to grab wine glasses and a knife for the cheese. Yoongi chuckles briefly behind your back and you race over, almost tripping over yourself. “Do you want me to print out what I’ve fixed? I saw all your recommendations and I gotta admit, Min, you got some pretty good sense. It’s a lot better now! Also, is this brie cheese? Nice! Ooh, Merlot wine? Sounds super expensive!”
“Actually,” Yoongi hesitates, still grinning at how you’re suddenly in a much happier mood. “I’m not here to talk about the chapter…..it’s about the ending.”
Your limbs freeze. Your breath hitches in your throat. Your heart falls into your stomach.
A spot of red flickers into your vision, teasing the oncoming outburst and anger threatening to bubble over, masking your rationality. Fuck. You knew this was too good to be true. There had to be ulterior motive for Yoongi to show up otherwise he would have never come sauntering into your place with food that he paid from his own pocket.
“What?”
“We need to talk about it some time, Y/N. Now that your manuscript is on its last chapters, there needs to be a discussion on how the entire story will close up. If anything, the ending is the most important part of the entire book.”
Yoongi takes a seat at the table, popping the cork off the bottle without any qualms and pouring the alcohol into the glasses. You slump across him, gripping the knife with such strength that your knuckles turn white. What you would do to make an ‘accidental’ slip and whoops, look, Yoongi’s bleeding out on the floor! But sticking to your sanity, instead, you chop up the cheese with much vigor, not once letting your eyes stray from the man’s.
“What’s the problem with the ending?” you whisper out, breaking the silence and a little hurt that he keeps insulting the part that you treasure the most.
Yoongi takes a cube of the cheese, throwing it into his mouth. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s supposed to die — what’s the point?”
You lift the stem of the wine glass, pink lips meeting the thin rim. A fruity and sweet liquid floods your tongue, having a smooth finish as it cascades down your throat. It reminds you of plum and cherries and you shut your eyes to savour the taste, tilting your head back until the glass is empty. You exhale, placing it back on the table to fill it up again.
You’re going to need more drinks tonight.
“The point is that it’s impactful,” you muster up, hoping whatever you come up with in your already hazy mind is good enough for Yoongi (it won’t be). “It will stay with readers. It shows how part of the beauty of love is that the feeling is fleeting. He dies for her which is the ultimate form of sacrifice.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, taking a long sip of the drink. “Sounds like some stupid sappy Romeo and Juliet tale. If he dies, then what was the point of their relationship?”
“The character development? It changed the both of them for the better! And just because he’s gone doesn’t make their entire story is any less important.” You argue back before taking yet another drink. “Don’t you know the beauty in pain? A lot of things in life are happy and pleasant but there’s something about sadness that teaches us we shouldn’t take things for granted. It adds meaning, value, a whole new layer of depth…”
Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, swirling the deep red color in his glass, and he hums. “I just don’t see the reason why he needs to die. I’m not a masochist.”
“Yeah,” you chide, “you’re more of a sadist.”
The man across from you munches on the cheese filled in his cheek as he rolls his eyes at your lame slander. “But that doesn’t make any sense to me—if he dies, then there’s no more story. The entire thing you’ve written thus far has revolved around their relationship, so what is she supposed to do? Is she just supposed to move on? In that dystopian hell? Isn’t that cruel?
“Wow,” you place a hand over your chest, faking a dramatic gasp. “I never knew Min Yoongi had a heart.”
“Oh, trust me. I have a lot of things you wouldn’t expect,” Yoongi chides playfully, taking a quick glance at his crotch that has your cheeks heating up and your eyes rolling. “I’m just trying to give you legitimate advice.”
“You are so not.” You’re aware it’s a dumb reply but you’re too baffled to think of anything else. “You just like making me upset and mad and angry!”
He moves to grasp his wine glass, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Are you going to knock my cup over again?”
At the reminder of the embarrassing move you did a week earlier, you stutter a few times. “Y-you….ugh! I don’t know what your problem is with me! All you do is deny and complain about everything I do!”
“Maybe because that’s my job, idiot.” Yoongi snides, taking another nice long drink. “I have to nitpick your work. I’m your editor.”
“That’s not how—”
He adds on, “—and maybe because you’re kind of cute when you’re pissed off.”
“What?”
“What.”
The man looking dastardly in his beautiful white, turtleneck sweater with his black, ruffled hair framing his face doesn’t realize what he’s said until it’s come out of his mouth.
It was a mere slip of the tongue, caused by the intoxication causing him to lightly sway from side to side. You narrow your eyes, lowering your head to lock into his downcasted eyes. What the fuck. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”
Your question drips of shocked surprise, cringing expression and withdrawing yourself in your seat. Yoongi chuckles mirthlessly, downing the rest of his glass and reaching over to the bottle for more.
“Get your head out of the gutter,” Yoongi tells you sharply as he begins to nonchalantly pour more red wine. “I, Min Yoongi, will never ever, in any world, settle for the likes of you, Y/N.”
His sharp tongue and the merciless syllables stab you right where it hurts, which, when you’re this intoxicated, is an awful lot of places. Your heart pounds in your ears. Tears well up in your eyes. Somewhere in the world, lightening strikes down to the ground. The fates mark his words to be a vow, sewing truth and honesty into each of his statements. There’s a shift in the atmosphere.
It’s not because it’s Min Yoongi that said it but you doubt anyone could ever love you. After all, you’ve lived this long alone, haven’t you?
With a stone-cold glare, you stare into his irises as you down your glass in a single gulp, gaze unwavering. Though his words have stung, you refuse to allow them to get the better of you, to let him catch the glossiness of your eyes or the vulnerability that’s been let loose by his hatred.
“Y/N?” Your silence causes Yoongi to soften his tone, carefully analyzing your blank expression. “I’m sorr—”
“Fine,” you interrupt him, having no inklings on what he was going to say. You sincerely just didn’t want to hear his voice anymore. “What do you think would be a better ending than my shitty one?”
The two of you end up having drink after drink, sipping on it and going by the mouthful in order to cope with the other’s presence. The sweet taste of the wine becomes even more addicting and before you realize, the entire bottle is gone and the world around you is spinning like a teacup ride.
“I hate you,” you slur out with a loud giggle when you meet Yoongi’s eyes. You can’t tell if you’re being serious or if it’s just the wine that’s taken away your filter. Everything seems so funny like this. From the way he barged into your home and picks apart the only thing you’re mildly good at to the way he insinuates that no one could ever love you. It’s all so humorous.
You can’t help but laugh.
Yoongi grins, plastered as well and his eyelids become heavy. “‘M glad the feelings are mutual.”
Your drunkenness overwhelms you, leaving a stale yet sweet taste on your tongue as you find your head falling. You collapse on the table next to Yoongi, your heads almost touching each other’s and lips a mere breath away.
You start to regret being here, regret drinking so much when you know all that’s going to change is that Yoongi will have more blackmail material on you tomorrow. Regret letting Yoongi be your editor, regret ever deciding that this would be a valid career choice for yourself.
It seems that all you have is this sickly squeeze of regret weighing upon your shoulders like anchors and….heartache.
Maybe you can just blame everything on the wine, but your mind begins to wander, and you wonder how many universes you will need to search through to find the happiness you so crave.
Slowly, your eyes begin to close, and you can only hope that when they open once more, you won’t be nearly as drunk, as sad, and as close to Yoongi as you are now.
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『The universe has formed.』
Darkness turns to light as you open your eyes, surprised at the lack of a throbbing headache from all the alcohol you willingly poured into your body last night. Slowly, like a haze, the world comes into focus, until you realize that this isn’t exactly the world as you had last left it.
Three things register. One: You’re on a bench. Two: In the middle of a city unknown. Three: Yoongi is nowhere to be found. You stand up shakily, like you’re still drunk, wobbling on weak knees as you sluggishly make your way into the center of the sidewalk, eyes scanning the surroundings. You’re desperate to find at least something that makes sense.
“Get out of the way.”
A stranger collides into your shoulder, scowling and rushing to their place of work.
“S-sorry.” Your arm drops by your side. Your heart catches up to its regular rhythm. And a sudden onslaught of panic begins to rise into your throat. “What. The. Fuck.”
Tall buildings surround you, the city encapsulating your body inside within its twisted roads and winding towers. The sound of cars rush past, morning traffic backed up, honks ricocheting off the cerulean sky. A band of business people march past you in straight rows, train lines flitting past, a murmur of conversations shooting by your ears. It smells of gas exhaust and pollution. You can almost taste the thick smog on the tip of your tongue.
And you run.
Holy shit. How did you get here?
Strangers grunt and gripe as you dart past them, shoving them out of the way. No matter how many roads you sprint down and corners you turn, the street looks exactly the same. It’s as if you are running down the exact same road, over and over. Why were you in the middle of nowhere?
Heaving breaths break through your parted lips, tears welling up into your eyes. The surroundings are unfamiliar, avenue and boulevards that you don’t recognize. You don’t know what city you’re in or even what world this is. Did Yoongi drug you and leave you to die?
“Hey!” Someone shouts when you accidentally bump into them, body crashing into theirs, causing the girl to stagger back. You whip yourself backwards, an apology ready to roll off your tongue but her eyes grow wide and a grin spreads across her face. “Oh, you’re our regular! Y/N, right? Are you coming in to make an order?”
In one hand, she’s holding a watering can, tipping it over into the potted daffodil flowers outside the entrance of the store. And all you can do is blink. “W-what?”
Quickly, you look down at her clothes until your eyes catch a glimpse of the logo on her brown apron. Love You A Latte. What? You’ve never heard of this place in your life.
The girl tilts her head, confused. “Hmm?” She asks. “You come in all the time, right before your class. I’m actually heading out right now, but I think Yoongi’s still in there, if you wanna go and see him,” she informs you, pointing to the quaint little coffee shop behind her, bell ringing every time someone steps onto the doormat.
Yoongi?
You can only offer a quick, grateful smile before darting into the place, the strong scent of coffee beans slamming into you like a wall. Your eyes scan the tables, bouncing from table to table past the clusters of customers chatting to each other, Yoongi nowhere in sight. You couldn’t imagine him finding the time in his packed schedule to go and lounge around in a new café that’s just popped out of nowhere. Why would that girl tell you Yoongi’s here? How does she even know him? Unless…
Before you can stop yourself, you whip around to the coffee counter and see his black hair bouncing frantically as he darts from station to station, clearly clueless. As normally as possible, you make your way to the counter under the ‘Pick Up Here!’ sign, avoiding the long line at the register while trying to catch his attention.
“Yoongi!” You hiss, leaning over the granite. “Yoongi!”
Yoongi whirls his head around to the source of the sound of his name, the tousled strands of his locks brushing against his sweaty forehead. When his tired eyes meet yours, his tense shoulders ease. You swear that he’s never looked so relieved to see you in his life.
“Y/N!” He says back, dashing over to you and pretending to keep his hands busy, like he’s actually qualified to work as a barista in a bustling coffee shop. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, you’d find amusement in his suffering and dismay. “Y/N, w-what the hell is going on here?! Please tell me that it’s not just me.”
“What?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.
The terror and distress from earlier has diminished with Yoongi here in front of you. You’re not alone. And that thought is more comforting than you’d like to admit.
“Please tell me that you woke up in this random ass coffee shop that we’ve never heard of before even though last night we definitely were not here and also very intoxicated,” Yoongi elaborates, looking up every so often at the scowling customers tapping their foots relentlessly and impatiently, waiting for their mountain of orders. “Maybe we drank more than we thought.”
“No, uh, I’m definitely here with you,” you tell him tentatively, eyes scanning the place warily.
“Okay, then answer me this: what the fuck?”
Unhelpfully, you shrug. Yoongi knows just as much as you do, and right now, that doesn’t seem like very much. “I don’t know, okay? I really...really don’t know.”
“That’s a shocker,” he deadpans, a slight tug on the corner of his lip. It was odd. No matter what circumstances or situation you’re in, Yoongi always tries to get under your skin but for once, you appreciate the distraction.
You roll your eyes, heaving out a long sigh. “Trust you to insult me even though we just woke up in some alternate universe from hell!”
Yoongi, despite the cloud of bewilderment surrounding the both of you, chuckles to himself.
“Maybe we’re in a dream.” It sounds reasonable considering how much you both drank last night and if Yoongi’s here with you, you highly doubt he drugged you or went this far to make an elaborate prank. “Try pinching yourself.”
“What?” His face twists up, nose scrunching like he ate something sour. “Why me?”
You give him an unimpressed expression. “Just do it.”
Yoongi gives in and pinches his skin. He sharply inhales at the sting, rubbing his hand over the wound. “Fuck. That hurt.” He looks at you, you look at him. The both of you hold your breaths, waiting.
Nothing happens.
After a second, you try jumping up and down, shaking all your limbs, hoping and begging inside your head to wake up. Yoongi smiles at your attempts, drawing the first conclusion of the situation. “Okay, we’re not in a dream then.”
“Then where the hell are we?!”
Before you arrived, Yoongi had asked his “co-worker” where he was, and they only stared at him blankly without answering. The customers didn’t say much either aside from making their orders and then speaking to each other. It was almost as if Yoongi wasn’t supposed to speaking to these people...as if they were merely the backdrop that moved.
“Hey!” A voice barks from the back, from a mysterious male who had thrown an apron at Yoongi earlier and told him to get to work. Now, his visage is reddened, and he stands with his arms shoulder width apart, hands on his hips. “Why aren’t you doing anything?! There are customers waiting and you’re not getting paid by standing there!”
Yoongi’s frown deepens, trance broken, and he dips his head lower, concentrating on dumping a spoonful of coffee grains into a machine, a place where it probably doesn’t belong. “S-sorry.”
The boss disappears, returning to his small office and a grin spreads across your face. It wasn’t everyday that Yoongi was reprimanded or scolded by others and you were enjoying it too much for your own good.
“Jokes on you,” you tell him pointedly, reaching a finger over to poke him in the chest. “You don’t know how to make coffee.”
“Yeah, I suppose I don’t,” Yoongi says. You smirk, pleased. “But that doesn’t matter, because we are getting the fuck out of here and going home. Right now.”
“What?”
Before you can question him further, he’s darting out from behind the counter, grabbing a hold of your hand and pulling you out of the coffee shop, much to the puzzlement of his coworkers, who are all shouting his name as the two of you leave. The sensation of his fingers intertwined with yours is strange, foreign and comforting all at the same time. But you have little time to dwell on the thought as Yoongi drags you down the street, searching hopelessly for a landmark that the two of you will recognize.
You can’t make it very far. By the time you get to the end of the block, Yoongi’s come to a halt, seemingly unable to move any further.
“Uh, hello?” You say. “Keep going!”
“I can’t,” Yoongi says, eyebrows knitted together furiously.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Yoongi frowns. “I mean, I physically cannot. I’m dead serious, Y/N. We can’t go any further. Look.” He reaches a hand out as it comes up in front of the both of you, and presses. Suddenly, a wall appears. It’s this big, translucent thing that seems to go on for miles and miles above your heads, but it comes to a halt here. Hesitantly, you try yourself, and find that neither you nor Yoongi can go any further than the boundary that this mysterious wall has set for you. Everyone else in this peculiar world is able to move freely back and forth, but you are trapped.
“What now?” You ask loudly, dejectedly.
It’s surreal. If this isn’t a dream and if this isn’t reality, you don’t know where you are or how to escape.
“Beats me,” Yoongi tells you, sighing. He finds the curb of the street and plops himself down on the edge, ripping off the ugly brown apron and chucking it to the ground. The scrap cotton fabric flutters to lay in front of your feet, the cheesy coffee shop title ‘Love You A Latte’ stares at back at you.
You have no idea where there’s a cupcake as a logo when the place sells coffee. Though you must admit, the design itself and the shop was rather cute. If you, yourself, ever owned such a place, from the pink colored walls to the green rounded tables, the open windows and warm ambience, everything is how you would perfectly picture it.
Love You A Latte.
The name tingles something from the back of your brain. Love You A Latte. Your brows furrow deeper. Love You A Latte. You repeat it over and over again. Wait a minute….
“Huh.” You let out a snort of air through your nose. “That’s weird.”
Yoongi looks up at you, the sunlight beaming down onto your face, casting a glow across your skin. “What?”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence.” You plunk yourself down beside him, grabbing your knees and watching the organized commotion of the streets, the folks who seem to walk stiffly in straight lines, cars following one after another, no delay in traffic lights. “But I named one of my stories ‘Love You A Latte’ before.”
“You did?” Yoongi frowns, having no recollection of such a narrative or manuscript. As your editor, he knows all of your stories, and he certainly would’ve remembered something with such an atrocious title. He would’ve probably thrown a brick at you if you actually wanted to name a book like that. “I’ve never heard about it then.”
“Well, yeah.” You clear your throat, diverting your eyes elsewhere when you can feel the heat of his gaze on the profile of your face. “This is embarrassing but I wrote it in junior high...about my classmate. It’s never seen the light of day but it was like...two hundred pages of slow burn.”
There’s a burst of laughter beside you, Yoongi’s tinkering chuckles and you find your own mouth moving upwards from the sound. It wasn’t uncommon to hear Yoongi laugh, he wasn’t lifeless after all, but he rarely laughed in front of you. He usually laughed at you.
“You did what now?!”
“Hey!” You push him away, the memories making you ashamed and flustered. “To be fair, it was one of the first stories I’ve ever written and everyone writes at least one barista college slow burn in their life!”
There’s a bit of silence as the pair of you settle down, enjoying the city scenery, soaking in each other’s presence. It’s actually kind of….nice when you’re not trying to rip each other’s heads off.
“Hey, Y/N.”
“Hmm?”
You can practically see the gears in Yoongi’s head turning, the glimmer in his irises, the slight scrunch between his brows. “How did that story end?”
“I…” You rack your brain, picking apart the pieces, bringing yourself back to your awkward years when you sat at the computer, typing away while blasting to pop songs, letting your imagination run absolutely wild. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?!” His voice raises a pitch into almost anger and you’re taken back. “Isn’t it your story?”
“Well, excuse me,” you snap back at him, grimacing how the pleasant moment has been broken. “I wrote that ages ago and it was two hundred pages. I’m sorry if I don’t remember.”
“Get up.” Yoongi hauls himself upwards and holds out his hand to you. At your bewildered expression, he repeats himself at a stern tone. “Stand up.”
“What?” You follow his lead anyhow, grabbing his hand and letting him drag you down the street. “Where are we going?”
The boy, whose hand you’re holding, pushes past the crowd of people, crosses the road and lets cars honk at him. Your fingers tighten around his and you struggle to catch up to his wider strides. “We’re going back to the coffee shop.”
“Excuse me?!” You scoff, trying to tug him back but his strength overpowers you and Yoongi’s relentless. Determination has been set within each of his muscles and bones. “And why would we want to do that?! You literally walked off like you were going to quit, we can’t just go back in and—”
“Would you say your story was badly written, Y/N?” The scent of coffee beans has already begun to waft down, twining with the fresh bread from the bakery next door. Yoongi slows down his steps, accommodating for you and your steps synchronize with his. It’s also here and now that you realize how much larger his hand is, his coarse fingers and his thumb that strokes the back of your own hand, sending goosebumps all over your skin.
“Y-yeah.” You cough, attempting to regain composure. “I mean, it was my first story. Of course, it’s horrible.”
“Then would you say it was rather...cliché?”
“Probably?” You don’t understand why he’s bringing up the past or your old writing that he’s never even seen. “Look, if you’re trying to insult me—”
“Just shut up and..trust me, okay?”
The bell rings once you’ve both stepped onto the doormat and you enter the quaint little coffee shop once more. There’s more chaos then there was before, customers restless and demanding to know when they’ll receive their order, baristas trying to keep up behind the counter and the boss visibly fuming and talking to one of Yoongi’s supposed colleagues.
You squeeze Yoongi’s hand, and he brings you to a table, swiping someone’s coffee cup from the table and letting them yell at him in anger. He ignores them and turns on his heel, letting go of your hand. The dark brown liquid steams, and he hesitates, taking a look at you. You quirk your head to the side with smile, about to ask him what’s wrong but you never get the chance.
Min Yoongi steps forward. His hand extends outwards. He braces himself.
And the bastard dumps the coffee onto you.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Yoongi?!” You raise your arms, appalled and entirely shocked. Your shirt is drenched with a massive brown stain, the fabric dripping of the liquid.
The entire room has gone quiet as if he’s triggered something. They all turn around to stare with wide eyes, the customers silenced, even his co-workers and boss aren’t stepping in. They’re simply watching the scene unfold and Yoongi smiles.
“Sorry.” He grabs a napkin and begins to dab at your shirt.
You push his hands away, scoffing and stepping back. “Forget about it, asshole.”
“No, I insist, Y/N.” The corner of his lip tugs into a smirk, and he swipes a pen from behind the coffee counter, stealing another napkin before presenting it in front of you. “Give me your number and I’ll...pay for your dry cleaning for you.”
You’re appalled by him, mouth drawn open and jaw dropping.
“Are. You. Serious.?”
He shoves both objects into your hands that are shaking from rage. “Just write down your phone number for me.”
“What are you even talking about?” You inhale a huge breath, repressing every urge to punch him square in the face and scratch up his pretty little face. “You already got my number in your phone, you piece of shit-—
“Please?” He begs you with pouty lips and glistening irises that remind you of a puppy, batting his lashes back and forth. You make a disgusted expression, ready to comply with whatever he wants as long as he stops it this instant. “Y/N, I’m asking for your number right now.”
“F-fine.” You comply, cringing at your coffee-soaked shirt and how it clings onto your skin. But you disregard it, quickly scribbling down your phone number and handing the scrap napkin back to him. “Happy?”
Yoongi receives it with a massive grin. “Very.”
It’s then that it hits you, like a bullet train passing through a tunnel. The realization smacks itself across your face, bruising your cheek and stealing the oxygen straight out of your lungs.
“You’re a goddamn genius.”
“I know.”
Your story ended with your classmate asking the main character for their number after bumping into them while serving a cup of coffee. The goal was to get your number.
And now the story’s ended. It’s over.
Yoongi takes your hand and you squeeze his tight, hope sparkling in your eyes as you look up at him. He smiles and all you can hope is that you’ve found a way to escape this mysterious realm and bizarre situation.
A bright light pierces through the windows and into your eyes. It becomes too blinding and you’re forced to shut your lids, holding Yoongi close. You can feel your body being ripped away from your surroundings, the molecules of the world loosening and falling apart.
It all melts away.
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The world rips apart and begins to stitch itself back together. One by one, objects and tangible materials begin to form together, like paint thrown on a white canvas; fields are drawn before being filled with a verdant hue, bright skies cloudless and rippling an azure shade, the sun beams cascading down a slight yellow luminescence.
『The universe has formed.』
This time when you come to, you feel asphalt beneath your fingertips. In front of you is a spilled styrofoam coffee cup, the muggy brown beverage staining the pavement and luckily, this time, your clothes are free from harm. Slowly, the world around you materializes to encompass what appears to be a tennis court beside a school of some sort, and that sinking feeling in your chest tells you that this is probably (unfortunately) a high school. It almost definitely is.
And you haven’t been to one in practically a decade.
It can only mean one thing, the revelation making you sick to your stomach - you’re still not back to reality.
“Y/N! You okay?”
You push yourself off of the ground at the same time a girl who doesn’t look to be older than sixteen rushes over to you, arms outstretched to help you back onto your feet.
“What happened?” You ask, reaching up to press at your temples, massaging away the growing headache. Oh, the side effects of universe-travel.
“You just took a nasty fall,” the girl tells you sorrily. “Are you alright?”
“I feel fine,” you say, taking a quick glance over your shoulder at the poor coffee. It lived such a short life. You didn’t even get to have any coffee at the Love You a Latte place, or whatever it was called. All you got was Yoongi dumping the liquid all over you before demanding your number—!
Yoongi!
Fuck, he must be here somewhere. If, by your suspicions, the whole coffee shop ordeal was not a dream (as it doesn’t appear to be), then that means he’s got to be around here, trapped in the same hellish universe as you.
Spinning to the girl beside you quickly, you ask, “Do you by any chance know why I’m here?”
“Aren’t you photographing the tennis district championships for Yearbook?” She asks, bewildered at the fact that you would inquire such a question. She points to the bag on your shoulder, the one that was certainly not there fifteen seconds ago. Your hand hits the canvas instinctively, and you immediately gather that it is a camera bag.
“Oh, right,” you say and laugh stiffly, pretending to know your job all along. “Guess that fall hit me harder than I thought.”
“Stay safe, Y/N. Don’t get hit by any balls in there,” the girl says, patting your shoulder comfortingly. You turn to say something else, ask another question, but she’s already skipping off elsewhere.
It’s strange to be standing right by a High School. Scratch that, not strange but rather an absolute mind-fuck. You could feel it in your bones and muscles, the agility and nimbleness that could only belong to the youth. It was like you transported back into time. The world that you were in made you healthier and young again. You bet that your cheeks are full and flourishing with color, no dark circles under your eyes from working night after night or matted hair from skipping showers. Back then you also had a fast metabolism, able to shove fast-food and garbage into your mouth and have zero repercussions for your actions. Now all you wanted to do was go eat a thousand chocolate bars and cakes but there were more important matters at hand, sadly enough.
Still, it’s a surreal experience to be wandering the grounds in a traditional school uniform again, navy blazer, stockings and skirt, the crest of the institute, a daffodil flower of some sort, printed on the breast pocket your white dress shirt. Perhaps if you were really this young again, you’d tell your past self to never ever meet Min Yoongi. And if you did, you’d run for the hills.
“Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi,” you mumble his name with a long sigh, eyes sweeping around the premise.
Cautiously, you approach the tennis court, fingers dancing over the canvas bag as you pull out the camera. It’s a high-tech little thing that you almost definitely don’t know how to use, but you suppose it doesn’t matter, since you’ll only be here temporarily anyway.
The muffled sound of a megaphone echoes throughout the courts as your eyes scan for Yoongi, unsure of what character he may be in this realm. Could he be a spectator, a fellow photographer, a journalist here to interview the players? Or maybe he’s one of those quintessential emo kids that sit alone on the grass with their headphones in, wearing all black under the scorching sun. You wouldn’t put it past the higher power in control of this universe-hopping to give him that role.
You can’t make him out anywhere along the sidelines, which, if your suspicions are correct, can only mean one thing…
“Hey, Min! Pass me a ball, would you?”
Sneakers squeak on the court as you pivot on the spot to the source of the voice. It’s some burly high schooler across the court from you, nodding his head at the boy on the other side of the net. He’s marginally scrawny, smaller than most of the other boys wearing uniforms, with a headband pushing his bangs from his forehead. He looks young. Small. Vibrant.
And that’s when it hits you.
That’s Yoongi. That tiny kid across the way, with the bright red headband on his forehead, that’s him.
Instinctively, you dash over, skirt swishing by your knees, keeping a steady hold on your camera. You meet him as he reaches the tennis ball basket, leaning over in front of you to grab a ball for the unnamed other member of the team.
“Y-Yoongi?” You ask, slightly unsure of yourself. You can’t really bring your brain to believe that it’s actually him.
He looks up at you, and you find yourself practically blown back at the sight. Yoongi looks so… young. There are no faint wrinkles that decorate his forehead, no angry scowl lacing his features. This isn’t the Yoongi you’ve come to know (and despise). At least, not on the surface.
“Y/N?” He asks, seemingly as surprised at the sight of you as you are him. “Is that really you?”
“I could say the same for you,” you say, motioning to him.
The Yoongi in front of you looks like a baby, a tender and gentle looking face, brown doe eyes and despite being a teenager, he has soft and clear skin. His height matches yours and bizarrely, completely contradicting everything you know, he gives off an innocent aura.
It’s baffling.
“Min! Ball!”
Yoongi reluctantly breaks his locked gaze away from you. He turns around and carelessly tosses the ball to unnamed teammate, who grumbles something about how he never liked Yoongi anyway as he trudges back over to practice before the apparent championships that are about to occur.
“I guess when we get transported, we’re turned the ages of whatever the main characters are?” Yoongi deduces, unable to tear his eyes away from you. You only vaguely remember what you looked like in high school, all smiles and warm cheeks and daydreams.
“Can’t believe this is what high school Yoongi looks like,” you say, smirking to yourself. “You look so full of life. What happened?”
“Oh, shut up,” Yoongi sneers in response. “It’s not like you’re the same either. You used to be so pretty, you know.”
“Excuse me,” you say, a hand pressed against your chest in offense. “I’ll have you know, high school me would never date anybody like you. Just in case high school you has the same ego that you do now.”
“Please.” He grins, always finding enjoyment in the banter. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up with me even if you wanted to. We both know you would’ve had a massive crush on this.”
The teenager turns his head to the side towards the sun and bats his lashes dramatically several times, causing you to scoff and jab him in his ribs. In the meanwhile, his teammate on the other side of the court is unimpressed.
“Oi! Min Yoongi! Quit flirting and start warming up! Championships is in an hour!”
“I’m not flirting!” He whips his head around, screaming at the top of his lungs which garners the attention from all spectators. You become flustered from the sudden attention and the people murmuring to each other but of course, Yoongi is unfazed. He simply saunters up to the basket and holds a ball in his hand, preparing for a serve.
You suppose that you should get on with your own job before someone throws you off the court or calls you out too. Thus, you take the camera out, holding it awkwardly in your hands and for precaution’s sake, you sling the strap over your neck. It takes a good minute for you to figure how to turn it on and remove the lens cap but no sooner are you ready, viewfinder pressed by your eye and Yoongi on the other side of your vision.
The corners of your lip immediately tugs. “I’ll make sure to get nice shots of you. Don’t worry.”
“If you can take anything other than a selfie, maybe you should consider a change your profession. Would be better than your trash writing anyways,” he mutters from contempt and scorn, struggling with hitting the ball.
Your jaw clenches but alternatively to starting an argument or giving him a black-eye, your finger begins to spam the shutter button. It’s refreshing not to have to scream at him and extract your revenge in a quieter way.
“Can you move?” Yoongi’s shoulders slump and his arms fall by his side when you’re literally in front of him, camera pressed up to his nose. “Y/N!”
“Wait, wait. Calm down, I’m just trying to get the perfect shot of you. For the Yearbook, y’know.”
“Do you need to be this close?! And why are you taking a picture of my ass now?!”
You start giggling, running around with your excessive energy, zooming in and capturing his nostrils in one shot, his eye in another and one where he’s mid-sneeze. It’s absolutely priceless and you don’t know what you would do to get physical copies of these photos for future blackmail purposes. He’s never let you take pictures of him before and there’s been no reason to but you find a lot of enjoyment at catching him at his worst moments.
“Hey—” Your camera finally drops, hanging at your neck and you frown at him. “Do you even know how to play tennis?”
Yoongi’s been trying to serve but missing the ball every single time, simply batting in the air like it’s a bug swatter. Heck, when he throws the tennis ball into the air, he can’t even catch it in his hand.
“Nope.” He sighs, giving up. “Why do I keep having to do these things that I don’t know how to do?” You shrug, and he gives an unimpressed expression, throwing his arms up to the sky in exasperation instead. “Why are we even here?!”
Your lips pout and you consider all the options you have. “Maybe what we did last time wasn’t right. I...think we should try something else. I might have an idea too.”
“What is it?”
Your fingers lightly pitch the fabric of his short sleeved shirt and you begin to haul him along. “Just follow me.”
Yoongi would otherwise argue and step back, suspecting that you would lead him to his murder site, but he’s much too desperate and curious to. It’s a bit weird for you to have him so obedient but you like the change, even having a slight skip in your step.
Unfortunately, you don’t get the chance to leave the court when Yoongi’s teammate shouts aloud. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”
The boy behind you exhales in annoyance. “I’m going to pee!”
“With your girlfriend?”
Yoongi runs a hand over his face and when you stop, frozen in your spot, he grabs your hand for convenience sakes and starts pulling you away. “None of your business! And shut the fuck up!”
You stifle back some laughter at his teammate’s appalled expression and the silence of the spectators. As you take charge and lead Yoongi off, none of you realize how your fingers have intertwined with each other’s. “So where are we going exactly?”
“You’ll see.” Your eyes flicker back and forth, humming and scouting the place. “We’ll probably run into the boundary like last time. I doubt we can leave the school grounds, but we can try.”
The both of you end up finding an exit off the grounds, a gate at the back of the school by the gardens, freeing you from the fence that surrounds the entire place. You open it, making stealthy movements as to not alert any of the teachers and as you predicted, the translucence barrier that goes for miles and miles above your head is seen on the other side of the road.
The school is situated in an urban area, busy streets surrounding the building and a few cars rush past, the wind fluttering your clothes and carding through your hair. Yoongi’s grip tightens on you and his brows furrow. “So, what are your plans, Y/N?”
“Well, there’s gotta be a way for us to exit this world and bring us back to reality, right? I’m beginning to think that it’s just our minds traveling and not our bodies.” You stare out at the cars driving past at a fast speed. “Maybe we can somehow bring ourselves back into our bodies in the ‘real’ world. Let me just test my theory out.”
You begin to shake Yoongi’s grip off, but he doesn’t budge one bit, fingers made of iron. The look on his face might even be of concern and worry but…..no, it can’t be.
“Uh, hello? Earth to Yoongi?” You quirk your head to the side and his eyes refocus. Your own flicker down to your joined hands and you glare at him. “Are you gonna let me go or what?”
“Fine.” He throws your hand away like it’s infested with germs. “Just don’t be an idiot. It’s bothersome when I have to clean up after your mistakes.”
You stare at him, breath held, lips fallen into a straight line. “Do you really have to always—”
There’s a pause and upon your hesitation and the slight hurt that flashes across your features, he swallows hard and nudges you. “What?”
“Never mind.” You shake your head, turning to face the busy street. “Just shut your mouth, alright?”
A handful of cars passes by, the sound of whirling zooming past, wheels spinning with every mark on the pavement and the wind smacking against your skin. You brace yourself. Your heartbeat thunders inside your chest and finally, you step out onto the pavement.
A car in the other lane rushes past and your eyes find another incoming vehicle, barreling straight towards you. Your hand balls up into a fist, your teeth grit and you shut your eyes tight with the hope that you’ll somehow be knocked back into reality with enough pain.
In the darkness behind your lids, there’s the deafening sound of a honk, someone blaring out the sound for you to get out of the way but you stand with your feet rooted into the ground.
The wheels roll on the road, tires screeching on asphalt, breaks slammed and a marking the road.
It comes closer, and closer, closer...closer….
“What the fuck?!”
A hand wraps around your shoulder and one moment you’re facing an oncoming car and the next, you’ve collided into Yoongi’s chest, falling back onto the curb of the road. Your wrist hits the cement, rocks digging into your skin and you cry out from pain. The honk of the car whizzes past you and you wheeze, Yoongi hyperventilating as well.
He lets you go and practically screams with his face twisted in anger. “Are you fucking insane?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?! Are you crazy?!”
“I-it was a test.” You clutch your hand, nursing the wound and watching the blood trickling from your palm. The skin has peeled, grains of debris stuck within the ridges and it stings. “I thought we’d go back...”
“Well look.” He takes your wrist, examining your injury with a frown so deep it looks like it physically pains him. “You got hurt! Y-You could’ve fucking died, Y/N.”
You frown. “That was the goal, asshole. Haven’t you ever seen the dramas where the main character gets transported into some alternate universe and realizes that she has to die to get back?”
“Not a risk I want to be taking, Y/N,” Yoongi says gruffly, muffling some other expletives as he randomly produces some tissues from the pocket of his tennis shorts, dabbing them on the wound.
“Aw, does the great Min Yoongi actually care about me?” You ask, bottom lip out in a puppy-dog pout as you lean into him with mock affection. “Poor old me?”
He scrunches up his nose and pushes you away, scoffing slightly. “Don’t get in over your head. I just don’t want your fictional, alternate universe death on my conscience.”
“Whatever you say…” You singsong before considering the next course of action. There was a very narrow amount of choices that you had left. It wasn’t like you could walk off when the barrier was right in front of you. “Come on. Let’s head back.”
Leisurely, you begin walking back to the tennis courts, the campus underneath your feet already starting to feel familiar. This universe is not nearly as terrible as the last one, though you could do without the uniforms and the war flashbacks to your own high school days. Or maybe that’s just because you’re already beginning to get used to this, travelling through the space-time continuum together and being forcibly placed into whatever your wildest stories dream up. Back home, the only constant in your life was the computer in your lap, filled to the brim with megabytes upon gigabytes of your writing. But here, the only constant is Yoongi. You know that, no matter how many universes you go through, he’ll always be there too.
“The only way we know how to move on from this world is fulfilling the ending and I don’t think we should experiment any other ways for the sake of our own safety.” Yoongi inhales, eyes fixated on your wrist, watching as the blood slowly seeps through the tissues. Subconsciously, he reaches into his pocket in the hopes that he’ll be able to find more, but it’s empty. “So, how does this story go?”
“I don’t really remember much about it,” you helplessly admit. “I just remember being a high schooler and writing about high school because it was the only thing I knew.”
“Were you even in Yearbook?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, amused.
You laugh, smacking his shoulder gently with your undamaged hand. “No way, man. Do you even know me?”
“They’re all talking about some sort of championships,” Yoongi tells you. “Does that ring any bells, or has your brain always been kinda empty?”
“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” you say pointedly, blinking in surprise. “Secondly, I think I remember something like that. The male lead, he had to, uh—” You start to snap your fingers as your brows furrow, desperately trying to conjure up what happens next. “Oh! In the end he won. He had to win!”
“You’re telling me I have less than an hour to learn how to play tennis and win the championships?” Yoongi freezes on the spot.
“Don’t get mad at me! It’s not like I can do anything about it,” you cry defensively.
Yoongi flails his arms wildly in exasperation as he picks up the pace, moving significantly faster than he was two seconds ago. You fumble to keep up with him, scurrying along the pathway with a sturdy hold on the camera bag resting over your shoulder. He soon breaks into a run, and you are suddenly less inclined to follow suit. You give up, watching him dart back to the tennis courts as they come into view. He looks so adorable when he runs, hands straight out and his entire body moving at rigid angles in order to take him where he needs to go.
You’re so engrossed with watching Yoongi as he shuffles over the court to begin working on his poor (from what you’ve seen, at least) hand-eye coordination that you sideline someone entirely, crashing into a shoulder that’s at your eye level.
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t see you there,” the deep voice responds, timbre vibrating and shaking you out of your trance.
A blink of the eyes and suddenly you are face to face with none other than Kim Taehyung.
Holy shit. It’s Kim-fucking-beautiful-Taehyung.
The first thing that hits you is that he looks like the age he is in real life, and most certainly not that of a high schooler’s. This universe is very strange. Not that you’re complaining, of course, because Kim Taehyung, the movie star and Hollywood’s favorite charmer, just apologized to you in full tennis garb. He’s standing right in front of you, smiling happily, blonde locks swept up, tall stature towering over yours and man, does he look good in a headband.
You’re nearly speechless, mouth open disgustingly wide and probably attracting flies.
“You okay there?” Taehyung asks, amused with the shell shocked expression on your face.
Eyes flickering furiously, just to make sure that this is real and that Kim Taehyung is here, talking to you, looking straight into your eyes, sporting shorts and a tight shirt that hugs his muscles. You manage a meek nod while internally screaming and combusting. “Yeah, yeah, I am. You’re… Taehyung, right?”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
“That’s me.” Taehyung grins, and you wonder why nobody else around you is questioning the fact that a twenty-year-old is floating through the crowd of sorry-looking high schooler’s like yourself. Perhaps this bizarre universe has no effect on him and his gorgeous face, his charming aura, his stunning personality. He’s certainly being treated like a high schooler. “And you are—?”
“Y/N,” you manage to utter out, surprised you even got your name correct in the presence of Hollywood royalty. You’re starstruck, barely keeping it together and holding squeals inside your throat. It takes everything within your weak knees not to buckle and bow down to his godly existence. His skin is literally glowing in the sparkling sunlight.
How is it possible that he’s so much more handsome in real life than in pictures and videos? The cameras don’t do him justice at all and you feel unworthy to lay your eyes upon him. He’s blinding and you may have to book an optometrist appointment if you ever make it back without getting a heart attack first.
“And what brings you here, Y/N? Tennis fan?” Taehyung asks, enticing you further.
Clumsily, you pull the camera from your bag, hand shaking and the pain of your injury forgotten. “Y-Yearbook. I...I just take photos of you guys and m-make it seem like you’re enjoying yourselves.”
Taehyung laughs, hearty and warm. “Well, somebody needs to make us look more attractive than we are. Tennis is such a nerdy sport, don’t you think? It’s people like you who give it a better rep.”
Truth be told, the boy in front of you doesn’t need any help to look more attractive—he does that all on his own. Kim Taehyung — you remember having the biggest crush on him during your high school and early college years, posters plastered all over your walls and locker. It was only reasonable that you made him a character within your story. It’s just a shame he’s not the main and you have to deal with Yoongi instead.
“Well, you guys do all the hard work,” you say sheepishly. At the same time, you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you whip your head to the side to see Yoongi, panting, sweaty, out of breath, but next to you.
“Y/N, what are you doing?” He asks gravelly.
“I’m talking with Taehyung,” you say hesitantly, motioning towards the taller boy. Taehyung gives a polite but distant wave. “You know Taehyung, don’t you—?”
“We’ve faced off quite a few times before,” Taehyung informs the both of you, much to your obvious surprise. “Yoongi gives quite the run for your money.”
“I do?” Yoongi asks, seemingly in shock at the fact that in this world, he may actually be better at tennis than he thinks he is.
Taehyung chuckles. Everything he does is just so attractive, you nearly swoon right then and there. “Humble as always. You know, Y/N and I were just talking about—”
“Uh, Y/N, do you mind coming over to help me with something? I need someone to toss balls at me for practice,” Yoongi interrupts him halfway through his sentence, something you wouldn’t necessarily expect from him. Sure, he interjects you all the time, but that’s different. You’re used to it. You also expect it. Taehyung, on the other hand, who has been absolutely nothing but entertaining and courteous…
“Yoongi!” You hiss, but he’s already begun to drag you away from Taehyung without even letting you bid him goodbye. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I was talking to him! Do you even know who he is?”
“He’s the competition,” Yoongi responds roughly.
“He’s Kim Taehyung! The actor! Jesus Christ, I get five minutes to look at his face up close and you just ruin it, like you ruin everything,” you tell him, bitter and perturbed.
“He was very clearly trying to get in your pants, Y/N,” Yoongi informs you coldly, picking up a stray tennis ball and rolling it between his fingers.
A smile spreads across your face, one of excitement and you even twirl a piece of hair in your finger. Maybe it’s because you’ve been transported back to your teenage self but you can’t help the little giggles spilling from your lips. “So?”
“‘So’?” Yoongi replies, nose scrunching up in disgust, appalled at your behaviour. “We have bigger things to worry about right now, Y/N! We’re stuck in this infinite hell hole of roleplays!”
Then, it hits you.
“Are you… jealous, Yoongi?” You ask, a grin dancing at the corners of your lips as you lean into him, hoping to catch a better glimpse of his eyes.
He scoffs in disbelief, though it is incredibly unconvincing. “Jealous? Of Taehyung? As if. Like I would ever want to date you.”
Stunned, you place your hands on your hips as you gaze at him closer. “You’re jealous of him. Oh my God, you, Min Yoongi, are jealous of Kim Taehyung because he was attracted to me! Oh, this is so going on Twitter once we’re back home.”
Yoongi fights back the smile that begins to grow on his face, attempting to replace it with a scowl. “You wish,” he mutters, but it’s too late now, you already know.
Maybe being trapped at a high school tennis court isn’t so bad, after all.
It doesn’t take long before the championships begins. A bunch of students gather as spectators, the coaches from both teams standing with hands on their hips by the fence, a kid from the school newspaper and writes the sports column becomes the MC. Eventually, Yoongi’s teammate hounds you off the court and you’re forced to stop trying to help Yoongi hit the ball, dragging your camera and your body to the sidelines.
Despite Yoongi being a complete asshole and having a trash personality, you’d like to say that he’s a rather reliable and trustworthy individual. Whatever he does, even if he’s mean about it, he’s good. He writes well. He edits well. He’s always been there. But this time, in regards to tennis, you’re not so sure if you’re confident in his abilities.
“Welcome to the annual tennis championships, everybody. Hosted over several schools in the county, today is where the final game is. After weeks, it’s finally here. To the left of the court, we have Kim Taehyung and his teammate and to the right, we have Min Yoongi and his teammate. This is a tight competition, no one knows who will win! It seems, however, as though Min Yoongi will be the first to serve. He’s standing in the baseline corner, preparing to serve towards Kim Taehyung!”
The MC is speaking into the microphone erratically, the coaches apparently annoyed by the overly dramatic descriptions but the bystanders are excited, cheering and rooting the respective teams on.
You’re watching with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, foot tapping nervously, mumbling prayers and hopes underneath your breath. Yoongi appears to be focused, swallowing hard and looking off. There’s nothing you can do but try to support him.
“Oh, and he tosses the ball towards the service area and….completely misses!” There’s a murmur amongst the crowd and Yoongi seems to swear underneath his breath. “Very strange. But looks like he’s getting a re-serve. His teammate is shouting at him and the coach looks shocked! Min Yoongi missing the tennis ball is unheard-of. Now that I realize it, he’s not even holding his racquet properly. A very awkward position indeed, could this be a secret strategy?”
Before the coach can step up, you cup your mouth, screaming across the court. “Min Yoongi, get your fucking head in the game or I’m gonna beat your ass!”
“Miss Y/N!” A teacher by the benches gasps, scandalized. “Language!”
“Sorry.” You brush her off in a mutter, turning back to focus.
The MC jumps on with the new development faster than someone can go chasing for the tennis ball that rolls away. “It seems as though his girlfriend has shouted out some encouragement and oh! There’s a grin on his face! Will this help with Yoongi’s unusually poor performance?”
You whirl yourself around to the nerdy kid rambling into the microphone. “I’m not his girlfriend!”
“And there was just a reaction a reaction from his girlfriend claiming that she’s not his girlfriend. Could there be perhaps drama off the court that is being brought onto the court? That would explain Yoongi’s bizarre behaviour. Has love gotten in the way of the sport?! What exactly is going on?! Stay tuned folks!”
You facepalm. More than ever, the attention has been pinpointed to you. All the students are giggling or laughing, nuding each other or gesturing towards your figure. You can only imagine the rumours that will spread now but thankfully, you’re not in high school anymore.
“Yoongi is serving again and oh! It’s a let! He hit the net and looks like he’s serving again!”
It’s absolutely antagonizing to watch Yoongi try to serve, how he flings his racquet at some point straight out of his hand or nearly smacks his teammate like the latter is a fly. If you weren’t so on edge, you’d laugh at him until your stomach hurt but now you could only feel shame and humiliation for the poor boy.
At the moment where you wonder what it would take if the Earth would open up and swallow you whole to bring you away from this second-hand embarrassment, your friend from earlier comes sauntering up to you. “What’s going on? Are you taking pictures?”
“Right.” You clear your throat, fiddling with the camera and spamming whatever photos you can. It wasn’t like you were actually a part of the Yearbook. “I forgot.”
Your supposed friend nudges you with a playful smile. “Too preoccupied with watching Yoongi, huh?”
A long sigh spills from your mouth and you stare at her in exhaustion, watching her ponytail swing in the wind and from her bouncy momentum. “This is a gong show, of course I can’t keep my eyes away. He sucks.”
“Please.” The girl rolls her eyes. Unlike Taehyung and Yoongi, you’re unable to make out most of her features. It’s almost like she’s merely a background character and thus, lacks detail. She has a normal face but every time you concentrate too hard to see the specifics, your vision becomes blurry. “You don’t need to pretend with me. Everyone knows you guys have a thing going on.”
You frown. “What thing?”
“Well..you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” You shudder at the thought of it, nearly gagging and you bring down the vomit that threatens to crawl up your throat. “Me and Yoongi? Ew. Gross. No. For the record, I like Taehyung a lot better. At least he’s charming and good-looking and—”
“Oh, what’s this?!” The MC’s voice rises in a pitch, re-gaining the attention of all the spectators again, including you. “Min Yoongi’s team fifteen! That forehand stroke was powerful! The strength coming from the wrist and completely past Taehyung’s teammate! Now this is the Yoongi we all know!”
Your friend giggles. “Looks like your boyfriend is doing well. I was just stopping by so good luck on those photos, Y/N. Hope he wins!”
You open your mouth to tell her that Min Yoongi is 100%, absolutely, definitely not your boyfriend, but she’s already bouncing away.
“I… hope he wins too.” Or God knows what would happen to the pair of you.
The competition continues, sun beaming down, sweat slicking off of Yoongi’s face, his tiny body moving from side to side as he chases after the neon yellow ball. It’s a bit endearing to see him try so hard and you make sure to take a few nice photos of him. Although you might never be able to see physical copies, you have it imprinted in your memory.
“And look at that, a backhand stroke! Yoongi’s sliced the ball! This is very weird. It doesn’t seem like there’s any strategy involved at all! It’s almost like he’s just batting at it with all his might and hopes that it works out. But maybe this is just the secret strategy of a professional!”
“Oh! A forehand stroke with a topspin. Nice!” The commentary continues, one after another, and you hold your breath, head moving back and forth to follow the game. There are harsh breaths inhaled, clean shoes squeaking against the court and claps that follow with every hit. “Taehyung's team is catching up! It’s forty-five to forty-five, folks! Deuce! It’s served again, hit up, the ball is close to the net! Oh, Yoongi dives and wow! Look at that forehand volley! Beautiful. But where is that ball going?!”
“Y/N!” Yoongi screams your name and throws his racquet to the ground. “Shit!”
The ball at an astronomical speed smacks you straight in the face and you stumble back, shocked and vision spotting with black dots. Your camera drops, slung over your neck and the back of your head hits the fence. “It headed straight for his girlfriend! Yoongi’s sprinting off the court, the coach is calling a break!”
Before the pain can completely register and the adrenaline is coursing through your veins, Yoongi has grabbed onto your shoulder, scanning the bruise that’s beginning to bloom, and he mutters a string of curse words. “A-are you okay?!”
“I’m fine.” You nod to reassure him, unable to feel your numb cheek. It might hurt like a bitch later but for now, it feels like nothing. “God, just go back and make sure we win.”
The boy hesitates, puppy-dog eyes that stare back at you and then suddenly, he whirls around and begins dashing away. “Let me get you some ice!”
“W-wait!” Your arm raises, but he’s gone, jumping up the stone flight of stairs two at a time towards the entrance of the school.
There’s nothing you can do when he’s suddenly disappeared and you settle for sitting down at the bench, thanking a stranger when they hand you a water bottle. As you begin to feel the pulsating of your blue skin, Taehyung approaches with a small smile. “Are you alright, Y/N? That must’ve really hurt.”
You smile meekly, damning yourself why you had to get a massive bruise when you’re talking to someone so gorgeous. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. You’re doing really well.”
“Nah, you don't have to be so nice to me. I’m getting crushed by Yoongi.” He plops down beside you, taking a short break as well. “I usually can predict his next move but for some reason, he’s really erratic today. He bats at the air a lot and sometimes he misses, sometimes he doesn’t. I don’t really know what’s going on.”
You laugh stiffly, having more than an inkling as to the sudden change in the supposed tennis player. “Me either. I never know what’s going on in his head.”
Taehyung twists his body towards you and shuffles with something in his back pocket. “Your hand is hurt, right? I have a band-aid. Y’know, always gotta be prepared when you’re playing sports. You never know when you could be injured.”
You watch as he removes the wrapper and plasters the bandaid gently onto your palm, your hand placed on his knee, blood that’s now dried up, but he doesn’t seem to care. You can’t resist the smile when his eyes flicker upwards to watch your own reaction. “T-thanks. That’s sweet of you.”
“No problem.” He sits back, giving you more space, and he seems to hesitate, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “Hey, Y/N, I know you go to this school and you’re friends with Yoongi but...what do you think about going with me afterwards to grab pizza? I just...would really like to get to know you, Y/N. You’re pretty cool.”
“I would love that.” And you really would. Your High School Fantasies could be fulfilled and your mind was racing with thoughts of sitting across from the Kim Taehyung, eating pizza and chatting away. Considering how popular he is in real life, this is a miracle on its own. But, it could never happen.
Not when you were going to travel to the next universe and never get your chance.
“But...but…” Every syllable physically pains you, hurting you a lot more than the bruise and tears nearly fall from your eyes. “I’m with Y-Yoongi. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” He has a crestfallen expression and there’s a pang straight to your heart. In the next second, he smiles at you. “No problem, then. Thanks for letting me know. We’re cool.”
“Y-yeah.” You observe how he slowly gets up and begins to walk away. “G-good luck on the rest of the match, Taehyung!”
The beautiful, blinding actor grins at you and you let out a sigh, shattering your own delusions that were right on the edge of your fingertips. Though the petty agony doesn’t last long when Yoongi comes running back, awkward motions with his rigid hands and scrawny body.
“Damn, I got lost in there. It’s fucking big but I found ice at the nurse's office. Here.”
“Woah.” You flinch back upon contact with the freezing ice pack pressing against your cheek but Yoongi’s other hand comes around your neck, holding you in place and pressing the ice to your bruise. “I can do this on my own.”
“It’s fine. I still got time.” He responds quickly, spewing out words like he has a million thoughts and doesn’t know what he should exactly say to you. “You have to keep it on or else it’ll get worse. Also, when I was there, I got a band-...what’s that?”
You follow his line of sight straight to the open palm in your lap and you try to fight a smile, ultimately losing when it spreads across your visage. “Taehyung gave it to me. He’s nice, huh? When you left, he even came and sat down, and we chatted together. Like actually talked to me Yoongi, He talked to me. He even asked me out but I can’t...you know I can’t. But I really should’ve at least asked for his signature or something. Do you think you could ask for me?”
“No.” Yoongi crumples something in his other hand and throws it into his pocket. You have no idea what it is but by the look on his face, you don’t ask. He simply puts the ice pack down, making you grab hold of it, and he begins to walk off. “Do it yourself.”
You watch his backside for a mere moment before you stand up. “Wait, Yoongi!”
He halts, scowling and showing the profile of his face. “What the hell do you want?”
“You’re gonna win this!”
His irises flicker to your fist pump that goes towards the sky, your tiny jump and a determined look on your face. His frown melts into a tiny smile, the corner of his lip turning, and he shifts back around. “Damn straight I am.”
No sooner is the competition resuming.
“This could be the last match, everyone. The winner will be decided on this game. It’s tense. The pressuring rising on the court. There’s fire in everyone’s eyes, coaches holding their breaths. Taehyung is preparing to serve, he tosses the ball and sends it off! Oh, they hit it back in one powerful stroke and wow- another, back and forth. Jesus! Yoongi struck with an overhead return, is it gonna make it?!”
You hold the ice-pack to your swelling skin, breath caught in your throat and everyone’s heads follow the yellow ball that rises up to the sky. Yoongi’s racquet is still up in the air, having spontaneously whacked it with all his might. The two of you have no idea what’s going on or any of the terminology but by everyone’s reactions, this was a good thing. Or at least, it could be.
“Looks like it’s heading towards the boundary line. This might be out folks.” There’s a long pause, quiet enough for a pin to be dropped. The tennis ball begins its descent and all individuals watch as it falls, closer and closer to the white line in the green court.
“And it’s in!”
There’s an immediate roar amongst the crowd, students and teachers alike, standing up and clamming like otters. The coach throws his clipboard into the air, Yoongi’s teammate running around in circles in screams and Taehyung smiles towards the competition.
“Min Yoongi delivers the final hit! That’s game, folks! We have won the championships!”
You abandon the camera and ice pack, throwing yourself towards the boy who stands in the middle of the place, absolutely stunned by his own randomly done performance.
“You fucking did it! You bullshitted your way through a whole competition!” You giggle, throwing your arms around Yoongi and breaking him out of his trance. “You’re the master bullshitter! Oh my god!”
Yoongi laughs too, picking you up despite being of similar height, and he spins you around in circles multiple times. His arms are secure around your waist and your own hands are circling his shoulders. “I did it!”
He pulls away, staring into your eyes and with adrenaline, without much thought, he leans in and presses a quick peck to your cheek. Your own eyes grow wide, lips falling, and he seems to register it in a moment too late. The crowd continues to go wild. Confetti is popped, the vibrant colored strips of paper filling the sky.
Yoongi’s grip tightens around you and your eyes are still locked into his. But a bright light fills your senses and you hold Yoongi close. Yet, his body is still ripped away from his grasps, away from the surroundings. The molecules around loosen, falling apart, melting into fragments.
The world washes away.
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Writers notes: This was a collaboration with the awesome-sauce writer @gukyi, so please send her lots of love, praise, validation and sweet messages. Check out her masterlist and other works too! The next part of this series will be posted on her blog. Also, send me messages too, over here.
CO-WRITTEN WITH @gukyi
4K notes · View notes
fortunexkookie · a year ago
Text
From the Ashes (M) | MYG
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Pairing: Yoongi x Reader | AU: Historical + Royalty AU + Star-crossed Lovers
Genre: Angst With a Happy Ending!!! / Smut / Drama 
Summary: Someone is sobbing ugly, wrecked sounds that shatter the silence in the room. You need them to stop; it’s distracting and you need to focus. You need to clean the ash from his skin. You need to comb the knots from his hair. You need to dress his beautiful body in something befitting the king you know he is… but the sobbing is too loud, and your vision is blurry. It takes Yoongi wiping your tears away for you to realize that the gasping cries echoing off the stone are coming from you.
Rating: Explicit / 18+
Word Count: 7.4k
CW: violence (pillaging, off-screen execution of non-named characters, mentions of weapons, insinuated non-major character death; wound-mention/Yoongi’s scar); sexual content (vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, creampie); other cw (pregnancy, vague historical/political/royalty drama)
A/N: This fic was commissioned by @athenakyle​! Banner and moodboard were made by @stutterfly​. Huge shout-out to @gukslut​ for helping me out with this piece so much. 😭 Historical AUs are hard, guys. Wow. 
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The night sky has always been beautiful, but it’s even more incredible when you’re in love. Even if miles of distance separate you from your beloved, there’s comfort in knowing he’s looking up at the same moon and stars as you. You try to quell the butterflies in your stomach by swaying from side to side and chewing on your bottom lip, but it’s hopeless with your wedding just around the corner. Finding that just the thought of stargazing with Yoongi makes you giddy, you stifle a giggle with the back of your hand and step out onto your bedroom balcony.
Falling in love has transformed a few of the places around your palace into something special, something more. Your balcony is one of them, and it’s the first place you go when you’re missing him. On nights when it’s dark enough and the weather is just right, the vantage point it offers allows you to see his kingdom’s lights. They look beautiful, sparkling along the mountainside like a second set of stars. They are what you are hoping to see tonight — what you’re hoping will connect you to him.
Instead you see something even more incredible: a vibrant gold light streaking across the night sky.
You curl your fingers into the silks at your waist and hum in amusement. Would Yoongi think you’re foolish for wishing on a shooting star? He absolutely would, but knowing him, he’d laugh and tell you to do it anyway just so he could ask what you wished for. Closing your eyes to make the wish, you imagine the way he’d smile and blush when you confess you wished for him.
But when you open your eyes, a second star cuts a path across the sky, and your smile fades. It’s improbable but still possible.
When a third star follows immediately afterward, your stomach drops. The fourth ‘star’ brings dozens more with it, and you finally realize your mistake.
What cruel universe would make flaming arrows look like shooting stars?
You want to spin on your heels and run away. You want to lay down and forget you ever saw this. You want to pinch your arms as hard as you can and wake up to a world that promises Yoongi will still be in it. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t move, you can’t look away, you can’t wake up from this. All you can do is stare, transfixed by the nightmare on the mountainside, until your legs buckle.
Morning doesn’t bring any peace — only hellfire and smoldering remains that blot out the sun with their smoke.
You never thought you’d watch wishes burn your future to the ground.
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Hurried footsteps from below your balcony snap you out of your daze, alerting you to the teartracks staining your still-damp cheeks. It’s the push you need to tear your gaze away from the wildfires across the way. Shifting in place, you focus on your bedroom door instead. As soon as you do, your thoughts hit as suddenly and violently as the sobs wracking your body.
Bolt it shut. Lock them out.
You crawl over to the door and palm your way up its frame. The force with which you need to pull yourself up causes your nails to crack and splinter the wood.
Even if you’re in mourning, you can’t afford to let your court or family see you as weak. They don’t deserve to see you cry.
With trembling fingers, you slide the lock into place.
A queen must wear her tears in her crown.
Still grasping the deadbolt, you freeze in place. Your crown — you might have greater influence over current events than you originally thought. You cross the room and run your fingertips over the decorative box atop your nightstand before opening it. Index finger hooking underneath the metal, you admire the teardrop gemstones set within.
If dead, Yoongi and his family’s remains are likely buried in the rubble of their fallen kingdom. With the fire burning that hot, would you even be able to recognize them if you found their bodies? And if, by some chance, they’re still alive, they’ve probably been captured by their enemies. If that’s the case, then you’ll likely never find them at all. Either way, you’ll never know the truth. No one would blame you for accepting things as they are — as they appear to be.
More than that, your family and advisors would never approve of the wasted resources and manpower you could invest into finding them. With Yoongi’s kingdom turned to ash, the Min family serves no purpose anymore. Your people would protest mobilizing your troops in search of them — with the threat of your kingdom being attacked next, there’s too much risk and not enough reward.
But is any of that enough to stop you from doing it anyway — from trying to find them?
After wiping your face clean with the heel of your palm, you smooth out the wrinkles in your gown and then lift your crown from its box. As soon as it’s set upon your head, you have your answer.
Nothing will ever stop you from finding him.
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“Alive!” Nari cries, shaking you awake. “They found him alive!”
The rest of your lady-in-waiting’s words are lost to you as you take off down the hall in your nightclothes.
Listening for familiar voices, you follow the sound to a small gathering of people just outside a closed door. You immediately recognize them: your parents, Yoongi’s mother, and one of his court’s advisors. They’re arguing in hushed, worried tones, but what strikes you the most is Yoongi and his father’s absence. As soon as they notice your approach, they drop into an eerie silence. All you can do is pray that Yoongi and his father are on the other side of the door, safe and waiting for you.
“Y/N,” your mother quietly warns, putting herself between you and the door. The way her voice wavers, cracking as she speaks strikes such visceral terror into you that you can feel it in your bones, and although the panic threatens to bring you to your knees, there isn’t a force in the universe that could keep you from pushing past her and into that room.
The door swings shut behind you with a soft thud, and after that, silence.
Golden light creeps in through the billowing curtains in the window. A guard you recognize as one of your own stands beside it, and another is stationed by the door behind you. There’s a servant you don’t recognize stacking logs in the fireplace, and a medic packing up their kit on a small table to the side. Despite your sudden entrance, no one makes a sound.
Your beloved stands hunched over the desk in the center of the room. His long, blonde hair hangs down his back in tangles that are matted with ash and debris. His clothes are filthy and torn. His bare feet are so thickly covered in soot that they stain the carpet black. It’s potent enough that you can retrace every step he has taken while pacing the room.
Yoongi doesn’t turn to see who came through the door, but he doesn’t need to. He can feel presence surrounding him long before your arms do. He shakes violently in your hold as adrenaline, fear, and heavy sobs wrack his body.
“Yoongi,” you call softly, pressing your face into his ash-covered hair. “Look at me.”
You nuzzle into him even more, frowning when you realize there’s no hint of the usual scent you associate with him. He smells of fire, of a kingdom burned to the ground, of ruin.
“Look at me,” you repeat, trying to coax him around. He doesn’t move, and the panic you felt before increases tenfold for every second he resists.
WHen he finally turns in your arms and meets your eyes, time stops, and you feel your world crashing to the ground. His face and hands are coated with as much ash as the rest of him, but it’s streaked through with sweat, tears, and worse. Dried blood stains his cheek in a clear line that extends down his throat. The neckline of his robe is colored dark where it pooled in the fabric. A raw gash cuts over his right eye, from just above his eyebrow to the apple of his cheek. The skin around the wound is angry and red; it weeps whatever salve the medic just swiped over it.
“Yoongi?” you whisper, reaching for his face.
He pulls away, letting your hands fall between you. For the first time since entering, you realize his father is nowhere to be seen. Behind you, another servant enters, carrying clean clothes and a basin of hot water. You barely see them from the corner of your tear-filled eyes; you’re too focused on the agony standing right in front of you.
Your future crumbles all around you like embers sizzling with the love they still hold.
A king can’t have scars. Yoongi can’t be your king.
“You need to leave,” he commands, turning his back to you again.
You step away and cross over to the servant with the basin in clothes. Scooping them up in your arms, you carry them back to the table yourself. You can fix this. You can wash him and dress him in the finest silk your family owns. Then you can go on, just like you planned. He will be your husband and rule beside you. You can fix this. You must.
“Please leave us,” you tell the servants. Anger flashes in Yoongi’s dark eyes when he turns to face you.
With the exception of the guard stationed at the window, the room empties. He turns his back when you glare at him, and then you reach for Yoongi once more. You can fix this.
“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, teeth clenched to keep the pain in.
“Shh,” you soothe, nudging him to sit in a nearby chair. Kneeling at his feet, you dip a clean cloth into the steaming basin and wring it out.
“Y/N, don’t,” he says, with less conviction. New tears track fresh lines down his cheeks. They skirt alongside the gaping wound in his cheek and drip down from his chin.
“I can fix it.” You cup his face in your hands and wipe it clean, carefully avoiding the tender red streaks on his cheek. You trace the damp cloth with your lips as you do so, kissing every inch of golden skin revealed. “I can fix it,” you repeat. “I love you. I can fix it.”
“Love can’t fix this,” Yoongi growls, grabbing your wrists in his shaking hands.
Someone is sobbing ugly, wrecked sounds that shatter the silence in the room. You need them to stop; it’s distracting and you need to focus. You need to clean the ash from his skin. You need to comb the knots from his hair. You need to dress his beautiful body in something befitting the king you know he is… but the sobbing is too loud, and your vision is blurry.
It takes Yoongi wiping your tears away for you to realize that the gasping cries echoing off the stone are coming from you.
“It can,” you insist, choking on the words. “I-I’ll prove it to you.”
“You need to leave.” He shakes his head, pushing his chair back and away from you. It screeches against the floor as you fall forward onto your hands.
“I won’t leave you,” you cry, prostrating yourself before him.
It breaks him to see you like this. Even if your words are strong, you’re still begging. He wants so, so badly to give you everything you could ever ask for — everything you could ever ask of him.
But he can’t give you this.
He can’t be your king.
A king can’t have scars.
“Y/N,” your mother calls, forcing you to realize that you’ve been so focused on Yoongi that you didn’t even notice her entry. “Get out of here.”
“No!” you growl, gritting your teeth. “I won’t leave him.”
“Go,” Yoongi says in the commanding, powerful voice of a king. It’s not the tender sweetness he normally reserves just for you. It’s an order.
“I will not. Yoongi, you are mine, and I am yours.”
Your mother reaches for your arm and tries to pull you onto your feet, but you remain rooted in place at his feet. “Yoongi,” you plead, reaching for him.
“Do you love me?” he asks, boring into you with his gaze.
Your mother’s hold on you tightens, and she calls a servant back in to finish the job you started. You don’t want anyone else to touch him; he is yours. With trembling hands, you clasp his ankles.
“More than my own life,” you answer.
“Then don’t make this harder,” he pleads. “Don’t make me watch your heart break. Leave.”
It’s only the threat of hurting him more that gets you to cave into your mother’s pull. Your eyes don’t leave his until the door closes between you, cutting you off from him.
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Hoarfrost dusts the ground you’re kneeling on. Clinging to grass and stone alike, it tempts you into swiping your fingers through it. If you wanted to, you could scrawl a message for Yoongi. A real one for once — something more than the vague symbols you string together in the pond using fallen leaves and plucked petals. You could write a revelation, a confession, a promise.
It’s early enough in the morning that only the first trickles of dawn have crossed over the courtyard. Although those pink and orange beams catch on the ice crystals, sparkling through the garden, they lack the warmth needed to melt them. You want to do it. You want to explain to him what happened and go over what’s going to happen, if only to ease the burden he shoulders. No one else is awake — Yoongi could read your message and wipe it away long before the new shift of guards make their rounds.
He could, but he won’t.
Your eyelids are heavy with sleep. Shifting your weight from one knee to the other reveals just how stiff your joints have gotten overnight. A poignant ache throbs across your knees, making you realize you’ve been kneeling long enough for them to bruise too. Long past the point of stinging from the cold, your fingertips burn.
There’s this incessant voice chipping away at your resolve to stay put. It tells you that you need to go inside and return to the safety and warmth of your bed. It tells you that if he hasn’t come by now, he won’t come at all. It tells you to give up, accept your fate, and move on.
It needs to be silenced.
It’s been a fortnight since you saw Yoongi last. He’s pulling away from you more and more with each passing day. If you don’t hold on, you’ll lose him for good. Forever. The increasingly familiar ache in your chest swells beyond capacity, growing until you’re clutching and clawing at the silks covering you as if you could burrow straight down to your heart and rip it out.
Yoongi descends upon you long before your nails ever threaten to break the skin. He heaves a sigh as he wraps his arms around your waist. “What are you doing?” he asks, gently gripping your wrists to tug your hands away from your chest.
Has he been here the entire time? Has he been here the entire time, night after night, just watching as you cry yourself to sleep?
Trying to shove him off, you roll your shoulders back. It only makes him hold you tighter.
“Please, Y/N,” Yoongi pleads, voice low and soft. “One mistake is all it takes.”
You go rigid in his arms but turn your head enough that you can watch him out of your peripheral vision. One mistake is all it takes. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, one second of letting your guard down, and everything you thought you had gets stripped away. But you know that already. You know what it takes to strip a king of his title and reduce him to a swordsman. You know it as well as he does.
“I’ve needed you, Yoongi.” Your tone is far more cutting and accusatory than you intend it to be. “I have needed you for weeks, and you’ve been missing as if you’re still out there, as if-” you choke up and squeeze your eyes shut. “I still need you. I need you, more than ever before.”
“What you need is to finally choose a husband,” Yoongi says, but his shuddering breath betrays his words.
You lean backward, pressing yourself into the firm wall of his chest. To your surprise, he doesn’t pull away. You pounce on the opportunity to sway him by folding your arms across yourself and making him hold you tighter.
“I already chose one.”
Instead of answering you right away, Yoongi covers your hand with his own and presses your palm to his cheek. You feel it — his answer — in the form of the angry, raised gash marring his perfect face.
“Someone else, my love.”
When another sob wracks your body, he buries his face in your neck and wraps his arms around you again. The softness of his lips as they move against your skin isn’t enough to distract you from the tight, desperate curl of his fingers as he bunches your gown into his fists. You know, now, why he hasn’t come. He was already just as broken as you — there’s no doubt that the pressure from your court to host a royal dinner and pick a new suitor has made things worse.
Tears — not your own — drop to your shoulders as Yoongi kisses along your jawline.
“You need to choose someone else.”
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Yoongi moves like a river flows.
Before his blade ever leaves its sheathe, he bewitches both your suitors and your servants with the strength of his presence — with the strength of a king — and no one in your court is unaffected. The air in the room is charged with static-like energy as they watch him through wide, eager eyes and bated breath.
Even before Yoongi lost his status, he was a gifted swordsman. Now, he's perfected his talent. They're in for a show — he fights like water.
Once he reaches the center of the room, Yoongi reaches up and curls his fingers around the grip of his sword. He turns his head as if looking for you, his queen, but keeps his gaze lowered, fixed to a spot on the floor beside himself. To anyone else, it looks as if he knows his place beneath you. He looks calm, composed, even serene.
You squeeze your armrests tight enough that your grip causes the wood to creak. His place is beside you, so if he thinks he's showing support for your new engagement, if he's waiting for your approval, if he's waiting for an order, then he can keep waiting. Even if he waited a lifetime, he'd never get it. He was supposed to be your equal. He is your equal.
Spurred to action by your silence, Yoongi glances up from the floorboards and unabashedly meets your gaze. The look in his eyes is as piercing as a river frozen over, but you know him too well for it to have any real impact. Yoongi's stoicism acts like a sheet of ice, masking the turmoil raging just beneath the surface.
He's either angry or hurt, but you want him to crack. You want to tear down his walls and break the dam holding back his emotions. You want to get swept up in the strength of his devotion to you just as you used to. You want your lover, your fighter, your king. You want him.
Instead of giving him an order, you say nothing. Nothing at all.
Whatever Yoongi is feeling, he hides it by clenching his jaw and drawing his blade. Lunging forward, he pours ferocity into every swath he cuts through the air and weaves his heart into every slow, deliberate pause. There's a warrior's soul inside him, and there always has been. He strips it bare just for you.
Though you've never seen it perfected like this, you know this ceremonial dance, and you know it well. You've memorized every step and flourish. Even if you blew out every lantern in this hall, painted the room in shadow, and begged the universe to pluck the moon and stars from the sky, you would still be able to see his movements perfectly. You know this performance like you know how to breathe. and you know Yoongi like you know yourself: intuitively.
Yoongi has a warrior's soul, and so do you. If things go as planned, he'll learn that for himself soon enough.
Despite the distractions preoccupying your mind and despite your familiarity with the blade dancer, he still enthralls you in ways your new suitors could never hope to match. You know it, Yoongi knows it, and now another wave of potential kings know it too.
The seat beside you is theirs for the taking, but your heart will never be.
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After Yoongi's performance, you gesture for your handmaidens to resume entertaining your guests. While you don't find them as captivating as your swordsman, they're loyal and undeniably talented in both the musical and social arts. It sends a loud, clear message to your suitors: you are powerful and wealthy enough that even your servants are highly trained.
The goal is for them to create enough of a distraction that you're able to slip away unnoticed, but you can't quite do that yet. There's a fine line between being proud and being outright dismissive, so you need to make smalltalk with each of your prospective suitors before you turn in — it'll smooth out the edges of your plan.
Eager to get on with the night, you don your most beguiling smile and make your way through the room. There will be an opening sooner or later, and when there is, you'll disappear.
Nari and your most trusted handmaidens will handle the rest.
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There's a shrine just outside the palace walls that's nestled into a grove of cherry blossom trees. It's a place of quiet reflection and prayer — a place where you can come to be alone.
Yoongi knows it very well. He has spent long hours on his knees just tracing the carved stone with his fingertips. He likes it here because no one ever bothers him; no one wants to interrupt a man in prayer.
And there is so, so much that Yoongi has to pray on.
You can tell from his posture that he's focused. The same sword he used during the ceremonial dance lies in its sheath at his side, and his shoulders are straight and firm. His hands rest palms down on his thighs as he kneels before the shrine.
Petals rain down on him like snow, plucked from the branches by the chilly spring air. That same breeze seeps through the thin silk of your gown. You shiver as goosebumps prickle your legs but take a step forward anyway.
He knows you're here. Of course he knows you're here. But he does nothing to acknowledge your presence.
"What are you praying for?" you ask, kneeling beside him.
Yoongi doesn't even open his eyes. Only his lips move when he answers, "you. Always you."
"I'm yours, Yoongi. I was promised to you," you remind him, laying your hand over his where it rests on his thigh.
Exasperated that you haven't given up yet, he sighs. You're endangering his life coming to him like this — especially now, the night of your engagement dinner. He could be killed just for touching you. "I pray for your safety, for your happiness, for a long and beautiful life. You're not promised to me anymore."
You count the petals caught in his hair. Their soft pink hue almost matches the scar over his cheek. They neither improve nor sully his appearance to you — they're merely decorations. He has never been anything other than ethereal in your eyes.
"It's not for anyone to choose but me. I have promised myself to you."
Yoongi opens his eyes and looks at you without turning his head. His silence speaks volumes. He's done talking about this, and since you know arguing is futile, you turn to action. His eyes track your movements as you untie the belt around your waist by tugging it free and getting to work at the knots underneath.
"What are you doing? he asks. His tone is irritated, but he can't hide himself from you. The hint of desperation there betrays his true feelings: you're breaking his heart.
"Answering your prayers," you tell him firmly. "I have always been yours. I will always be yours, and yours are the only hands I want to touch me for the rest of my life. You prayed for my safety? Protect me. You prayed for my happiness? It does not exist without you. You prayed for my long, beautiful life? It belongs to you, and without you, I won't live one."
You drag the sides of your gown open, letting them pool around you and hang in the crooks of your elbows. "Please, Yoongi. Take what was promised to you."
Yoongi stares, taking you in. He has seen you all his life; he has seen you at your best, worst, and everything in between, but he has never seen you bare. Not even his dreams of you could've prepared him for all the soft beauty you possess.
His hands curl into fists in his lap as he fights against the instinct to reach out and touch you. His fingers itch to cup the soft curve of your breasts, and his lips tingle with the need to taste you. He longs to drag you closer and feel your skin in his hands — to kiss and love and have you the way he was meant to.
But it's impossible.
"I can't," he says. That hint of desperation overwhelms him, painting his voice with agony. "Your new king would have me killed."
Moving closer, you push his folded legs apart and kneel between them. "Yoongi," you breathe, taking his hands into your own. "You are my king. You, and only you. If the world can't accept you as my king, then we'll make a new one."
His hands are so warm in yours. It's a beautiful comparison to the way he has always softened the sharpest parts of you. They're rough too — calloused and work-worn from their last few months spent with a sword. He lets you lead them towards your body. Closing his eyes shut, he wraps his arms around your waist and drops his forehead against yours.
"Let this be our vow," you whisper, guiding his hand between your thighs. "You are mine," you tell him, reaching for the tie on his robes. "I am yours. Take me, Yoongi. Take me."
Able to feel the heat radiating off of you as he cups your core, he keens a pained sound. It hurts him that you've waited — that you've saved this for him when he can never really have it. Once could never be enough. His heart hammers in his chest as he weighs the feel of you in his hands now against the reality of never feeling you again.
"Yoongi, please," you beg, grabbing at the fabric on his chest. You trace the scar on his face and follow your fingertip up with your lips. "We are wasting precious time. Take me."
All hesitation gone, he stands a moment later. Pulling your robes back over your shoulders, he leads you away from the shrine and deeper into the grove of trees. Petals continue falling all around you, blanketing the ground in white and soft pink as he presses your back against the widest tree he can find.
His lips find yours quickly, and he pours his heart out in kisses, deeper than you've ever felt and more desperate than you've ever imagined. He stops your hands from pulling at his robes.
"There's no time," he whispers, "anyone could be looking for you right now."
"I want to touch you," you whine, trying to slip your hands under the fabric. "I need to feel you."
He shakes his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck. Lips roaming across your skin, he covers you in kisses. Frustrated, you sink your fingers into his hair instead.
Spreading your thighs with his own, Yoongi dips his hand back between them and rubs lightly until you’re rocking against him. "Are you certain?" he asks, ghosting a finger over your entrance.
"I am," you swear, and then he pushes inside you. You squeeze your eyes shut at the intrusion as your walls clamp down around him.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, not wanting to hurt you. "Breathe," he reminds you, dragging his finger in and out of you. "Breathe, my love."
You do as he says, and with every smooth pump, the stretch gives way to pleasure. When he slips another finger in alongside the first, you instinctually spread your legs open even wider, and he drops to his knees between them.
"I love you," you whisper, reaching down to touch his face. "I love you."
He doesn't say it back; it hurts too much. Instead, he licks a hot stripe over your slit, dipping his tongue inside you before swirling around your clit. It's hurried and frantic — it only goes on for as long as it takes to have you dripping for him, and then he stands again.
"You taste like honey," he whines, looking near tears. Heartbreak is written in every line on his beautiful face. "I could spend a lifetime on my knees for you."
“And I for you," you tearfully confess. "Please hurry."
It only takes a moment for Yoongi to free his cock from his robes. You barely have time to glance at it before he's lifting your leg over his hip and parting your folds with the tip.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pushing just enough to get it in place. “Breathe,” he reminds you once more.
He pushes in so slowly that you wouldn’t even realize he was moving if it wasn't for the overwhelming stretch you feel. He’s as gentle as he can be, and he keeps his hands on your waist and his lips on your neck.
Your bite your bottom lip in hopes of sparing him from the cries that threaten to spill out. They aren't the kind he wants to hear. This isn't the way you wanted to have him. This should be happening in your marital bed, his skin on your skin, his body over yours. This should be taken slowly and savored. Your tears are borne of the burning between your legs, but they carry the ache in your heart as well.
Keeping his face pressed to your neck, Yoongi stills once he’s buried fully inside you. He ignores your pleading to keep going, to move, to do anything. The threat of being found makes you frantic. He wishes it was only the need to feel him that drove you to beg instead of this agonizing mix of fear and despair.
When he finally moves again, it’s as though a new crack forms in his heart with every thrust of his hips. You are everything to him. He wanted this forever. How could he be so foolish to think that once could ever be enough? He knows unequivocally that he will spend the rest of his life remembering the sweet heat of your body, the wet warmth that pulled him in and held him tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says again when your head drops back with a quiet whimper.
“Look at me,” you whisper. “Please.”
Finally lifting his face to yours, he kisses your lips and quickens his pace.
“Tell me you love me,” you beg, cradling his face in your hands.
“You know I do,” he huffs out, reaching for your other leg. He lifts you higher and wraps your legs around his waist. His breathing is erratic, peppered with quiet grunts and gasps. He nuzzles against you and holds you tightly, as if saying what you ask of him with his body instead of his voice.
Wishing you could tear it from him, you grab at the fabric covering his body. All you want is to claim him with your teeth and lips and tongue. You work them over his neck instead. You can’t have marks from this, but he can. He can wear your bruises like an emblem, press his fingers into them later to feel the ghost of your kiss on his skin.
Hands slipping over your ass, he holds you up and kneads your flesh while he pounds into you. The stretch gives way to delirium as pleasure lights you up like the blaze that stole everything from you. You will take it back.
Hooking your ankles in the small of his back, you pull his hair free and twist it up in your fingers. Your hungry kisses move from his neck to his lips, and he moans so soft against them when you bite, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth.
“You are mine,” you tell him. It was supposed to sound strong, commanding, possessive, but it comes out a weak cry, buried in longing.
“Yours,” he agrees, dropping his head back to your shoulder. You notice the stutter in his rhythm, the swell of his cock inside you, and then you feel the warmth of his cum filling you. He growls, clenching the fabric of your robes in his teeth while he works himself through it.
For a moment after, the only sound is the wind rustling the branches above you. More petals rain down over you and float softly to the ground. Yoongi lowers your legs and wraps his arms around your waist again. His face remains buried against your neck where you can feel wet, hot tears stream from his eyes and run in a perfect rivulet down your collarbone. He shatters the silence with a sob, gripping you tightly in his hands. “I love you,” he weeps. “I love you.”
Your own tears are silent, resolved, determined as you hold onto your king, reminding him of your promise.
“We’ll make a new one.”
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Body spent and emotions running high, you allow yourself to sleep in a little bit later than usual. Eventually Nari comes to collect you from your room. There's an undeniable, palpable energy about her from the moment she enters your room. The air thrums with excitement, and there's a wicked glint in her eye.
Swallowing hard, you quietly watch her sort through your clothes and choose your outfit for the day. Your eyes widen when you see the silks she chose. Jumping to your feet, you cross the room and run your fingers over the fabric. Nari picked out your most expensive pieces, which can only mean one thing.
"Have you found me a husband?" you ask, lips slightly parted as you stare at her in awe.
Nari dips her head, nodding deeply. "We have, your highness. In fact, based on the details you provided us, I think we've found a perfect match."
Letting go of the gown, you clasp your hands over hers. Nari lets out a startled gasp when you drag her forward. Excited, she laces her fingers with yours and giggles.
"Whom?"
"Lord Shiwoo," she answers, smiling like a shark as she squeezes your hands. As Yoongi's orphaned cousin, the Min family raised her for most of her life, and while she knew loss from before, her uncle's death has made her intimately familiar with it. As your best friend and lady-in-waiting, she might be the only person besides Yoongi who truly understands what you've endured.
"You're certain?"
Nari nods. "After last night, it's clear that Lord Shiwoo should be your husband. I think he'll make you very happy. His proposal still stands."
You match her smile with one of your own and snatch the gown off the table. "Then let's hurry and gather everyone into the main hall," you say. "We have a very important announcement to make."
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A month has passed since you first announced your engagement to Lord Shiwoo. In the hopes of capitalizing on every second since, you've poured every ounce of energy you have into playing the doting, blushing bride for him and the rest of the world to see. Your performance is so convincing, in fact, that Yoongi won't even meet your gaze whenever you pass him by. You hope he knows the truth — that you're doing all of this for him. You're afraid that by the time your plan finally comes to fruition, by the time you've finally secured a future with your king, there won't be any pieces of his heart left to piece together. But you can't let yourself fret on that for long; you simply don't have enough time to waste on it.
So you bury yourself in making arrangements for the wedding. You send hand-written invitations to hundreds of guests. You work closely with your chefs to create the courses for the royal banquet. You personally labor over wedding gown designs with your seamstress. You even plan an entire festival's worth of celebrations for your kingdom so that even the common folk can, in some way, partake in your special day. You've worked tirelessly to ensure that your wedding is one for the history books.
Of course, it's all a front to disguise what you've really been up to. There are countless pawns you've put in place, and all of them need to perform perfectly to ensure your success. You're exhausted and terrified but need to hold out for just a little bit longer.
For him, no task is too difficult. For him, no price is too high. For him, you can endure. For him. It's all for him.
You'll be with him soon enough.
That's the only thought that gets you through.
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There are no happy tears on the morning of your wedding. The tears you shed are done in secret or alone in your room with Nari. She doesn’t ask for an explanation as she helps you into your bridal robes — she doesn’t need one. By the time you meet Shiwoo for your ceremony, your tears have dried. Only you and Nari know that the smile you wear is a mask.
Your heart breaks as you light your unity candle and promise to be a fair and just queen with Shiwoo at your side. The vows you make taste like ash in your mouth, and Shiwoo’s kiss is even worse.
Is Yoongi somewhere in the hall? Is he aching how you’re aching? Is the anger you feel that he isn’t the one beside you matched by his own fiery rage? It should have been him. It should have been him! But you are far past that now… this is the first step. Yoongi will be in your arms come sunrise, and by then, not even the heavens themselves will be able to tear you apart.
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When evening comes, you’re meant to be preparing to consummate your marriage. Instead, you’re finalizing the details of your plan. Nari shakes her head when you approach your chamber doors. Checking that the halls are empty, she leads you away.
“Your bed is currently occupied,” she says, squeezing your hand tight as she leads you towards the end of the hall. “I’ll head for the stables now. You already know where you’ll find your king.”
Yoongi kneels before the shrine in a full bow with his forehead pressed to the stone ground. It’s impossible to miss the way his shoulders shake — the way his fingers claw against stone.
“Yoongi,” you whisper, quickly kneeling beside him. “Get up. We have to go.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells you, ignoring your urgency as he slowly rises. “Go to your king.”
“I am with my king,” you say with absolute conviction.
“Shiwoo is your king,” he insists, swiping angrily at the tears that roll down his cheeks. “Go to him.”
You shake your head, grabbing Yoongi’s hands and pulling him into the grove of cherry trees with you. The blossoms are gone now, and sweet ripe fruit has taken their place. “Shiwoo is a cruel, wicked man. I chose him for a reason.”
Feeling sick to his stomach at the idea of you choosing someone who would be cruel to you, Yoongi narrows his eyes. “Are you crazy?” he growls, masking his fear for you with anger, but you know him better than that. His body may as well be made of glass for how clearly you can see through to the heart of him.
“We are leaving here together tonight, and we are never looking back.”
“You need to go back inside and forget me, Y/N. You’re talking nonsense.” He pulls his hands from yours, but you grab them back immediately.
“Shiwoo attacked your kingdom. Shiwoo had it burned to the ground.” You give him a moment to let that sink in. Rage flashes in his eyes as he relives the memories. “Imagine how our people would riot if they found out he killed us both too.”
“What are you saying?” he whispers, finally understanding the weight of this moment.
“I’m saying that there are two very guilty bodies wearing our clothes in my bed right now: an arsonist and an archer. The moment we leave, they’ll be set ablaze, and no one but you, Nari, and I will ever know the truth. The rest of the world will think a mad king found his new bride in bed with her lover and killed them both is a jealous rage. A kingdom will fall, someone else will be there to raise a new one, and you and I will finally be free.”
Stunned, furious, and terrified, Yoongi stares at you.
“We don’t have time,” you tell him as you tug him along the stone wall until you reach the door you’re looking for. He goes willingly, letting you lead him forward in silence. The wind hits you hard when you pull the door open. Nari waits for you on the other side with a black horse and as much money, food, and plain clothes as she could carry packed on its saddle.
Yoongi spins you around when you move to climb on the horse’s back. “Is this our new world?” he asks, cupping your face in his hands.
You answer him with a kiss that bears all the love you’d held back since he last touched you.
Nari slips back through the door as you ride off. When you look back at your palace, you can see the fire burning through your bedroom window. In the darkness, it glows like the sun; somehow it’s even more brilliant than the flaming arrows you mistook for shooting stars.
Revenge burns brighter and more beautifully than you ever could’ve imagined.
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Far, far away from the horrors of your past lies a tiny village. Your kingdom has transformed from towering stone walls into a quaint, tidy farm. Instead of a crown, your king wears a simple straw hat, and the only weapon he wields is a scythe. You don’t miss his long, blond hair as much as you thought you would; in fact, you’ve grown quite fond of the short, jet-black locks that frame his beautiful face. Enough time has passed that his scar has started to fade.
With harvest coming, Yoongi has worked himself to the bone to prepare. You want to beckon him closer, but he looks so beautiful standing in the fields, bathed in a lovely orange glow as the sun sets, that it steals your breath away.
“Come inside,” you finally manage to call. “It’s late, and I miss my beloved’s company.”
Yoongi comes to you slowly and presses a gentle kiss to your lips and lays a warm hand on the swell of your stomach. You can feel the heat of his palm radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. Seeming to think better of his actions, he leans down instead and kisses your belly before leading the way inside. Behind him, the sun drops below the horizon in a blaze of golden light, and it becomes clear that this isn’t the life or kingdom you were promised.
It’s even better.
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main masterlist | yoongi masterlist
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A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging so that other people can see/read it too. I would love it if you send a message (reply or ask box - I keep anon on if you’re shy!) too. I love to know what parts stood out to you, what you felt, etc. @athenakyle​ I hope you like the banner, moodboard, and fic! 
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© fortunexkookie, 2019 - 2020. Do not copy, repost, or modify. Do not translate without permission. Banner and moodboard by @stutterfly​.
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btsiguess · 2 years ago
Text
Helping Hands (m) - Oneshot
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Summary: Yoongi thought it was funny, the man who couldn’t stand living once, being forced to live twice. But he does have to say, being stuck inside your body does make things a little more interesting.
Pairing: Yoongi X Reader
Genre: Fluff, smut, angst
Word Count: 8k
Warnings: Mentions of depression, suicide, bad family situations, smut, masturbation, idk,,,, maybe slurs? 
A/Ns: No one asked for ghost Yoongi smut but I still provide. I started writing this for like halloween but I never ended up finishing but!!!! Here she is. I’m quite proud of this one tbh.
Yoongi sighs as he stares up at the building before him. The tacky purple draping and mystical star sticker decals on  the window mocking him, laughing at his choice to come here in the first place.
He’s heard of this place before. He’s pretty sure every ghost in the area has. He remembers vaguely that he heard about this store years ago, when he would still interact with other spirits. They would very often direct him here, urging him to go see the psychic within. They said she could help with any issue that he might have. Any problem at all. There were even rumors that she was the keeper of life.
Min Yoongi had never thought of life. Not even when he had been alive. In his opinion, death had suited him… that’s why he was dead, after all.
He tries not to think about it.
Things had become the same as they were before. He rarely spoke to anyone. He didn’t go anywhere. He had seen all he could think to see, and so now there was the same heavy nothing that he had known in life. Things had been this way for years, except this time there had been no way to escape.
But recently, his body had been burning. Truly. Desperately.
Originally, it hadn’t been noticeable. Uncomfortable maybe, but not anything he couldn’t handle. But last night he had awoken with a start to find his chest engulfed in flames. Flames so hot that he had sobbed and screamed. There was no relief for him. No flesh to char and burn away, and so he had burned for hours, until the light of dawn had come to chase away his pain.
So here he was. Standing in front of this psychic’s shop, this foretold healer. Ready, for the first time in his life, to ask for help.
Yoongi inhales deeply before pressing inside. He doesn’t bother to open the door - he really couldn’t have even if he wanted to - but the chime gives a little jingle regardless.
A woman emerges from what Yoongi assumes is a private back room. She’s draped in black, specks of glitter woven throughout. She eyes him for a moment, and Yoongi is surprised at the focus that she gives him. He hasn’t been seen by a human in years.
“Min Yoongi.” The woman says, jarring him again, “how is your chest?”
Yoongi feels like he should have seen this coming, but he hadn’t. Still, he tries to compose himself as quickly as possible.
“Clearly bad,” He finally responds, “since I’m coming to you.”
“You know, it’s not often that I’m surprised anymore.” She says. “But I have to be honest, when I saw that you would be here today I was truly shocked. The recluse mute of the ghost world, finally at my doorstep. What problem could be so big?”
“I’m not a mute.” Yoongi responds, but doesn’t offer more information.
“Sure sure. A perfect voice but no desire at all to use it. The afterlife has truly taught you nothing.”
His teeth grind together unconsciously, angry at the judgement flowing from the woman in waves. He was an adult. He could live in life and death however he chose.
“You are not going to like what I have to say, Min Yoongi.” She walks back the way she came, motioning for him to follow. They make their way into the back room, and while the woman sits, Yoongi simply pulls his legs up off the floor to hover comfortably in midair.
“What is it you have to say?” Is Yoongi’s simple rebuttal.
“You, Min Yoongi, are going to die.”
Yoongi cocks his head to the side. If he were any less controlled he’s sure he would have smirked. He wants to be snarky. Wants to remind this woman that he is already dead. But he doesn’t.
“You’re going to disappear.” She clarifies. “There’s nothing after this Yoongi. You will cease to exist.”
If Yoongi still had blood, he’s sure it would’ve drained from his face.
“W-What?”
“You heard what I said. The fire… it means you are going to die, for all intents and purposes. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you, hmm? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To cease to exist?”
Yoongi’s heart clenches with fear.
“I don’t want to die.” Yoongi says, panic rising in his throat. “Not if you say there’s nothing after.”
All he receives is a smirk in return.
“Did you think this could last forever Mr. Min?” Yoongi’s mouth drops open. He had thought that, if he were being honest. He had accepted it.
“You’re a fool then, young man. Nothing can last forever.”
“There must be something you can do.” He begs. Yoongi is surprised by his own will to survive. He chalks it up less as wanting to live, and more as not truly wanting to die. Call him crazy, but he can’t imagine a world that doesn’t have him in it. Not anymore.
“I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid.” The same smile passes across her face, full of cruelty and satisfaction.
“Please… Something I can do then? Anything.”
For a moment the room is silent.
“There is one thing.” She says, as if she had simply been waiting for Yoongi to ask the right question.
“What is it?” He pleads.
“The way to avoid this final death,” She says, standing and walking over to the foremost wall - the wall which housed a collection of very old, very worn books - “is to cheat death itself. To live again.” She selects a book from off of the shelf in front of her, opening it in search of something specific.
Yoongi does not know which God he had crossed for a fate so cruel. The man who could not stand to live his life, forced to live two.
“There is no other way?” He asks?
“This is it. Die or live again.”
“Who will I be, if I live again?”
“You. You will keep on living as if you had never died. Judging by your appearance, you’ll be a young man once again. There is no fixing your past through this spell. Only learning to move forward.”
“It sounds terrible.”
She smiles.
“More terrible than not existing at all?
Yoongi ponders this. There had been a time, in life, when he had been able to comprehend clearly the idea of his own non-existence. In fact, he had welcomed the idea with relish. Then there was this. The afterlife. And it had stretched on for so long that Yoongi had gotten used to being around; dare he’d say, he’d become rather fond of existing. Even if it were only for himself.
“Mr. Min, time is running out.” The woman says.
“I’ll do it, I’ll live again. Just tell me how.” There he was. Being impulsive again on things he really shouldn’t be.
“It’s simple really. Just a spell. The problem you’ll have is gathering the ingredients.” She begins to write, copying down the writing in the worn book in her hand, having found what she had been originally looking for.
“You’re not going to help me?” He laments, and his complaining leaves the woman unimpressed.
“No. You are, and have always been in control of your own life.”
“Then what should I do?” He asks.
“I’d say a standard possession should do the trick. And I’d also choose someone today, unless you are interested in a repeat of last night’s performance.”
Yoongi pales at that. No. He definitely is not interested in that.
So a possession it is.
“You’re in luck young man.” The woman smiles, “Some people are approaching now. One will not speak. I think she is your best bet.”
Yoongi nods dumbly. He wasn’t all too fond of possessing people. Something about having to be human again sat poorly with him, not to mention the way he was forcing someone else not to exist for a little while. It felt wrong.
But this was a life or death situation. Literally. So he figured he’d do what he could, while he could.
The door chimes again and three women file in. One looks excited, the other two look like the only reason they were there was to support their friend.
“You’re here to have a session, ladies?” The girls look nervously between them as the psychic speaks.
“Yes! Of course!” The first says, brightly. The psychic motions for the three to sit and they do, one of them passing through Yoongi as she goes. He reforms, watching the girls closely. Which one was the quiet one? Two of them seemed quiet. The other seemed to be their leader. Directing the flow of conversation as she and the psychic determined the session time and payment method. Once the details were worked out and all of you had settled once again in the back room, things officially began.
“What are your names, ladies?” The woman asks.
“Shouldn’t we not have to tell you?” The leader accuses, an eyebrow raising.
Yoongi smirks at that. What a troublesome thing this girl seemed to be. He eyes the other two girls down, took in their appearances with a lazy gaze. One of these two women would be his home for the next few days, he suspected. As the session continued, Yoongi took the time to spare a glance at the list of items he would need for the spell. It seemed simple enough. The items looked like anything you could get at a flower shop… maybe some kitschy shop for wiccans and white women who used pinterest.
“I don’t think that’s right.” A different girl speaks this time, the blond closest to him.
That leaves the last girl, furthest from him as the quiet one.
Yoongi briefly debates whether he should wait until the young woman was home to possess her, but thought that the prolonging of the inevitable would only cause issues down the line. With this in mind, Yoongi hops down from his perch in the air, and makes his way over to the girl. He’s halfway there, behind the leader girl’s back when the psychic speaks.
“Spirits!” The woman cries loudly, surprising him, “if there are any spirits here, please let your presence be known!” She gives him a pointed look at that and he sighs. She’d done him a favor. This was the least he could do.
Yoongi reaches over in front of the leader, stealing himself for physical touch, and pulls the tablecloth slightly. The contents of the table slide toward the girl in front of him rapidly, and in her shock she jumps backwards.
Yoongi feels it before he realizes what’s actually happened. He feels the sucking, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut, the strain of being held inside somewhere too small, and the shock of two minds fighting for one space. Suddenly. He’s inside a human body. He feels the weight of her form and gasps for breath.
“Oh that scared me!” He hears her - his - voice say, but it’s not him who says it. This is alarming.
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck a voice screams in the back of his - her? - head. Who are you? What’s happening?
Yoongi thinks hard, asks the girl if she can hear his thoughts as well, but she can’t. At least, she doesn’t answer him if she does.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He cries, cringing at the feminine quality of his voice. The psychic looks shocked, as if the fusion between Yoongi’s soul and your own had been unexpected even by her future seeing eyes. However, Yoongi can’t spare the time to contemplate this fact any further, a voice that wasn’t his own panicking in the background of his mind as he hastily retreats to the bathroom.
Having a physical form isn’t as easy as Yoongi remembers. He stumbles the entire way to the washroom, cursing at the unfamiliar weight of a body, and the even more unfamiliar dispersal of your feminine limbs. When he makes it, and stares into the mirror, gazing at the face that was simultaneously his and someone else’s, your voice seems to have quieted down a tad. The reflection of your own, uninjured face in the mirror pacifying you.
What the fuck are you? You ask. And a heavy guilt weighs down on Yoongi’s conscious.
“I’m Yoongi. You’re not supposed to be here.” The resulting scoff echoes through his mind.
I’m not supposed to be here? This is my body!
“No, I mean…” Yoongi starts, “during a possession. I’m not supposed to hear you.”
A POSSESSION? You shriek and Yoongi’s hands fly up to his ears, as if that could stop the sound inside his brain. You seem to feel the pain too though, quieting immediately at the insane feeling of both having and causing the headache.
“Yes. A possession. Don’t do that again.” He hisses. “I don’t want this anymore than you do.”
Then get out. Is your simple response.
“If it’s not you then it’s going to be one of your friends back there, are you cool with that?” He assumes based on your aggressive nature that you wouldn’t want him to subject any of your friends to this. He knows he wouldn’t.
Why don’t you just fuck off completely instead? You’re angry. It’s expected. Yoongi can’t help the sneer that passes across his face, twisting your features angrily in the mirror.
“I can’t I need this. I just need a real body for a few days and then I’ll be out of your hair forever.” He hopes you understand. Mostly because this is the longest conversation he’s had in weeks and he isn’t finding it too pleasant.
I don’t care what you need me for, I want you out.  
“Listen,” Yoongi starts, “I just need to gather some materials and perform a spell so that I can avoid ceasing to exist forever so I don’t know what to tell you.” He lets sarcasm and venom seep into his tone, tired of judgement from the girl.
Why can’t you just get them on your own, and leave me out of it. It’s less of a question and more of a demand.
“What do you think I just have a ghost credit card lying around? Don’t be ridiculous.” He watches your face in the mirror as familiar facial expressions flicker over it.
Suddenly his hand flies through the air, landing a swift slap on his on cheek. The hit is hard and both Yoongi and you cringe, wincing in pain.  
At least I still have some control. You say, and Yoongi can hear the smirk in your voice. You’re such a prick, you know? You just think you have the right to spend my money? Get fucked, Casper.
“It’s weird that you’re more angry about the money than you are about me literally possessing your body.” Yoongi groans. “And it’s Yoongi, thanks.”
Well, money is tight, you know. You seem a bit defensive, so Yoongi decides to let it drop. We have to go back soon or Kayoung and Eunjeong will get nervous.
“Just, tell me what to say alright? I’m not here to ruin your life. I just… I need this. When we have more time I’ll try to explain it.”
You scoff quietly as he makes his way back to the others. It’s awkward, he stumbles over his words for a few minutes, as you both try to get the hang of things. The back and forth of the voices inside of him and around him making his head begin to throb. You notice of course, you can feel it. You’re both absolutely fed up by the time the session ends. And Yoongi feels blessed to hear that you and your friends had no plans to spend time together after this.
Before he can leave though, the psychic presses the list of materials and directions into his hand.
“Don’t take too long, Min Yoongi. You’re not getting any younger.” The woman smirks, and then shoves him out the door.
She’s intense. You mutter, less to Yoongi than to yourself. Still though, he gives a small hum of agreement, one which you seem to appreciate.
“I’ve been avoiding her for as long as I’ve been a ghost.” He says. That turns the heads of people on the street walking by him, and you make a small panicking noise.
Oh my god, Casper, put headphones in or something so it looks like you’re on the phone. Good God. He hums, and you direct him into your front pocket. He untangles the strings and plugs them into his ears, placing the other end secretly in his pocket despite it not being plugged into anything.
“Sorry.” He said. “It’s been a long time since I needed to think about the humans around me.”
Try to talk less weird. You say. But also… If you’ve been avoiding that psychic for so long then why did you go?
Yoongi explains in a soft voice. The way his heart had burned. The unavoidable pain, and the decision to see the woman. He’s surprised by the soft voice you use when asking him questions, as if he’s something fragile.
Soon, the two of you arrive at your home.
The key is at the bottom of the mailbox. You instruct. I always forget to bring it so I just keep it in there now.
“Noted.”
Your apartment isn’t big by any means. It’s just one room, the kitchenette and bed all shoved closely together, as if your sleeping arrangement had been an afterthought.
Listen, I know it’s not much but--
“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t had the pleasure to sleep on a real bed in… as long as I can remember…” He sinks down onto the mattress, letting out a soft groan at the feeling of the sheets under his skin. He’s momentarily surprised by the sinful sound of your voice, and Yoongi is suddenly glad that you can’t hear his thoughts.
Tomorrow, you think, tomorrow we’ll start gathering materials…
And before the both of you know it, the world has faded to black.
***
Inside your head, you see him in your dreams. He’s beautiful, and the smirk on his face shows that he knows what you’re thinking.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.” You tell him and he just laughs.
“Well, Princess, I am here. And you’re preaching to the choir, anyway. You weren’t ever supposed to be the one, and yet… here we are.” You try not to be offended at the idea of being some sort of sloppy second, instead focusing on how grateful you are that you were the one possessed and not either of your weaker-willed friends.
“I meant…” you hesitate.
“In your dreams, princess?” He chuckles. “I guess you don’t hate me as much as you’re letting on.”
You look at him again. Taking in his dark eyes and button nose. Watching the way his doll-like lips quirk up at the sides, as if he’s pleased to know you’re watching him.
“Is this really you?” You ask.
“In the flesh.” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you think I’m handsome?” You don’t respond, don’t have time to before he suddenly turns his head.
“Princess,” he says, “time to wake up.”
***
You’re walking to the closest craft store. It’s around midday, you had begrudgingly let Yoongi shower you, but had forced him to keep his eyes closed the entire time. He had thought, privately of course, that the demand was cute. How very coy of you, not to let the man that was you see you. (Outwardly he had called you an uptight prude. “It’s presumptuous of you to think I even want to see you!” He had scolded. But he did want to see you, more than he was willing to admit.)
It’s cool out, the perfect autumn day, and Yoongi shivers slightly as the wind blows. It’s been years since he last felt the wind. And he has to admit that colors seem to be brighter now too… the leaves that danced along the sidewalk awed him. The red and yellow hues reminding him of life’s transience.
“The spell is simple,” Yoongi says out loud, trying to break himself out of his own chaotic thoughts. “We just have to get—”
I know. You chide. Your eyes are actually my eyes remember, Casper? Five candles: blue, green, red, black, and white, a photo of you, a red ribbon, human blood, and a silver dagger—which I presume is to get said blood. Combine all in a nice little creepy seance under the full moon at your grave and then voila. A new Yoongi, and I get my body back.
“Sounds about right.” Yoongi mutters.
Well? Have you checked when the next full moon is going to be? Your voice is condescending, as always.
“Not yet. I haven’t found a calendar.” He responds.
Why don’t you just check my phone? You ask. And Yoongi pauses, causing an awkward hindrance in the flow of traffic around him. He hadn’t considered that before. He vaguely remembered that cell phones had the capability to get on the internet now, and that everyone had cell phones. So damn different. Being alive was so damn different now. He runs his hands through his hair, eye twitching in frustration when the hair seems endless, reminding him of the body he’s stuck in for the foreseeable future.
It’s in my front pocket. You say quietly, as if you can sense Yoongi’s confusion and anger.
Yoongi checks quickly, with a few instructions from you and releases a relieved breath when the next full moon is only three days away, including today. Just three more days of this. Of being stuck with you.
Okay, cool. Three days is enough time. Probably…
“It will be. There’s no way I’m staying put here for another month.” He cringes at the prospect.
Yeah, plus, you’re already using basically all my sick days at work. It’s fucking insane. I had to work so hard for those… He can feel the aggravation seeping into your tone, and he almost feels guilty. He wonders what he would have done if this had happened to him when he was alive. He’s almost positive he would not be fairing as well.
We’re almost to the craft store. We’ll be able to buy the candles there definitely. And the ribbon too, I think.
Yoongi nods. He can see the store up ahead, and he walks slightly faster as the wind blows around him once more.
He’s a bit overwhelmed by the interior of the store. It’s large and the entire place seems to smell like pumpkin spice. You berate him as he scoffs, letting him know that being basic is nice and Uggs are comfortable. He’s not sure what you mean by ‘Uggs’ but he hates them on principle if it’ll piss you off.
Still though, he has you to thank for not looking like a complete fool in the middle of this kitschy hell. You direct him where to go, and he can’t help but smile at the fact that you already know. You must come here quite a bit, to know the store like the back of your hand.
Here. you say, the candles.
“I have eyes, actually, thanks.” He quips, but the smile on his face lets you know he’s only joking. “These are all scented…” he says. “You don’t think that’ll change the outcome of the spell do you?”
If the twisted God making you do this doesn’t like the smell of a vanilla latte, then what’s the point of coming back anyway? Yoongi feels your shoulders nudge a little, as you push past his defenses and shrug.
He laughs at your point, out loud. The other patrons in the candle aisle glance at you, and Yoongi is grateful you reminded him to put your headphones in.
He gathers the candles at your instruction, begrudgingly picking the candle scents that you pick out. The process takes forever in Yoongi’s opinion, as you make him pick up each candle individually and smell them. You like the heavier scents, Yoongi discovers. Nothing fruity or flowery, but instead the smells that remind you of baking, like caramel. Or of cleanliness, like fresh linen and mowed grass.
Eventually, you have your favorites. They’re Midsummer’s Night, Christmas Tree, Life’s A Breeze--which Yoongi thought was ironic--Clean Cotton, and Sparkling Cinnamon (which Yoongi couldn’t help but talk you into buying two of, loving the way the spice had relaxed him.) You’d also talked him into buying an intricate red ribbon, silk with slight frills, saying that it would add pizazz.
Yoongi isn’t sure he should be tempting the hands of fate like this, but he has to admit that the sound of your excited laughter in his head makes the idea much easier to succumb to.
The woman smiles at you as you check out.
“Doing some Holiday decorating?” She asks, smiling a retail smile.
Yoongi hates small talk.
“I’m performing a seance actually.” He deadpans and the woman stifles a shocked cough, then bags the rest of your candles in silence.
Yoongi! You scold, but he can hear you laughing in his head. It doesn’t go unnoticed by him that this is the first time you’ve actually used his name. You’re going to make them think I’m insane. I come here all the time.
“You’re the one who’s been trying to convince me to have more fun anyway. Frilly ribbon? Really?” He laughs too, and quickly he hears you wonder what his laugh might sound like coming from him.
He’s sure you feel his cheeks flush at the thought of you wondering about him, but luckily you don’t mention it.
You let him take a taxi home, noticing how cold he was on the walk up. He can hear your thoughts. He knows why you’ve done it, but he likes that you blame it on the fact that you’re starving and want to be home now.
He’s lucky--he thinks for what feels like the thousandth time today--that you can’t hear his thoughts. Because if you could, you would know just how soft he was getting for you.
If Yoongi had to blame it on one thing, he would blame it on the fact that he hasn’t had genuine human contact in years. He would also know that that was complete bullshit. But you’d never catch him admitting that out loud.
You ordered lamb skewers for dinner. Or… well, you let him order lamb skewers for dinner. And Yoongi is nearly vibrating with excitement by the time they arrive at your apartment. He had merely shoved a granola bar in his mouth this morning, feeling very odd about having to eat again. His excitement is infectious and you laugh as he clumsily pays the delivery driver.
He munches away happily, some tears leaking out of your eyes as he eats. You’re ridiculously charmed by this, in Yoongi’s opinion, and he’s sure if you were there you’d be teasing him relentlessly, stealing bites as you go about your own business.
You’re quite surprised by how little Yoongi ends up eating, but you don’t comment, instead giving Yoongi another offer he can’t refuse.
Yoongi, how about a bath?
He’s tongue tied.
“Just this morning I wasn’t allowed to keep my eyes open during your shower.”
Yeah well. You bought that… lame candle thing, you might as well use it. I have some bath bombs somewhere…
Yoongi is out of his seat before you get another second to think.
He knows you can’t help it, when he hears your private thoughts. He knows you don’t mean to let him hear what he hears.
If this spell doesn’t work, I want to make him happy while I can.
His poker face must be incredible, because you simply go on worrying about it for several minutes. Yoongi has been trying desperately hard not to think of what might happen if the spell doesn’t succeed. He can’t even let himself fathom it. But your voice inside his head makes the thoughts unavoidable. Would he hurt you? If the spell didn’t work? Would he be ripped from your body? He cared less about not existing than he did about that. As much of a nuisance as you were, he didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. You hadn’t asked for any of this.
As he ran the bath, he became trapped in these thoughts, trapped until the smell of cinnamon flooded the room and he sunk down into the bubbly water, letting it drain away his stress.
I care about this weirdo… you thought, and Yoongi smiled.
He cared about you too. Funny, how things work out.  
As he sunk down into the bath he let out the most obscene groan. Both of you noticed and laughed.
It’s weird that you know what I… sound like.
“I can’t say I mind.” He smirks. He wishes you couldn’t see through his eyes. Wishes he could look down at your naked form wrapped in the bubbles provided by the bath bomb. He briefly wishes you could see him as well. You didn’t know what he looked like, now that he thought about it. He wonders if you would think he was handsome.
God he hoped so.
“I literally have never felt this nice in my entire life.” He mutters.
You’re cute. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.
“Can you feel it too?”
Yeah. I feel everything you do.
“I’m glad we can enjoy this together then.”
Me too, Yoongi. Me too.
***
I’ve never had to go shopping for a dagger before! I’m super excited.
“You’re super weird, is what you are.” Yoongi glances down at your phone briefly, eyes lingering on the way your soft hands wrap around the slightly too large screen. Your fingers are pretty, and he wonders what the would look like wrapped around his--
You have to turn left now.
Yoongi follows your instructions without a second thought. He’s grateful that you interrupted him. He’s getting far too attached to you. But he decides it’s really only fair, since he’s genuinely stuck inside your body. How could he not get attached to you?
I’m pretty sure it should be up on the right a little bit, oh. You pause. That’s definitely it.
Yoongi lets himself focus on something other than the sound of your voice and lo and behold, before him stands a beautifully intricate blade shop.
This is going to cost me so much fucking money! You lament.
“Shit, I’m sorry…” Yoongi says biting his lip.
No no no, it’s all good. You need this. You can pay me back when you’re human right?
Yoongi nods. The two of you had never discussed whether or not you would meet again if the spell worked. It had never been agreed upon before. He hopes that you mean it. Prays to any and every God that might be out there that you’ll let him see you, really see you.
He presses into the store and the burly man behind the counter gives a jovial smile. Like he’s delighted to help someone.
“What can I do for you, miss?” The man asks, and Yoongi momentarily forgets who he is and what he is.
“Miss?” The man asks again at your confused expression.
“I need a silver dagger.” Your voice pushes out, and Yoongi reels at the amount of control you have in that moment. He’s pressed to the back of your mind, merely watching through the window of your eyes. It’s only a brief moment. But it reminds him how much you’re doing for him.
“A silver dagger? That’s a steep demand. It might be cheaper to buy a fake silver one?” The man gestures to the case beneath his palms.
“It’s alright, it’s really important that it be genuine silver!” Yoongi says, in control again. “It’s for…” He hesitates.
“Larping!” You push through again.
The man laughs. It’s a hearty and full sound and Yoongi notes the way your entire being within his mind seems to light up at the praise.
“A larper huh? I get it. Gotta have those costumes be authentic. Just don’t kill anyone with it.”
Yoongi nods, and follows the man to where he stands. The daggers are beautiful. Elegant.
“These are our silver ones. If you want completely pure silver you can choose from these two.”
Yoongi lets you direct him, guide him through the selection and purchase. You had chosen the more expensive of the two. Expensive, because it had a shimmering ruby in the handle. Real, if what the man said was true.
Holy fuckkkkk. You cry, on the bus home. I’m never going to be able to eat again. That was so much money.
“Oh shush, we have lamb skewers at home still.” Yoongi chastises. He hears, he thinks, you quickly perk up at the mention of ‘we’, as if you liked the sound.
Yoongi did too.
Yoongs, you say, let’s watch a movie when we get home.
“That sounds nice, yeah. You pick the movie though.” You hum in agreement.
***
In all honesty, Yoongi hadn’t really been paying attention while you were selecting the film. He was happy just to sit curled up in your bed with his mind blank as he watched the screen. He wasn’t even following the plot, but he enjoyed your commentary. He liked the soft laughs or scoffs you gave, liked the way the sound seeped into his mind and made him feel warm.
It wasn’t until the main actor on the screen had his leading lady pressed up against the wall that he even knew what was happening.
“What the fuck?” Yoongi whispers, feeling his stomach clench unnaturally as scene unfolds. He feels his cheeks heat up and there’s a quiet chuckle from the back of his mind.
What, you say, can’t remember what being horny feels like?
He blushes harder at your crass words, but somehow it only fuels the feeling running through him. Desire. He hasn’t felt this way in as long as he can remember. A downside of being a ghost was never feeling this way. Can’t really jerk off if you’re dead… and after the first few years he’d forgotten what it felt like completely.
Movies have gotten much more risque since he was alive, the woman was moaning. And Yoongi couldn’t help but compare it to the soft way your voice slipped around moans. Fuck.
“You feel it too?” He asks quietly.
Yes. This is my body after all.
Even the thought was arousing, somehow. Knowing that you were in the back of his head, feeling yourself get wet, all the while he was in your body. Your nipples tighten, rubbing softly against your bra.
What are you thinking of, Yoongi?! You’re making it worse!
“I can’t help it!” He tells you. “I haven’t felt this way since I was alive!”
You’re quiet for a moment.
Really? You ask, surprised.
“Yes.”
That must be horrible, you continue, not being able to masturbate…
The way the words slip into his mind has him absentmindedly running his hand over the front of your pants. When it brings him no relief he remembers that this body is female, and he sighs, exasperated.
Yoongi please, you start to beg, stop! It’s getting really bad.
Yoongi can tell, can feel your underwear sticking to you, rubbing slightly against you. You let out a soft sigh in the back of your mind, and Yoongi imagines what it would be like to be with you. Hearing those soft sighs in his ear instead of in his head, running his hands all over your body as you cling to him. God, he wants you.
It made the situation a bit difficult, since he was currently trapped inside of your body.
“We need to calm down.” He says aloud. He’s going crazy even thinking about touching you. Touching himself?
Just… You start, hesitating.
“What is it?” Yoongi asks, praying that you have some secret solution to your joint suffering.
Yoongi… you…
So shy. So hot. Fuck he had to stop.
Just do it! You finally manage.
“What does that mean? Do you want me to…”
Touch me, yes!
He’s not going to turn down such a gracious gift. Yoongi can’t breathe as he lets himself lay back in your bed, movie forgotten. He’s touched a woman before, of course. But now he’s unsure of himself. He’s never... been the woman before. His hands slide down your shirt, over your sensitive breasts. He squeezes briefly, and his mind reels. He can feel how good it feels. To have his hands on himself. But more than that he is grateful that he can finally satisfy his desire for you.
You hum and he feels you clench around nothing. Feels himself clench around nothing. His mouth is dry.
He’s too excited to wait any longer, and he trails his hand down into your shorts. You’re wet. He feels you through your underwear, and shivers as his fingers brush up and down your sex.
“If this were real,” he admits, “I’d tease you more, but…”
Yoongi hurry!
He presses his fingers inside of you. Two. With hardly any prep. The stretch stings but Yoongi can’t help but gush at your tightness. He scooches up, leaning on your elbows as he lets your legs fall open so he can fuck you deep.
Oh god, I’ve never done it this way, you sigh It feels good, don’t stop.
Yoongi smirks, curling his fingers inside of you. It’s all coming back to him now, and this time he can feel the pleasure coursing through him with each thrust.
“How do you usually do it then?”
J-Just clit stuff, I guess.
He pulls your sticky fingers out of you and you whimper. Yoongi sucks your fingers into your mouth, groaning at the taste of you. He wishes more than anything he could trap himself between your thighs for hours, until all he could remember was the tangy taste of your slick.
G-God this is filthy. You mutter. Like, I know it’s you, but it’s also… me.
“I know.” he moans out with your voice. “I wish I could have you properly. Your pussy is so tight. So wet.”
You keen inside his mind and Yoongi dips inside you briefly again. He does this merely to wet his fingers as he pulls your shirt up to tweak at your nipples.
“Mmm, what a bad girl.” He let’s slip, “Covering herself with her own juices… What would people say if they saw?”
B-But--
He doesn’t let you finish your sentence, interrupting you by pressing down hard on your clit. Circling two fingers around your swollen bud.
Yoongi has to admit that it is much easier from this angle. And it feels much better. His hips are lifting unconsciously with each twirl of his fingers, and while normally he stays quiet, this time he lets his moans break free. Anything to have the sound of your groaning and panting in his memory.
Oh, Yoongi~ your voice breaks through.
Yoongi feels like he’s losing it, pressing to fingers back into your sopping pussy as he fucks you hard and fast with your own hand.
Your fingers are shorter than his, and he wonders how hard you would cum if it really was him making you feel good.
“I’m gonna cum” I’m gonna cum The two of you groan simultaneously.
“C’mon princess,” Yoongi pants out, “let me feel how tight this pussy can get.”
He flicks his thumb against your clit as he fingers you. Everything is hard and fast and when the coil in your stomach snaps, you press to the forefront of his mind.
“Yoongi!” You cry, voice echoing through your small apartment and your entire body tenses up.
“It’s so hot.” He groans low, as he regains control of you, fucking you through your orgasm. Yoongi hasn’t felt this good in years. When you both can’t take the movement of his hand anymore, he presses your hand to your lips once again. Sucking your fingers clean.
“God, I can’t get enough of this…” He says. You’re about to tease him, when he slides his fingers against your core again, quickly sheathing them in your mouth once more.
Yoongi, you groan weakly.
“You’re perfect baby.” He says. “So perfect for me.”
When you come back, we should do this for real.
Yoongi feels his heart thunder in his chest at your suggestion.
The two of you are lulled into sleep before he can even clean up properly.
***
He’s grateful that you don’t act weird about it the next morning. Simply teasing him about his obsession with your taste. You don’t make him close his eyes when he showers this time, and so he’s able to get a good look at you.
Yoongi finds out the hard way that it’s not easy to masturbate in the shower as a girl. But he’s satisfied with working you up. Tweaking your nipples and watching as the rivulets of water cascade down your entire body. He wants to stay here forever.
You, however, don’t let him. Chastising him about how if he ever wants to get out of your body, he has to go find a picture of himself.
Yoongi had suggested the library almost immediately. The only place he could think of that might have a photograph of him. You had to travel far to get to the library that might have his obituary. Around 3 hours, by the time you get there, it’s already nearly night.
You didn’t ask about his family or friends, and he was grateful.
When he had located the binder full of newspapers from the year he died, Yoongi felt his heart rate increase. You had never talked about this before. But he had to do what he had to do. And so he began flipping through.
Yoongi had stared at the news article for a long time. The newspaper in his hands trembled as he held it. Trembled as your eyes read what he had hoped you would never know.
His obituary wasn’t a pleasant one. ‘Min Yoongi, 26, took his own life last night. Parents are confused as to why. No note was left. Funeral services to be held Friday morning. No wake will be held.’
That’s it. That’s all it said. The picture was beautiful though. One of him sitting at a piano in his mother’s den. It was one of the only things he did that she really enjoyed. He always liked the picture, but he hated the memory now. The article didn’t tell you how he had agonized over the decision. Hadn’t told you that he couldn’t stand delivering pizzas anymore. Couldn’t handle the rejection he felt as letter after letter poured in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Min, but your music is just not what we are looking for at this time.” It didn’t tell you that his mother and father hadn’t spoken to him since he dropped out of college to pursue his dreams three years ago. It didn’t tell you that he had called his father for advice the night before, for the first time in three years, praying that he could find solace, and all his father said was that he was an embarrassment.
A tear fell onto the page in front of him, and he hurriedly wiped his eyes in shame.
You’re beautiful, Yoongi. I didn’t know you could play piano.
He noticed that you made sure not to mention anything about the obituary.
Your gravesite is around an hour away, right? We ought to leave soon…
He could feel that you were scared. Scared and avoiding the topic. He felt the same. He can feel that you didn’t want him to leave at all. He felt the same. You didn’t want to lose this. Whatever this was. There hadn’t been enough time. He felt the same.
He carefully ripped the newspaper article out of the binder it had been glued into and shoved it into his bag.
Ooooh. Look at us bad kids. Doing bad stuff. He chuckles quietly, thinking your deflection a bit cute.
“This isn’t the kind of bad stuff I’d like to be doing.” Thinking about how tight you had felt around his fingers last night. He licked his lips as he felt arousal stir in the pit of his gut.
Yoongi! You scold, but you’re laughing in your head. The two of you book it out of the library, not pausing when the alarm sounds. The librarian doesn’t even look up at you though. Fair enough.
The laughter in the air doesn’t last long though, and the two of you are silent on the way to the cemetery. Yoongi wishes he could think of something to say. It might be the last time he ever gets to speak with you. But he’s never been able to express himself clearly. He was just as useless as always.
It’s dark when you begin making your way towards his plot. It’s not difficult to find, really. And Yoongi hears your anger as you see how bare his headstone is; unkempt, moss covered. Clearly no one had visited in ages.
Suddenly, he’s not in control of his hands anymore. You kneel down, brushing the moss off of the front, until it’s as clean as you can make it. Then you dig in your pocket, catching the loose change there and placing it on top of the headstone itself.
It’s the longest you’d been able to takeover the body at once, and Yoongi would’ve cried at the gesture if he could’ve.
The two of you quietly follow the instructions. Placing the candles in a pentagram, outlining the candles in a swirling shape with your ridiculous frilly ribbon. Yoongi swears he can feel the holistic nature of the world set in. It all feels right. And it’s terrifying.
The moon is high as you light the candles. Placing Yoongi’s photograph in the center. Yoongi hesitates as he brings the dagger to your skin. He can’t bring himself to do it. He could never hurt you, even if it meant disappearing completely. This was all a mistake.
Yoongi, you have to do it now. You say. We don’t have much time.
“I can’t… it’s not fair. This isn’t fair.”
I swear to God Yoongi. If you don’t come see me again when you’re back, I’ll find you and kill you again myself.
With that you push passed his consciousness, and slid the dagger across your palm.
“I’ll miss you.” You say. And as the first drop of blood lands on Yoongi’s image you can feel your soul splitting in two.
Everything goes black.
***
When you awake once more, you’re back home. You’re not sure how it happens by any means, and you briefly wonder if perhaps this entire crazy scenario wasn’t just an elaborate and realistic dream. It’s only as you bring your hand to your face that you notice the scar. Angrily burned over, almost as if Satan himself had come to cauterize your wound.
Yoongi isn’t with you, that much is clear. And your heart burns in agony at the thought. Even if he never showed up again, you hoped he was alright.
***
It had been a week. An entire week. And there was no sign of Yoongi. You hadn’t gone to work, sighting a death in the family as your reason. Even if you were going without pay, it didn’t matter. You didn’t care.
You hadn’t gotten out of your bed in two days. It all felt too heavy. What was there to live for now? Now that you had had a taste of magic and then had it snatched away. You couldn’t even confide in anyone. Even if you didn’t tell them Yoongi had been trapped inside your head, it just wouldn’t make any sense for you to be so attached and worked up over a boy you’d only known for three days. It all felt like too much.
You had been without him longer than you had even been with him at this point.
Your eyes fill with tears, and you cry. You sob. You’re angry and lonely. You cry long and hard. You don’t even hear the key turning in the lock.
You hear the door slam though, and you look up.
It’s him.
In the flesh. He’s more beautiful than you could possibly imagine, and he smiles at you. He looks exhausted, but happily so.
Your tears are falling now, but for a different reason.
“Yoongi? You’re here?” You ask.
“Yeah, princess. I’m here.” Is all he responds.
A/N: The end!!! It’s not as smutty as my usual stuff, but I felt like writing flufffffff. Did you like it? I’ve missed you all. 
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mikrokosmos713 · 2 years ago
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These moments from Yoongi’s vlive never fails to make me feel all soft, cuddly & warm all over. Why is he so precious OMG 😭💜
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forgottenpasta · 2 years ago
Text
Baby, You’re Bad | 01
Summary: A drunken, pre-debut mistake comes back to haunt Yoongi when years later you turn up pregnant from the sperm he donated when he was a broke, underground rapper. idol!au, pregnant!reader.
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut
Pairings: Yoongi x Reader, Taehyung x Reader
Word count: 9.5k
Warnings: overuse of the word sperm lol; graphic depiction of artificial insemination; this is an asshole!Yoongi au; Suga when he was Gloss; use of real-life instances for plot purposes; idk some people might not like that.
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“Are you ready, Miss___?
No. Yes. No. 
Maybe the fertility medication they had you on was making you illogically sentimental, but you felt like bawling your eyes out. 
The thin pen-shaped catheter in the doctor’s gloved hands epitomized everything you’d ever wanted. Third time’s the charm, they say. God, you hoped so. 
You nodded a little too vigorously. “Yes, please.”
The kind nurse who’d been assigned to you since the beginning of your treatment chuckled from beside the ultrasound machine. If the doctor was amused at your enthusiasm, she didn’t let it show. She bent her head between your stirruped legs. 
You were beyond any kind of embarrassment now, no stranger to a doctor tinkering with your vagina to get you pregnant. This was your third IUI. If you could, you’d shout it from the rooftops. If climbing the Everest and planting a flag at the summit that said “I want a fucking child!” got you pregnant, you would. If could just blast off to space—
“This might feel a little uncomfortable.”, the doctor, Kim Yeri, warned, adjusting the speculum wedged down there.
“I know.” 
The nurse gave you an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up as she mouthed “Fighting!”. Feebly, you smiled back. In a moment of weakness, you’d spilled all your world woes to her when you’d come for the initial check-up. After two previous failed Intra Uterine Insemination attempts at two different clinics, you had been feeling like the most barren woman on the planet, despite the doctors assuring you that it wasn’t your uterus that was the problem, but “you know sometimes these things just don’t work, it’s all luck and probability.” 
Your bank balance wasn’t surviving on luck and probability though, it was suffering. Your money wasted on absolutely nothing, nada, nothing coming out of your vagina in the next nine months except more periods. You’d started to hate the sight of your own blood, associating with it the feeling of disappointment at your empty womb. 
You twitched slightly as the catheter entered you, willing yourself to not clench your pelvic muscles as the doctor had instructed. 
Ever since you could remember, you had wanted to be a mother. You absolutely adored children, lived for them. Literally. Your job as a children’s fiction writer wasn’t something that just happened, you had decided what you wanted to be during the summer vacation of junior year in high school, when all your aunts would leave you with their children as they went off golfing. That’s when you discovered that you had a special talent with mini people. You could spin intricate, sometimes nonsensical stories that put them in a trance and into a deep sleep in record time. Stories about princesses who turned into pirates, a little mouse’s adventures on other planets, a talking pebble who wanted to be a diamond and so much more. Kids loved you, even days old infants seemed to like being in your presence (their mothers’ words not yours). 
But as much as you couldn’t even dream about being anything else, writing children’s stories was hardly as lucrative as being a doctor or a lawyer. You did good enough for yourself but your job couldn’t support repeated attempts at artificially induced pregnancy. 
As the catheter breached your cervix, you closed your eyes and relaxed back into the examination chair. This was it. If it didn’t work out this time, you didn’t know what you’d do.
Try the traditional method like everyone else.
Internally, you snorted at the thought. One side effect of wanting your own child in your mid to late twenties, no potential partner ever saw eye to eye with you. Men didn’t want to be saddled down with a child this early. Your own pickiness with partners could also be blamed. You weren’t into men who weren’t good with children. One of your ex-boyfriends once scolded a 11-year-old kid for loitering around his new bike, checking it out. The next day you’d dumped him via text. 
Suffice it to say, at twenty-seven you were painfully single and the prospects of a serious relationship in your near future looked as microscopic as the sperm being currently inserted inside you. 
Looking down your hospital gown-clad body, you noted the transparent tube pumping “washed” cryopreserved and thawed semen into you. The clinic where you’d went for your first IUI had explained the procedure. The preserved donor sperm was “washed” off any impurities and chemicals to ensure maximum sperm count per mL. 
As the cloudy liquid travelled down the tube, you briefly wondered about it’s origins. When you were filling the form for donor specificities, Dr. Kim had presented you with the options of having sperm that could result in potential desired characteristics for your child. Such as a donor with green eyes or dimples or tall height or even a specific race. The whole talk had left a weird taste in your mouth and you had quickly dismissed it, writing only ‘healthy’ on the form. This wasn’t a pre-order and you’d love your child no matter how they turned out. 
Now, you let your mind wander off to the unknown person who’s child you would potentially (hopefully) bear. What were they doing right now? What did they look like? Did they have any idea they were likely about to have a biological child out there? You shook your head, anonymous donors sold their semen for money, they probably already had many children out there from women like you or infertile couples. You could never understand how a parent was comfortable knowing there was a child out there who would never know them, but you weren’t about to criticise someone you were directly profiting off of. 
“All done.” Dr. Kim smiled as she sat up straight, slowly pulling the tube out of you and placing it on the tray the nurse held out. 
“Do you think this might be it?” There was a slight wobble in your words. 
Damn hormonal drugs. 
Dr. Kim gave you the signature neutral yet evasive and unintentionally condescending smile all doctors seemed to master when their patients asked hopeful questions with no right answers. 
“If everything goes well from here on out, I can’t imagine why this shouldn’t be it. You have to take care of yourself and keep us informed about any changes in your body. I’m scheduling a check-up in two weeks. But you can take an at-home pregnancy test before that if you miss your period and feel like you might be pregnant.”, she explained, pulling out the speculum as well.
You stayed put, knowing from previous experience that keeping your pelvis horizontal for a few minutes was recommended after insemination. 
“Okay, thank you, Dr. Kim.” You smiled your gratitude at the cheerful nurse too.
“Good luck, Miss __. I’ll see you soon, hopefully with good news.”
Afterward, when you slowly made your way to your car in the clinic’s parking lot, you couldn’t help but caress your stomach. A tender, optimistic gesture. This had to be it. Having a child of your own was everything you’d ever wanted, the dream of being a mother one of the goals you had always been steadfast on. A dream which might finally be coming true. 
~•~•~
“What a nightmare.”
Yoongi’s hushed words seemed loud in the silent SUV. A complete contrast to the din and clamour outside. The car was inching at a snail’s pace, wading through a mob of fans gathered outside Charles De Gaulle. After landing, their private jet had taxied close to the VIP exit and they had left feeling like this might be a rare hassle-free entry into another country. But somehow, someone had been tipped about the cars they were leaving in and a horde of fans had greeted them as soon as they merged into the main exit outside the airport. 
“Shut up, they’re endearing.”, Taehyung griped, peering out the window when some armys started doing fanchants. “A little cringy, yeah, but cute.”
A loud thud against Yoongi’s side of the car made Taehyung and Hoseok flinch, snapping their gazes towards their hyung. In the push and pull outside, someone had toppled against Yoongi’s car door. 
The rapper cursed under his breath, immediately switching to an expression of indifference when phone cameras flashed too close, making him squint. He had thrown his face mask in his handbag and shoved it in the trunk and now he regretted it. The damn car didn’t even have tinted windows. Their jet lagged, irritated faces were going to be headlines in a matter of minutes. 
Ahead of them, the SUV Jeongguk, Namjoon, Seokjin and Jimin were in wasn’t faring any better, a swarm of fans surrounding it like bees to honey. 
Yoongi turned away from the window so they couldn’t read his mouth. “Cute, my ass. Where the fuck is the airport security? Someone’s gonna get hurt out there.”
As if on cue, three blue cars with the words Gendarmerie and flashing sirens atop haul in on the side road in a queue, the officers jumping out to contain the mob. As the fans start to disperse under harshly shouted commands, one girl pressed her hand to Yoongi’s window, gawking down at him with tears in her eyes, showing no signs of moving. 
Yoongi gave her a small smile, reaching up to align his palm with hers through the glass. Cameras flash wildly as he observed the girl hyperventilate. Soon enough the officers clad in dark blue manage to push back the crowd and the cars surge forward. The girl’s hand slipped away from the window and the rapper didn’t look back as he sighed deeply, leaning his head back against the headrest.
Their motorcade sped down the freeway in a line, heading to the Peninsula, Paris. 
His phone buzzed once in his pocket, but Yoongi didn’t care to check it, didn’t even open his eyes. 
“You shouldn’t nap right now, hyung. You’ll feel more tired when we leave for the magazine shoot as soon as we reach the hotel.”, Hoseok advised, not looking up from his own phone. 
“I don’t care. I’ll nap at the shoot too, they can take my photos with my eyes fucking closed. Nobody told them to schedule the shoot as soon we step foot in Paris.”
“Our management did.”, Taehyung supplied helpfully. 
Yoongi snorted. “Of course they did. When do they ever let us breathe.”
Their manager in the front seat cleared his throat. “I’ll be sure to relay that to the higher ups.”
“Thanks.”, Yoongi replied dryly. 
When they reach their hotel, the SUVs parked in the basement. Their keycards were quickly handed to them as they bypassed the front reception, to the private elevators straight to their rooms. Two master suites with connecting doors, four bedrooms in total. As usual, they Rock Paper Scissor it and Yoongi got to room with Namjoon. And as usual the lucky maknae won, sauntering to his room with a smug grin on his face. 
“You have half an hour to freshen up, we have to reach the magazine’s studio at 3 sharp.”, Sejin informed after them. 
Namjoon sprawled on the king sized bed when Yoongi called dibs on the shower, shucking his clothes haphazardly and placing his phone on the ornate bedside cabinet. 
His mind was blissfully blank when he stepped inside the walk-in shower, the control panel allowing him to set the perfect temperature and pressure. Because this was routine, getting to the hotel just to jet off somewhere else, his mind was on autopilot, his body long since adapted to the requirements of someone always on the move. Although he complained and grouched, he knew he wouldn’t change a thing. Couldn’t. This was what kept them at the top. 
He was out of the shower in five minutes, toweling his hair dry as he stepped inside the room naked. Namjoon didn’t even blink at him, they had been living together for the better part of a decade now, they’d seen all there was to see of each other. 
The leader stretched out his long limbs languidly, getting up sluggishly to head to the en-suite. “Your phone’s been buzzing.”
Yoongi wrapped the towel around his waist, snatching up his phone to rove a cursory glance over the notifications. He was about to throw his phone atop the bed, dismissing the vague emails, when something stops him short. He peers down at the sender’s address. 
Ajeevan Fertility & Gyne Centre. 
What?
He unlocks his phone, thoroughly confused. This was his personal phone and he only got personal emails on it.
When the email expanded to full screen, he realised something. It wasn’t send to his current email address, but the one he used to use pre-debut, the one he’d made in high school. The one which fell into disuse after they had to change all their contact information due to privacy reasons. He didn’t even remember it syncing up through all his phone changes over the years, he never got notifications from it anymore. And sure enough, the last email of import send to him on this address was from five years ago. The spam folder was full though. 
He opened the weird email again, finally deeming to read it. It was succinct, to the point.
Dear donor,
Thank you for your donation dated 2011/03/09. It has been successfully utilised to make our client’s parenthood dreams come true. You are eligible for another donation, please contact us if interested. 
Regards
Sperm Bank Office
Ajeevan Fertility & Gyne Centre
**This is an automated message, please do not reply.**
Yoongi’s eyes burned a hole where the phone displayed the date. 2011/03/09. His eighteenth birthday. He took in a shuddering breath.
No no no no no. 
Without conscious thought, he plopped down on the bed, his knees going weak. His heart beat spiked to triathlon levels. Putting the phone face down on the table, he rested his elbows on his towel draped thighs, head in his hands.
He had to think. But there was nothing but static in his jumbled brain, which was still trying to catch up to the implications of the email. 
They made a mistake. They must have. I refunded the money. I told them I didn’t want it used. 
But the date. 
“You’re still not dressed. It’s almost time.”
Yoongi almost had a heart attack at Namjoon’s abrupt voice. “Fuck, dude. Why are you sneaking up on me?”
Namjoon’s frowned. He took out a pair of jeans from his bag, pulling them on as he eyed the other rapper. “I’ve been out here for a few minutes. What’s got you so lost?”
Yoongi didn’t answer. He wasn’t lost, he was on the verge of a full blown panic attack at even the minuscule possibility of a stupid teenage mistake coming full circle to end his life as he knows it. 
“Hyung.” Namjoon came forward, now genuinely worried, jeans riding low on his shirtless torso. “What is wrong? Are you okay?”
Yoongi had only told one person about the time when he’d hit rock bottom in his life. Namjoon was not him. 
“Can you get Jin hyung for me, Namjoon-ah?”, he asked, his words clear and coherent despite the chaos inside his mind. 
The leader didn’t question it, just got up to do as asked, plucking out a shirt along the way. 
A few minutes later, Jin poked his head inside, immediately entering and closing door at Yoongi’s pensive countenance. He raised a brow at the younger.
Yoongi held out his phone. 
Jin took it, seating himself on the bed as well. 
A few beats passed. 
Jin exploded. “What the hell?! Yoongi?! Is this saying what I think it’s saying?!”
Yoongi ran a tired hand down his face. “ I gave them their money back. Explicitly told them I wanted my sperm thrown in the trash.” The anger which had been slowly simmering, now bubbles to the surface. “What the fuck is this, hyung? I don’t even recognise the name of the clinic. What the fuck did they do with it?”
Jin bit his lip, confused. “What was the name of the place you donated to?”
“I don’t even remember, but it definitely wasn’t that. I should have known they were shady as fuck when they refused to return my sample.”
Jin was surprised. “Yeah, that should have raised several red flags, Yoongi.”
“I was eighteen.”, Yoongi growled. “I was stupid as fuck. Shit, I agreed to donate sperm because my bank balance was riding the negatives, what does that tell you?”
“That you were desperate.”, Jin shrugged. 
“Yes but not knowingly-having-a-kid-out-in-the-world desperate!”, Yoongi was freaking out. “I realised I didn’t have the moral consonance to have a kid I didn’t know and have estranged parents I despised at the same time. It was a stupid drunken whim, which I regretted the minute after and it has been one of the most shameful moments of my life since.”
“Wait.”, Jin scowled. “You were drunk when you donated and they let you?”
Yoongi sniffed. “I was tipsy, yeah. I needed liquid courage to go through with it.”
“That isn’t just red flags, Yoongi, thats red blaring fucking sirens. What kinda third rate, illicit place did you donate to?”
There was a knock on the door before Taehyung pushed it open. Behind him, the rest of the members looked ready to leave. 
Sejin also came into view, frowning at Yoongi. 
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
Jin and Yoongi exchanged a glance. Here goes fucking nothing.
~•~•~
“What a fucking liar.”
Yoongi’s glazed eyes drifted over to his roommate, Jaehyun.
“Who?”
He didn’t particularly want to know, but if he didn’t give Jaehyun some sort of verbal response he would likely keep pestering him about “liars who lied about lying”. 
The blonde man took a deep inhale from his cigarette, blowing the smoke towards Yoongi. “That lying rat, Hyungwon. Did you see him strut in here decked head to toe in designer shit I can’t even pronounce the name of.”
Slowly, Yoongi turned around on his barstool, scanning the packed club with lazy eyes. He spotted Hyungwon among a gaggle of scantily clad girls feeling up his biceps.
Yoongi squinted. “Hyungwon? Wasn’t he asking you to set up a gig for him last month?”
“Asking? No, the bastard was begging.”, Jaehyun sneered. “Said he didn’t even have enough for his next meal. Now, look at him. The lying fucker.”
Yoongi chuckled. “Don’t tell me you actually took pity on him.”
“He was pretty fucking convincing.” Jaehyung signaled for two shots, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray atop the bar. “I even introduced him to our underground regulars, told them to give him a chance.”
“Is he any good?”
Jaehyun snorted. “Raps like a bubblegum pop princess.”
Laughing, Yoongi glanced back at the man in question, doing a double-take when he saw Hyungwon making his way towards them. “Ah shit. He’s coming here.”
Jaehyun blanched. “Hide me, quick.”
Too late.
“Hey, guys!”
Hyungwon hopped on the empty stool beside Yoongi, ordering a whiskey on the rocks, before turning towards the two men. “How have you been doing, Jay-T?” He wiggled his eyebrows a little. “And you, Gloss?”
Yoongi threw up in his mouth a little. 
Jaehyun groaned. “I told you not to call me that if I’m not on stage.”
Hyungwon grinned. 
Yoongi perused his attire. A gaudy jacket with square prints made up of the letter F, leather jeans that didn’t look like it came from a discount store where Yoongi got his from, ugly spiky sneakers with red soles. Although the outfit was hideous, he did seem to appear loaded all of a sudden. Usually, Yoongi wasn’t one to pry, but this bastard made him uncomfortable so he guessed he could return the favour. 
“Weren’t you broke last month? Did you rob a bank or something?”
Hyungwon smirked. “Nothing that extreme. I just happened to get lucky overnight.”
“So you won a couple games of poker, then?”, Jaehyun questioned. 
“Nah. Not that kind of luck.”
Both Yoongi and Jaehyun stared at him expectantly. The smug fucker just laughed.
“I paid off all my back rent, plus two months advance. Got presents for my three girlfriends and made the first deposit on my Royal Enfield.”
“You wanna rub it in?” Jaehyun scowled, his middle finger saluting him as he picked up his shot and downed it. 
“Jaehyun helped set up your first gig.” Yoongi guilt-tripped. Normally he wouldn’t care about some random fucker’s get-rich-quick schemes but these were desperate circumstances. “You owe him.”
The bartender brought Hyungwon’s drink. He paid for it in cash, noticing for the first time that Yoongi was neither drinking nor smoking. “Ah, why don’t you just admit it out loud? You need money. Can’t even afford a drink, can you?”
Yoongi flushed, squirming in his seat. 
Hyungwon raised a brow, feigning surprise. “Aren’t you one of the best underground rappers out there? The next big star?”, he snickered. “Dreams not quite panning out?”
“Shut up, loser.”, Jaehyun snapped. “He’s got a big audition coming up in a few months. When he gets in, we’ll see who’s laughing.”
“With what company? SM, YG?”
Jaehyun grit his teeth to stop himself from strangling the man. “Bighit.”
“Never even heard of it.”
Yoongi cut in, not liking the two men talking about him as if he wasn’t there. “Not your concern. Just tell us how you made so much in a month.” 
Hyungwon took a small sip of the whiskey, swallowing leisurely. He eyed the two men down as if they didn’t quite hold up to whatever judgments he was imparting in his mind. “It doesn’t matter anyway, you both are a bunch of pussies. 
Jaehyun, infamous for his short temper, bristled. “What the fuck did you say, you cumstain?”
Yoongi held his arm, halting him before he stood up. 
If they had put up with the asshole for so long, he was going to damn well make sure they got something out of it. Besides, he NEEDED to know how to get some quick cash. Jaehyun wasn’t aware of the extent of Yoongi’s destitution. What little money he made doing odd jobs and occasional gigs went to school fees and rent, whatever was leftover, if anything, went towards his music. Pretty soon even his daily diet of ramen was gonna go out of his budget. 
“What do you mean a bunch of pussies? Are you selling your organs or something?”, Yoongi pressed.
Hyungwon snorted. “Close enough.”
Okay. Yoongi wasn’t that desperate. “What the fuck, dude!”
Jaehyun’s eyes went wide and sorrowful. A complete 180 from his ire two minutes ago. “Bro. You don’t have to do that, there are always other options. Selling your body isn’t the answer. Let me set up something for you, spare your kidneys, please—
“Shut up.” Hyungwon scowled. “I’m not selling my internal organs.”
Yoongi was confused. “What are you selling then?”
Hyungwon took an unconcerned sip. “My sperm.”
Yoongi was shocked into silence, while Jaehyun scrunched up his face like he’d just tasted the sourest lemon. “That’s equally as fucked up.”
“It’s not. It’s just cum.”, Hyungwon defended. “I’m getting paid handsomely to cum in a plastic cup. If that’s not the easiest money, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah and that cum is probably in some middle-aged woman’s oven, baking your fucking babies.”
Hyungwon shrugged, not in the least bit concerned. “They’re not mine. Biologically maybe, but I got nothing to do with them apart from that. I’m not an idiot, I read all the terms and clauses. Legally, I’m not gonna be a father until I fuck a baby into someone.”
Jaehyun shook his head, not convinced. “That’s still fucked up.”
“Whatever.” Hyungwon rolled his eyes, finishing his drink. “As I said, a bunch of fucking pussies.”
Yoongi was in deep thought as he listened to the two argue intently. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing out his opinion, “That’s gonna be on your head forever, always at the back of your mind. That you’ve got kids out there who don’t even know you exist.”
“They’re not my kids.”, Hyungwon reiterated, done with the conversation as he spotted a busty bottle blonde leaning across the bar seductively. “Now if you pussies are done, I gotta go dole out my thousand dollar cum for free tonight. Charity turns me on.”
Jaehyun watched him approach the blonde with a grimace. “What a sleazy asshole.”
“He is.”, Yoongi agreed. “But I hadn’t ever thought you could make so much selling semen.”
“I don’t think the government recognised sperm banks offer so much. He must be going to some back alley place.”
Yoongi hummed. “Must be.”
A month after the encounter with Hyungwon at the club, Yoongi had never felt more downtrodden in his life. If he had sinned in his previous life, karma was working overtime. His pity party had been going on for a week now. Right from when he’d been kicked out of his apartment for nonpayment of three months’ rent, to when he’d turned up at his usual hangout with the underground scene just to find out his upcoming gigs had been given to a new rapper he hadn’t even heard the name of, to his bank calling him for payment of pending bills, to here. In a line with the homeless for some free food at a soup kitchen and shelter. 
When he’d left home to chase his dreams, he’d never imagined that the road would be easy. He’d been prepared for ups and downs. But these weren’t just downs, these were never ending canyons that seemed to stretch on forever. He’d long since sold the music equipment he’d bought with his hard earned money to pay for school. With graduation so close, he hadn’t wanted to be expelled on top of being homeless. Jaehyun had offered to pay either his rent or tuition but Yoongi knew the guy was barely hanging on by a thread himself. He couldn’t ask for money from someone who barely had any to spare. 
He heaved a sigh when the line finally moved. The woman in front of him, who looked like she’d been on crack for decades, gave him a glare for the impatient noise. He wanted to flip her off. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday when the kind acquaintance who’s sofa he’d been crashing on had offered him a sandwich. Moreover, in about half an hour he had an interview with a pizzeria for a delivery guy position. He didn’t wanna pass out in front of his potential employers, his ticket out of homelessness. But if this line didn’t hurry up, he’d have to forego a meal, he didn’t want to be late. 
Which was exactly what happened. Twenty minutes and the line barely moved a few feet, the bored volunteers taking their time serving the cold soup and stale bread. 
After a few more minutes Yoongi cursed, his old wristwatch told him it was 3:56 pm. If he didn’t hightail it out of there he could kiss the job goodbye. 
Fuck it.
Breaking the line, he sprinted out. The pizzeria was just two blocks away, he could make it in time if he ran. He didn’t have the money to catch a taxi anyway. And if he jaywalked a little, he could even have a few minutes to spare to change into the button down in his backpack. It was just a delivery position, but for him everything depended on it. He wanted to make a good impression. 
And jaywalked he did. Right into the bumper of a speeding car. 
The first few seconds, the lights were knocked out of him. When he came to, he did a mental survey of his body as he lay there on the pavement, a crowd forming around him. He didn’t feel any wetness, no blood then. Not a lot of excruciating pain either. Could it be that his stupidity had been spared or was he in hell already?
The murmurs of the crowd registered. A kind elderly man’s voice spoke somewhere above him. “Young man, are you okay? The ambulance is on its way. We don’t wanna touch you in case anything’s broken.”
Ambulance.
A sudden electricity zinged through his body, and Yoongi sat up, flinching when his shoulder screamed. There’s the pain.
“No ambulance.”, he grit out. He couldn’t have medical bills on top of everything right now. 
As he reached up to push back the hair in his eyes, his watch gleamed. 4:09pm.
His shoulders sagged in defeat. 
That night he sat with Jaehyun in his former apartment, drinking cheap soju his friend had scrapped together for him somehow. He’d told himself he deserved it after the day he’d had. Hell, the week he’d had. But somewhere inside him was a feeling of self loathing for wasting precious seconds not actively seeking to remedy his situation and stop relying on others. 
Jaehyun had picked him up that afternoon when he’d refused any medical help. So now his arm was in a makeshift sling, painkillers and alcohol doing the job doctors were supposed to. He was pretty sure he’d torn a ligament or something. He didn’t know, he slept through all his biology classes. 
On top of it all, it was his birthday tomorrow. He was turning 18, a legal adult. Not that it mattered, he’d been on his own since 15. Why did his life feel like it was ending when it had barely just begun?
“What if I do it?”, he hypothesised out of the blue. “Its gonna be quick and I just need to forget afterwards.”
Jaehyun frowned. “What are you talking about, my man?”
“Sperm donation.”
Jaehyun choked on his drink. “Yoongi! No, what the fuck!”
“Why not?”, Yoongi asked, his mind working overtime to justify something he’d never thought he’d need to. It was a given. “Its not like anybody would know. Well apart from you and me.”
“That’s not the point. You wanna have kids so young?”
Yoongi scowled into his glass. “I’m not the one who’s going to be having them.”
“Look, man. I think its just the alcohol talking—
“I’m not drunk.”
“—but I’m not gonna stop you if you think this is the only way out. Just know that you’re gonna regret it later.”
“Later.”, Yoongi muttered softly. “How I wish it’d be later already.”
Later that night, he dialed Hyungwon.
~•~•~
“Jaehyun was right. I regretted it the second the hangover dissipated. That was one of the worst days of my life, not counting the string of shit shows preceding it. I rushed back to the place as soon as I could. I returned the money, I hadn’t even taken it out of the envelope. They said the sample couldn’t be returned to me, but they’ll make sure it was out of the system.”
“Well, they lied.”, Sejin deadpanned, eyes narrowed as if figuring out a thousand ways around this situation already. 
The rest of the boys, barring Seokjin, stared at Yoongi in awe. They sat around him on the living room couches, while he stood by the window, gazing at the Parisian skyline.
A far cry from the broken pavement, busted in windows and dilapidated buildings, the landscape of his late teens. 
The boys had known the rapper had struggled a lot before joining bighit, but for it to be laid out in so much detail. A new respect for him shone in their eyes. 
When Yoongi turned to face them, he was surprised to see no judgment on their faces, but he shouldn’t have been. 
“So,”, Jin straightened up, clapping his hands. “Let’s lay this down, shall we? Yoongi donated sperm to a shady place in 2011, but returned the money and demanded it not be used. Since this sperm bank was likely illegal in the first place, they didn’t care to actually go through with his request. Then it somehow ended up in the fertility clinic he got the mail from. Which leads us to now, according to the mail, someone is probably pregnant with Yoongi’s child.”
“No, don’t say that.”, Yoongi shook his head, refusing to come to the obvious conclusion. “Don’t even imply it. I don’t have a kid out there but I do want all traces of my sperm out of any kind of bank.”
Namjoon peered at Yoongi with sympathy. “Hyung, they’re saying you’re eligible for another donation. Your previous sample was used already. According to my guesstimates, there’s 50% chance the woman they put it in, is pregnant.”
“Fuck your guesstimates.”
Jeongguk scratched his head. “But it’s been years since Hyung was 18. How is it getting used just now?”
Sejin answered him, not glancing up from his phone. “Google says preserved sperm can be used for upto 20 years after donation.”
Yoongi cursed. 
Jeongguk was still confused, brows scrunched. “How? Won’t the baby be—“
“Don’t say it.”, Yoongi groaned.
“—20 years old then?”
A slap to the back of the youngest’s head sounded. Yoongi didn’t look to see who’d done the public service.
“What are you going to do, hyung?”, Jimin asked worriedly. “You could just let it be. Ignorance is bliss and all.”
Taehyung gasped in outrage. “How can you even suggest such a thing, Jimin? It’s his kid we’re talking about! He could be a parent!”
Yoongi growled. “Don’t say that.”
But Taehyung wasn’t finished with his sermon. “Even if there’s a minuscule chance of this actually being true, it’s his duty to care and provide for his offspring. Even if he or she is unwanted.”
Yoongi gazed at the darkening sky for divine intervention.
“Hold your horses, Taehyung-ah.”, Sejin stood up. “I messaged the magazine studio about a reschedule. The photoshoot will be before the concert tomorrow.”
No one said a word, everyone too preoccupied to be focusing on trifling things like photoshoots.
“As for this problem.”, Sejin continued, giving Yoongi a reassuring look. “Let me handle it. I’ll run a check on the place you mentioned and the fertility clinic. We can’t publicly sue anyone because one, donating to an illegal place would incriminate Yoongi as well and two, we can’t afford to have a word of this get out. But an anonymous tip to the police should do the job.”
“What about...”, Taehyung trailed off, not knowing how to mention the person who might be carrying Yoongi’s child. 
“I’ll pull some strings, find out who it is. First, we need to know if they’re pregnant or not. We’ll go from there.”
Yoongi sighed, nodding. He supposed he could only hope and pray now. 
~•~•~
“I can’t believe it. All your hopes and prayers came true. I’m so happy for you, noona.”
Taeyong gushed as he arranged his Staedtler coloured pencils on your desk, lining them on the upper edge of his sketch book perfectly. The illustrator was obsessive about having all his stationary in perfectly designated places before drawing. 
“It still feels like a dream. When the doctor confirmed it yesterday, I almost passed out.”, you grinned, lovingly flipping through your manuscripts to the scenes you wanted illustrated.
Your friend turned to face you with a pout, his ethereal face glowing from the sunlight streaming through your windows. “You should have taken me with you, noona. I don’t like that you went alone.”
“It’s alright, Ty.”, you addressed him with the nickname he loved so much. On cue, his cheeks flushed adorably. “I was fine, just jittery with excitement.”
Taeyong grinned, mischief in his eyes. His boyish youthfulness struck you and not for the first time you thought about basing a playful character on him. He was a college student, an art major. You hired him because you loved his whimsical sketching style and his watercolour realism. Also, because you didn’t have the money or the patience to get more “professional” artists. From your previous experience, they often turned their noses at any extra input from the author. Taeyong, on the other hand, loved to have you by his side as he set about bringing your characters to life. 
Most importantly, you hired him because he was kind of your muse, though you never let him know that. He teased you enough as it is.
“I will let you off the hook if you declare me his or her godfather.”
And you loved to tease him back.
“You’re 19 years old, you’re a kid yourself, Ty.” You giggled as he flew off into an outraged rant. 
“Noona, I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not a kid! You’re not that much older than me, I don’t know why you gotta put on motherly airs already. It’s been a day since you found out you’re pregnant. Pump the breaks. And don’t you dare try to experiment your parenting skills on me, I’m warning you—“
The ringing of your phone from your bedside table cut him off. You stretched to reach for it, still guffawing lightly at your friend. 
It was an unknown number. You picked it up. 
“Hello.”
A man’s voice answered you. “Hello, is this __?”
“Speaking.”
“Good afternoon, Miss.__. I’m Park Beomgyu from Tangent Publications. You might have heard of us. We are a graphic novel and manhwa publishing company, but we’re starting to venture into children’s fiction as well. Your work has caught our attention and we’d like to partner up with you for your next project. That is, if you’re interested.”
You stared wide eyed at Taeyong, who was starting to look worried at your dumbstruck expression. 
Work had never come to your doorstep. You’d always had to go chasing for it.
“Miss, are you there?”
“Y-yes! I’m here. And yes, I accept.”
The man chuckled. “Not so fast, Miss. Let’s discuss it first. If you’re free tomorrow morning, can I set up a meeting with our editor at 10 am?”
You spoke before he could properly finish. “Yeah, totally. I’m free. Just let me know the address.”
“I’ll message it. Looking forward to meeting you.”
“Yeah, same here.”, you said lamely as he hung up, your heart beating crazily in your chest.
“Who was it?”, Taeyong questioned, coming to sit beside you.
You launched yourself at him with a squeal.
~•~•~
You weren’t surprised when the address led you to Gangnam’s busiest area, office buildings and corporate suits abound. Though you did feel nervous in your light blue tea-length chequered dress. You didn’t own any suits or even pencil skirts, always feeling a little insecure with figure-hugging attire. 
You had done your research last night, having never heard of Tangent Publications before. Sprawled on your couch with your all-time favourite animation, Finding Nemo playing on your tv in the background, you had set up your laptop on a cushion. Not perching it on your stomach like you usually did, paranoid about harmful rays reaching your baby. 
You were surprised at the search results. As the man on the phone mentioned, they did only publish manhwas and even webtoons, but these were about idols. Their most widely sold comics being about BTS’ concept storylines. 
A little further digging revealed that the company was partially owned by Bighit entertainment and STIC investments, which also had stakes in the entertainment sector. 
What mattered to you was that they were successful, which looking at their net profit, they were and they had good editors, which your searches confirmed.
You were feeling extremely lucky and happy that they chose you for their next venture. At the right time too, the first installment in your new series was almost done. 
The friendly receptionist greeted you with a smile, immediately telling you the right floor when you gave her your name. You checked your appearance in the elevator mirror, making sure there was no food stuck in your teeth or wrinkle in your dress. 
You alighted on the eighth floor, where another lady at the front pointed you to the right door. You knocked at exactly 10 am, feeling satisfied at your timing. 
The heavy oak door opened, startling you. You thought someone would call you in. 
A tall man in glasses smiled at you, opening the door wide. You stepped in as he introduced himself. 
“Good morning,__-ssi. My name is Sejin.”
“Oh, good morning.” Not the editor google mentioned, but of course, there would be others in a big publishing company. “Are you one of the editors?”
Sejin closed the door, motioning you to the seat in front of his desk, answering you only when you both had sat down. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “Thank you so much for offering me this opportunity. I’m so flattered you chose me for your first foray into children’s literature.”
“Your work speaks for you, __-ssi. You’re incredibly talented.”, Sejin praised, leaning forward to set his elbows on the table and interlace his fingers. You interpreted the body language easily, he was all business. 
“We’d like to offer you a 5 book deal. A complete series if you will. You can negotiate for more if you feel like 5 won’t be enough. We will leave the story’s concept, art and every other creative decision to you, except of course the editing and research help you’d require. As well as get you the illustrator of your choice.”
“I already have an illustrator, I’d like to retain him.”, you interjected though everything he said left you reeling. Was this a daydream?
Sejin nodded. “No problem. As a starting point, we’d like to offer you 100 million won per book, negotiable down the line and not including sales profits.”
Your jaw dropped. “Is this a prank?” You turned in your chair, looking for cameras. “Am I being pranked? If so, I don’t appreciate it.”
Sejin gave you a calm smile. “No, ma’am. You are not being pranked. You heard me correctly. 100 million won per book, not including profits.”
You laughed. A disbelieving sound. “I’m sorry but either you don’t know how to do business or you’re really sure these books are gonna sell like hot cakes. And although I do think I’m really good at what I do, children’s literature is no fantasy or science fiction. It doesn’t have a fanbase readership to buoy every new installment that comes out. I have learned this the hard way.”
“You didn’t have us before. With the right marketing, anything can sell well.”, he simply replied, dismissing your concerns. 
“Okay.”, you took a deep breath, a sudden pressure on your shoulders, something nagging at your brain you were too preoccupied to figure out. “I’d like to see the contract first.”
“Sure.” Sejin produced a thick document from the desk drawer, flipping through it as he casually spoke. “You can take it home, mull it over, take your time coming to a decision. You’re pregnant, so I wouldn’t like to keep you here for long.”
You froze, blood leaving your face. 
“What did you say?”, you whispered.
Calmly, Sejin looked up from the papers, briefly glancing behind you before meeting your eyes. He didn’t repeat himself, showing absolutely no reaction.
Goosebumps raised on your arms, your voice fearful as you asked, “How did you know that I’m having a baby?”
“Because it’s mine.”
Jumping out of the chair in fright, you spun around. 
A stunningly attractive and familiar face was leaning against the closed door. You hadn’t even heard anyone come in. 
Glancing back at Sejin, who’d stood up as well, you slowly extricated yourself from the tangle of chair legs, moving to the middle of the room to have direct access to the door, but the newcomer was blocking your exit. 
Sejin approached him, whispering something you couldn’t hear. The man nodded, not breaking the critical gaze with which he regarded you. 
He let Sejin leave, locking the door behind him. 
“Is there a reason why I’m alone in a room with you? I will bring this whole building down with my screams if you don’t unlock that door and step away from it right now!”, you threatened.
He rolled his eyes. “The room’s soundproof.”
“You—”, you paused your scathing diatribe before it had even begun, cogs whirring, memory catching up. “You’re Min Yoongi.”
“Congratulations.”
Bewilderment swamped you. What the hell was going on? “What do you want from me?
“Absolutely nothing.” Yoongi ambled towards you with indolent grace, his eyes never leaving your befuddled ones. “You have something of mine, unwillingly given.”
“I have never even met you before. I don’t even like your music.”
Maybe that add-on wasn’t necessary, but you were feeling caged and on the defensive. 
Yoongi pursed his lips, his censorious gaze roving up and down your form. “Yeah, we don’t make music for the likes of you.”
You bristled. What the heck did that mean? You didn’t want to ask. “Thanks for sparing me. I still don’t see how I could possibly have anything of yours.”
“You’re pregnant and it’s mine.” 
“I’m pregnant, yes, but what’s yours?”
Yoongi scowled. “You’re gonna make me say it, huh?”
“Say what?”
“I’m the father. You’re carrying..”, he seemed reluctant to continue but did, scowl deepening. “..my child.”
You faked a laugh, amused but more concerned for the unhinged man in front of you. “No, I’m not. Maybe you have amnesia or something, this is the first time I’m seeing you in person. Usually, your tetchy self only greets me from magazines and subway ads.”
“Don’t try to sound smart.__. You don’t.”, he parried. “The thing with artificial insemination is that the lonely women who get it, often don’t know who’s baby they’re carrying.”
For the second time, you tensed with trepidation. They had entirely too personal information on you. It didn’t make any sense, none of what he was saying did. “Why do you know that?” 
You glared at him when he smirked.
“Ran a background check on you. Single, 27-year-old, children’s fiction writer, who’s been trying for pregnancy at different clinics for a year now. Bank balance is at an all-time low, the previous publisher isn’t picking up any of your new work. A string of failed relationships behind you because of your desire to have a child so early. Most of the time you hang around some college-aged kid who also does artwork for you, apart from that you don’t have many close friends. You stay at—”
“Shut up!”, you fumed, feeling really violated. The nerve of this man. He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered with his words. “You’re a celebrity, aren’t you? Don’t you guys scream privacy at every unsolicited photo, every personal detail revealed to the public? Your hypocrisy is alarming.”
“I will let you know one thing. Guilt is not an emotion I feel. The two situations aren’t even remotely comparable.” He stepped closer, his all-black attire striking against the white of the room. He looked like an irritated bat who’d been disturbed from his hibernation. 
“Don’t interrupt me.”, he commanded. “I had to know what type of person my sperm had been,” he coughed, gaze drifting away for a second. “..used on.”
“Your...?”, you trailed off, still not connecting the dots. What he was implying was preposterous, it couldn’t possibly be that.
It was exactly that. 
His voice was dispassionate when he explained, his countenance inscrutable, he was a master at masking every emotion. “A sample of my semen which was sent for regular health checkups was misplaced by a lab technician, accidentally labeled for donation to a sperm bank. I got to know about it when your fertility clinic sent me an email.”
You swallowed harshly. “They put it in me?”
Yoongi scrunched his nose. “Unfortunately.”
Did he have to sound so repulsed? You stepped back, only speaking when you’d somewhat processed your predicament. 
You gave him a sympathetic frown. Best to go with understanding, you didn’t want a confrontation. It was a delicate situation which, if you wanted to weasel out of, you’d need some tact. 
“That is unfortunate. I’m sure you must feel very frustrated. But I signed very hefty paperwork, before going in for treatment. And it said that the donor would have no legal right over the child, unless there’s a mutual agreement. I’m sorry but I have no obligation towards you and this is my child only.”
Yoongi’s gaze flickered to the hand you placed on your belly. He bit the inside of his cheek and you had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t give a flying fuck what your obligations were. 
“I’m going to make myself very clear ___. I don’t want your apology. The people responsible for this mess are paying for it, don’t worry. But if you think that I’m gonna roll over politely and let you scamper off with what’s mine, you have another thing coming.”
Your blood boiled and you hurled towards him. He didn’t show any surprise when you poked his hoodie-clad chest angrily.
Fuck tact. 
“I didn’t ask for this, you asshole. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire fucking life and no dickwipe with a huge ego just because he can spit some words is gonna fuck it up for me.”
Yoongi blinked. “You swear too much for a children’s author, no wonder your sales are tanking.”
“Shut the fuck up!” You dug the pointer finger deeper in his chest. 
He winced, clasping your wrist. “Okay, is this the right time to tell you that I was gonna suggest an abortion in exchange for the book deal?”
Panic swamped you, anger disappearing for a huge dose of terror. You clutched the fabric covering your tummy, a clawing need to run and protect your baby blanketing you. No one was going to take him or her away from you, not when you’d toiled your last penny and pinned your every hope on this baby. 
“Hey.” Suddenly Yoongi crowded you, gently grasping your shoulders. “Hey, breathe please.”
His words made you aware of your lungs screaming for air, short, staccato breaths making you lightheaded.
“Breathe in for me.”, he guided and you obeyed, looking into his worried eyes to ground yourself. “And breathe out. Again. Just like that. You’re alright.”
A hand at your back guided you to the chair you’d previously occupied and you flopped down on it gratefully. Yoongi hunched over you, roving his searching eyes over your face for more signs of panic. 
“I was joking. Partially.”, he bit his bottom lip, and strangely you found the action alluring. “I knew someone who worked so hard to reach this point, wouldn’t even entertain the notion.”
You glowered at him, annoyance dimming for surprise when you noted how close he was, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He didn’t seem to notice it though.
“It’s very highhanded of you to even think about such a thing. No amount of money can replace a life.”
His eyes softened, the first genuine smile from him peeking through. If you didn’t know how much of an asshole he was, you’d think he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. 
“You’d be surprised how many people would disagree.”
“I’m sure you would.”
He nodded, having no problem admitting it. “Can you blame me? I’m at the peak of my career right now, this has all the makings of my fall from grace. Besides, I didn’t want children, ever.”
“Didn’t?”, you questioned his use of past tense.
He shrugged, straightening up and letting you relax a little from his heady presence. “You gotta roll with the punches.”
You hadn’t unclasped your hand from your dress, the fabric covering your stomach wrinkling horribly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You dreaded it, but what he said wasn’t unexpected.
“I want shared custody.”
Never.
“No.” You brought down the hammer.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I’m not gonna be an absent father, __”
“That’s alright.”, you threw back, absolutely done with this conversation. “You don’t have to be any kind of father.”
Slowly, so gracefully you didn’t even notice it at first, Yoongi hunched back over you, now impossibly closer. You leaned back as far as possible but you could tell two things, that his cologne was expensive and it smelled delicious as fuck. 
“Then who’s gonna be the father?”, he asked quietly. You gulped.
“I- the- I mean no one. Single moms do just fine.” And because he started to move off of you and you were secretly a glutton for punishment, as well as for men who smelled mouth-watering, you added, “My future husband...”
You trailed off at the tick in his jaw.
He raised a brow. “How fucking cute. Too bad your domestic dreams are never coming true,__. What’s mine is mine. No other man is going to be the father of my child. Over my fucking dead body.”
You almost said, “then perish”, but he stood up, grasping your upper arm to help you up as well. He was incredibly gentle with you, a stark contrast to the verbal barbs he inflicted every time he opened his mouth.
For example:
“We’re also going to have to get a DNA test done.”
Before you could implode in his face, he interlocked your fingers with his, tenderly releasing your death grip on your dress. His other hand came up to push a strand of your hair behind your ear and hook your chin up.
You were blindsided. Rage and fluttering heart palpitations a weird combo. 
“Don’t lose a fuse over it now. I think you’ve got enough on your mind already. Go home, sleep it off, we’ll talk when you’re feeling more level headed.”
It really shouldn’t have surprised you that he’d turn this into some sort of reverse psychology “I’m only looking out for you” situation, making you the unreasonable one for feeling, very justifiably, enraged at his imperiousness. 
But you did really want to sleep it off, your newly changing body demanded you recharge from this draining encounter already. You sagged in his arms, letting him support you.
Yoongi smirked at your body’s compliance and you wanted to slap it off. 
“How did you get here? Did you drive?”
You shook your head. “Took the subway, then walked.”
Yoongi peered at the heels on your feet, irritation flaring on his face. “For someone so adamant on having a baby, you’re already putting your health on the line, huh?”
There he fucking goes again. 
“It’s none of your business.”, you said curtly.
He raised a challenging brow. “The baby you’re carrying is my business.”
His high handedness knew no bounds. 
He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call a driver to take you home.”
“No need.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
You grit your teeth, biting your tongue as he led you to the door. Just a few more seconds in his presence, then TO FREEDOM. 
He opened the door.
And three men tumbled inside on top of each other, the momentum making them fall on the floor in a heap. 
You winced.
“What the fuck?!”, Yoongi growled, his resting death scowl back with a vengeance. “Were you three fuckheads eavesdropping?”
The men immediately stood up, fixing their clothing. The one at the bottom of the heap winced when the one above him used him as support. 
You recognised all of them. His bandmates. Although you weren’t their fan, you were still a little starstruck. The cameras didn’t do their faces justice. You shrunk behind Yoongi, a little intimidated at so much testosterone surrounding you. Prime specimen of the male species too. If you weren’t already pregnant, your ovaries would be tingling with primordial urges. 
Then they all spoke at the same time. 
“You wouldn’t let us come with you!” Taehyung.
“It’s all Taehyung’s doing hyung, we just wanted to make sure he didn’t get in any trouble.” Jeongguk.
“We?! What the fuck, don’t include me in your schemes. You guys dragged me here!” Jimin. 
Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose and you prepared for another of his already infamous searing rebukes. You wanted popcorn to watch these three guys get thoroughly chastened. 
Taehyung just held up his hand, stopping the elder even before he began. “Calm down, hyung. We’re not here for you.”
Your jaw dropped. He shut Yoongi up with a hand. You wanted to worship at this guy’s shrine. 
Then he peered around Yoongi to look at you, giving you a shy smile. “Hello,__. I’m Taehyung.”
Wow, Yoongi and his bandmates were night and day. This guy reminded you of Winnie The Pooh while Yoongi was Cruella de Vil personified. 
When you didn’t say anything, Taehyung frowned with worry, turning accusing eyes at Yoongi.
“Hyung, you upset her.”
Yes, he did, Pooh.
Yoongi raised an unconcerned brow. “And? Why the fuck are you here again?”
“Would you stop with the swearing, there’s a child in the room.”, Taehyung reprimanded and your worshipful impulses grew. 
Jeongguk scowled.
Jimin nudged him. “Not you, idiot.”
Taehyung came towards you with a placating smile, likely sensing the damage Yoongi had done. “I can drop you home. There’s a really good gelato shop a block from here. If you want we can stop there. Ice cream fixes everything.”
You nodded immediately, letting your guardian angel lead you out of the room with a hand at your back. 
You didn’t spare Yoongi’s disbelieving face another look. 
A/n: Taehyung will make a more proper appearace in the next chapter. Do let me know what you thougt, feeback keeps me writing.
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v-hope · a year ago
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Honey Bear
Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader
Genre: Fluff, a lil bit of angst, College!AU, mentions of Pianist!Yoongi but that’s not the main plot
Word Count: 3.1k
Request: “Could I request a one shot Yoongi? Yoongi has been having a really hard time sleeping recently, and so has reader so they make an agreement to be each other’s teddy bears so they can go to bed. They’re pretty good friends, so it shouldn’t be awkward, but it is until they get used to it and one of them realizes they like the other (you can choose who) and claims that they can sleep again, but they’ve gotten worse because they’re used to sleeping by the other and it hurts to be this far away now??”
A/N: This request has been in my ask box for a while now, I’m so sorry. Anyway, I woke up today and felt like writing it, so I hope this is what you had in mind and that you enjoy 😅
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“Yeah?” you mindlessly answered your phone as you shoved a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“Yeah? That’s it?”
Yoongi’s voice made you instantly stop chewing and hurried to swallow, taking your phone away from your ear to check the ID number you hadn’t bothered to look at before — your heart racing when you confirmed it was indeed him, and then rushing to put the phone back against your ear.
“No ‘hey, Yoongs’ or that obnoxious pet name you always call me?”
At that, you could only roll your eyes.
“You love it when I call you ‘honey bear’ and you know it” you daringly squinted your eyes, knowing well enough he could not see you. “Don’t act like you hate the name you’ve so honorably earned, Min Yoongi”.
“Whatever,” he was quick to change the subject, stealing a proud smile from you, “can I come over?”
Just like that, your smile was gone. “Oh, um... I’m kind of busy right now with one of my projects, so—”
“I can hear you eating right now…”
“Can’t I eat while I work on something else?” your reply sounded way more defensive than you had intended.
“Okay” he acted like he believed you for a moment, “and what about that lame ass movie I can hear playing in the background?”
“Pitch Perfect is not lame, take that back”.
Hearing him chuckle on the other side of the line made your heart flutter, just like it did whenever you heard that sound that had grown to be your favourite.
“Look, can I come over or not? It’s pretty late and I have a presentation tomorrow, but I can’t sleep without you in my arms”.
You bit down on your lower lip; loving to hear such words coming out of your mouth yet hurting at the reminder of them not meaning what you wanted them to mean.
“I was thinking, um…” you uncomfortably shifted on your seat, “maybe you could get a stuffed animal to cuddle at night instead?”
You didn’t need to see his face to know there was currently a frown adorning it.
“A stuffed animal?”
“Mhm…” you hummed softly, “I uh, I got one already. A teddy bear. It’s pretty cute, actually”.
“You’re replacing me with a teddy bear? Seriously?” although he had tried to sound teasing, you could still hear some kind of hurt in his voice. “So this means you don’t want us to sleep together anymore?”
You stayed silent for a couple of seconds.
“I just… I’ve been doing better at falling asleep lately” you lied, “and I think it’s not good for us to be so dependent on each other, so…”
“Okay…” his voice alone let you know how taken aback he was by your statement, “if that’s what you want…”
“Yeah…” you whispered almost inaudibly. It was not what you wanted at all, but it was for the best.
“But, um… can I still come over tonight?” he wondered, causing your heart to skip a beat. “I don’t have a stuffed animal with me right now and I really need to sleep…”
Simple as that, that’s how you ended up at past one in the morning lying in bed with Yoongi’s chest moving up and down with every calm breath he took, and his arms wrapped tightly around you, like it was so usual by now.
Turning slightly around to look at his sleeping figure, only for his arms to tighten their hold on you out of instinct, you found yourself admiring every inch of that beautiful face that came along with the complex man you had so hopelessly fallen for.
You knew this was bound to happen when you agreed to be each other’s ‘teddy bears’, like the two of you so amusedly like to call it, yet you hadn’t been able to stop it on time; for you didn’t want it to end at all.
However, as you reached out with your hand to ever so tenderly caress from one of his closed eyes down to his cheek, and then to his slightly parted lips that you so painfully wanted to get a taste of, you thought about the decision you were making being the right one.
You were well aware that it would not only mean you would no longer be able to sleep peacefully like you did by his side, but it would also hurt like hell not to have this kind of intimacy with him. Nevertheless, it was for the best, for you didn’t think right then Yoongi would ever return the rather strong feelings you had so easily developed for him.
It was for the best, you mentally repeated over and over as you started to doze off with your forehead resting on his and your thumb still caressing his face.
Only it was not, and it was only a matter of a week for you to realise.
It was not only that you had stopped with your little sleeping sessions, but also how you had unconsciously started to drift away from him altogether; for you had realised then, that you were way more dependent on him than you had thought.
You didn’t know if it was delusional or hilarious, how it had all started one night when both of you were struggling with your classes and your messed up schedules, and you had just gone over to his to help him with one of the subjects; resulting instead on the two of you falling sound asleep on his couch throughout the entire night. It had been unintended, unexpected even, yet that was the night that started it all. The night that started not only the multiple nights of the two of you being each other’s cuddle buddy, but also everything else you did not before, not even as the close friends you were.
It was the daily calls, the visits during the day, having lunch together on campus whenever your schedules allowed you to, keeping him company while he practiced on his piano, the constant bickering, the way he would smile brightly whenever he saw you, and how he’d pretend to hate your so called ‘lame’ jokes yet wouldn’t be able to contain his smile every time.
It was the little things apart from holding each other at night, you noticed, the ones that made you fall harder and harder for him. So, you needed to stop that all at once if you didn’t want to get caught in some kind of irretrievable unrequited love.
Only it wasn’t so easy to let go of him.
Not when you were once again having trouble to sleep at night without him next to you. Not when the teddy bear you now slept with every night could not even compare to the warmth of his body against yours. Much less when you had found one of his cozy hoodies in your closet and now sacredly worn it to sleep every night, to at least try and trick your mind into believing it was him the one with you at night.
Yoongi, on the other hand, was having just as bad of a time as you were, if not worse. Because, for him, it was not only having trouble to sleep, but not knowing what he had done wrong for you to distance yourself from him all at once.
He missed the way you would cling to him like a koala during the nights. He missed having lunch with you instead of his classmates. He missed pretending to be too focused on practicing a song to even care about your presence, when truth was his gaze would fix on you every two seconds to see your reaction whenever he played a couple of notes. Hell, he even missed you calling him that cheesy pet name he always claimed to hate so much; because, after all, it was a reminder of him being the one who got to hold you close at night.
And he did not know how much longer he could go on without doing so.
It was actually by the end of the third week, when you were lying down on your bed as you turned from one side to another in a desperate attempt of finding a comfortable position to fall asleep, that he let you know he had enough.
You jolted up at the sound of an incoming text, which earned a frustrated groan from you before you reached for it under your pillow — squinting your eyes at the sudden source of brightness in the darkness of the room when you pointed the screen at your face.
Yoongs [00:14]: I’m outside, I’ll let myself in
Before you could even completely react to what you had just read, you heard a pair of keys jingling outside your apartment seconds before the door was shut close, letting you know he had indeed let himself inside your place with the keys you had once given him in case of emergency.
Sitting up straight, you stretched your body over the nightstand next to your bed to turn the dim light of the lamp on, right as the door flew open.
Without a word, Yoongi made his way to your bed, not even hesitating to throw the teddy bear lying by what used to be his side of it to the floor, and then slumping down on his stomach next to you — not even bothering to take his shoes off before his right arm rested over your chest and one of his legs was placed on top of your lower body. And although you didn’t know if he had done that to keep you from moving or just for the sake of feeling you closer, you felt your heart racing immediately at the familiar feel of his touch you had so badly been craving.
Staring at his already closed eyes with disbelief written all over your face, you decided to let out a small snort.
“You do know invading my house without my permission i—”
“I let you know beforehand” he cut you off as if nothing, earning a roll of eyes from you.
“I don’t think texting me ten seconds before you help yourself inside counts as ‘letting me know beforehand’, really”.
An unfazed shrug of shoulders was his answer, taking it one step further by mumbling: “Well, if I had called, you would’ve ignored me like you’ve been doing lately anyway, so what’s even the point”.
You felt your heart skip a beat at that, not being able to feel any other than guilt. After all, he was right. You were just kind of expecting he wouldn’t bring that up.
Trying to calm down your racing heartbeats, you let a sigh escape your mouth before you spoke again.
“Yoongi… we agreed not to do this anymore”.
“Yes, we agreed to stop sleeping together, not to stop seeing each other. I never agreed to this” he said as he opened his eyes and his frustrated stare focused on you, making you feel ever so little under it. “And anyway, it’s been hell! I haven’t been able to have one proper night of sleep this whole three weeks, so fuck it. I have an audition tomorrow and, believe it or not, all of this has been affecting my piano skills, so I need to sleep tonight”.
“But there’s other ways to do that...” you spoke softly, both being taken aback by his sudden outburst and scared to make him any more upset. “You have to find something that doesn’t involve me”.
As if on queue, his eyes fell down to your chest, and although for a good second there you thought he was blatantly staring at your boobs, you then realised he was looking at your choice of clothing. The one black, oversized piece of clothing you had been wearing for the past weeks. Certain piece of clothing he was well aware belonged to him.
“My hoodie, I see” Yoongi pointed out what both of you already knew — his piercing stare going back to your eyes. “That makes what you just said sound a little bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, gazing down as you helplessly tried for him not to notice how ashamed you were feeling right then; both for being caught in your own lie and wearing his hoodie.
However, although he noticed your sheepish reaction, he was not ready to let the topic go just yet.
Resting his weight on his elbows so he could take a better look at you, he went on: “You made me believe you could sleep without me yet had something of mine to help you sleep all along” his knitted eyebrows let you know how much he was not having it. “I had nothing of yours”.
“You want to wear one of my t-shirts then?” you couldn’t help your urge to taunt him in such serious circumstances, causing him to huff and let you know you had achieved your intentions when he shook his head in disbelief.
“No, I want you”.
That was as far as your little moment of fun had lasted, being replaced instead by the tension building up in the room, and a shiver running down your spine at how determinedly he had confessed such thing.
After a few seconds of nothing but what could’ve easily been mistaken for an intense staring contest, which he ended up winning when you looked down to try and collect yourself, you felt like you could finally reply.
“Yoongi” you sighed uneasily, “we were too dependent on each other, we still kind of are...”
“And so what?” he wondered, unconsciously placing his hand on your stomach as he looked for an answer.
Once again, you avoided his gaze; yet you were in too deep already to back down. So, still not locking your eyes with his, you murmured: “We were getting too close… my feelings were starting to get in the way…”
“Your f—” he cut off his own words as what you had meant finally hit.
You felt his whole body freeze for a second, yet his chocolate eyes moved rapidly as he searched in yours for some kind of heartless joke.
When he did not find any sign of a lie in your eyes at all, his previous reluctant expression was replaced by a beaming one — a gummy smile you hadn’t noticed you missed so much until then parting his lips in no time.
“You’re an idiot” he stated.
“Huh?”
Yoongi shook his head without bringing himself to erase his smile. “You made me go three whole weeks sleeping like shit and missing you like crazy just because you were too blind to see my obvious feelings for you?”
It was your turn to freeze, causing a light chuckle to escape his mouth.
“You…” you took in a shaky breath, “you feel the same way about me?”
He snorted. “Yeah? I thought it was obvious?”
“No?” your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Why would it be obvious?”
“Y/N,” he sighed out of frustration, firmly grabbing your chin for you to listen to him closely, “I literally called you pretty much every night because holding you in my arms is the only way I can fall asleep… you really think I’d do that with anyone?”
“I thought… I mean…” you struggled with your words because of how wild both your heart and mind were running right then, “I thought we had one of those ‘unspoken connections’ some people talk about and that was it”.
“It started off like that, sure” he agreed, “but it was bound to happen after a while, don’t you think?” one of his eyebrows was raised teasingly, managing to bring even more heat to your face. “I actually believed we were somehow together until you started ghosting me out of nowhere”.
Well, that sure had felt like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown right at your face.
“You’re telling me that we could’ve been together all this time if I had just talked to you?”
He shook his head in mocking amusement. “Pretty much, yeah”.
You closed your eyes as you threw your head back and let a loud whine escape your mouth under his visibly amused face — he was enjoying this way more than he should’ve.
“Like I said, an idiot”.
“I sure do feel like one” you snorted, being followed by a small laugh of his that stopped when you later stared at him with coy eyes. “But I’m your idiot now, right?”
The way you batted your eyelashes for him right then had him rolling his eyes in a second, regardless of the smirk that had already curved up his lips, which wasted no time in locking with yours for a brief moment — leaving you elated at the small taste you were not expecting to get of them.
“You are” he played along, ignoring the way your lips remained puckered up and your astonished eyes were wide as ever because of his sudden yet very pleasant action. “Which is why we’re getting rid of that stupid bear”.
Coming out of the trance he had left you in, you let a chuckle abandon your mouth when he annoyedly motioned with his head to the stuffed animal laying on your floor.
“Awe, is the Min Yoongi jealous of a little stuffed animal?” a taunting pout formed on your lips.
“Not jealous” he mumbled, “it just won’t be needed anymore”.
“Whatever you say, bubs” you teased him once again, much to his annoyance. “That plain teddy bear had nothing on my fluffy honey bear anyway”.
That was all it took for him to throw his head back as he groaned. “That is still the cheesiest, most cringy pet name you could have ever came up with”.
“Oh shush, you love it”.
His head fell to your chest, causing his words to come out muffled when he kept on complaining: “If the guys ever heard you call me that—”
“You love it” you stated again, earning a pinch to your hip from him. “You can’t convince me otherwise, honey bear”.
Although another whine escaped his lips, he found himself smiling all over again against the fabric of his own clothes that you were wearing. After all, having you call him that as you let him rest his face on your chest while you softly ran your hands through his hair, was enough to let him know everything was back to normal; if not even better than before.
Just the way he loved things to be, and how he hoped they would remain like for a good while.
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mikrokosmos713 · 2 years ago
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YOONGI BEING SO GOOFY & MISCHIEVOUS IS SO ADORABLE & IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. WHY ARE THESE DORKS SO LOVABLE 😭💜
Video cr: @gingerol95
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v-hope · 2 years ago
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His members upset you
Pairings: Kim Seokjin / Min Yoongi / Jung Hoseok / Kim Namjoon x Reader
Genre: Angst, fluff
Request: "Yoongi or all reaction to a member teasing you but it goes too far and makes you cry/upset. Thank youuu💕💕"
A/N: I just went with the hyung line because Yoongs is in it lol.
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Kim Seokjin
The second you saw smoke coming out of the kitchen and later took a look at the burnt pastries in the tray, you knew everyone at the dorms wouldn't let you live it down.
And it was actually bearable the first few days, but when that was all they would ever talk about when they saw you? It was fair to say your insecurities were coming to the surface, to the point you didn't really want to spend time with them anymore.
However, you couldn't not spend time with them, for not only were they Seokjin's best friends, but also his roommates.
That had been the case that evening.
“Noona, will you cook for us again?” Jeongguk teased you as expected.
“We'll keep an eye on it so you don't light our kitchen on fire again” Taehyung followed.
“Actually” your boyfriend drew their attention to him, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulder, “I am cooking for you guys tonight”.
The mischievous, lowkey evil smile that was soon to curve up Jin's lips, let you know there was something in his mind.
And when one hour later he called all of you to go eat dinner together, you almost choked at the abomination he had just served in his friends' plates.
They were kinda like brownies, but way more burnt than the ones you had made last week, and by their scrunched up noses right after taking a bite, you knew that them being burnt was far from being the worst part.
“I expect you to eat it all like the grateful people you are” his passive aggressive tone had them all nodding in a heartbeat. “And while you're at it, think twice about ever again teasing my girlfriend like that”.
With that said, he went to get something from the other side of the kitchen, coming back with a bowl of perfectly made brownies and placing it in front of you – later sitting by your side and planting a sweet kiss to your forehead.
Seeing all their faces right then, he didn't think any of them would mess with you anymore.
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Min Yoongi
“Who are you and what have you done to Y/N?” were the words that abandoned Jimin's mouth as soon as you entered the living room.
You had laughed at first, just sitting by his side as you waited for the rest to be ready, because you got that you did look different – after all, you were attending an award show with your boyfriend, so wasn't that the point? Both your make up and clothes were pretty different from what you'd wear on a daily basis.
However, as time passed and Jimin kept on pointing out how much you didn't look like yourself, you started feeling self conscious by the second.
And when Jimin went to see how the others were doing and Yoongi finally made it downstairs, he frowned at the thoughtful look on your face – he could read you like a book, and he knew there was something upsetting you.
“Everything alright?” he wondered, slumping down by your side on the couch and loosely wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders.
You shrugged, not really feeling like looking him in the eye. “You think maybe I should go change?” you weakly asked in what came out more like a whisper – his lower lip sticking out in confusion. “I look ridiculous, I'm not me”.
“Baby girl, you look gorgeous” Yoongi stated immediately, “why would you think–”
“Yoongi hyung, Hobi hyung is calling you” Jimin barged in, “I'll keep company to your girlfriend's girlier version”.
That's when Yoongi knew what was happening.
And he didn't like it at all, because he knew how insecure you could be and one look at you was all he needed to know you were already feeling like that.
“Jimin-ah” he called his attention, “I don't want another word about this coming out of your mouth” he warned him.
As a very dumbfounded Jimin opened his mouth to answer, Yoongi beat him to it.
“Now tell Y/N how beautiful she looks”.
“She looks breathtaking, actually” Jimin admitted in a second, making both you and your boyfriend questioningly raise one of your eyebrows. “We all know Y/N's not my type but now she looks really different, which makes her very pretty to my eyes”.
You stared blankly at Jimin for a few seconds while Yoongi's mouth fell agape – and when his eyes focused on you, only to notice your blushy cheeks, he felt his heart jump.
“Maybe you should change after all” he said, earning a roll of eyes from you, followed with a kiss to his pouty lips.
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Jung Hoseok
“Angel, what's wrong?” Hobi asked right after he had closed the door to his bedroom.
“Nothing” you quietly said, going to lie down on his bed and bury your face in his pillow.
That sure as hell wasn't nothing to him.
“Y/N” he tried again, lying down by your side before his hand started gently running up and down your back. “You've been quiet the whole day, and I could see how much you actually wanted to take part in the conversation”.
Damn him for knowing you so well.
“Please talk to me?” his lips pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder. You shook your head no, already feeling the tears start to roll down your cheeks. The second he noticed that, Hoseok felt his heart twinge in pain. “Baby, please. Please tell me what's wrong, let me hear your voice”.
“I don't understand why you'd want me to speak when apparently everyone wants me to shut up” you managed to choke out.
“What?” he whispered, trying to get you look at him.
You shook your head once again, only burying your face further in the pillow.
“Y/N…”
“I don't wanna talk, Hoseok”.
“What did they say?” he desperately asked, his gut telling him this somehow had to do with the moment he and Yoongi had left the house to go buy something to eat.
You sighed, taking a deep, shaky breath so you could speak. “They just mocked me” you finally looked at him, making him feel lightheaded at the sight of your tear stained face. “I know they didn't mean it in a bad way” you sniffled, allowing him to wipe your tears, “but they made me realise how annoying and loud I am, and–”
Hoseok breathed heavily, wrapping his arms tighter around you and kissing the tip of your nose.
“If you don't mind, I'd like not to speak for a while”.
Oh, but he did mind.
Because, you see, when it takes you a while to get the person you love to feel comfortable enough around you to be themselves, to be talkative and loud, even picking up on some of your antics, and someone else has the nerve to take that away from you, you don't just sit there idly.
Which is exactly why minutes later, when Hoseok kissed your temple and made sure you were fast asleep, he decided to stand up and call his members to an improvised intervention.
You can bet he was giving them a piece of his mind.
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Kim Namjoon
Being a foreigner, you knew your Korean was not the best. And that was totally fine, right? You were still learning.
You were actually pretty eager with the whole ‘learning a new language’ thing, especially when you had a guy like Namjoon by your side – being bilingual himself, he knew all your struggles, and did his best to help you through the whole process.
And it was exactly because you were excited about speaking Korean, that Joon knew something was wrong when you suddenly stopped speaking with your usual confidence. Even worse, you didn't take your risk with phrases or words you didn't know that well anymore, instead switching to your mother tongue, in hopes he'd get the drift.
At first he thought nothing of it, thinking you were just too tired... until he eavesdropped his members mocking your accent and usual mistakes. Now, they had called it cute, but the way they had said it still made it hurtful.
The fact that you had heard it too, since you were by his side, made his blood boil.
“I think it's a bit hypocritical of you guys to make fun of her Korean when not even you know how to speak it properly”.
The guys? They all looked like deers caught in the lights of an oncoming bus.
You could've sworn their souls left their bodies, making you actually feel bad for them.
“Nams” you called softly, grabbing his hand as you tried to get him to calm down. “It's okay”.
“No, Y/N, this is not okay” he shook his head, focusing his eyes back on his friends. “You do never mock someone who's smart enough to speak more than one language. She can literally drag all your asses in two languages, can you even say one perfect sentence in hers?”
They could not – their silence being enough to let both of you acknowledge that.
“That's what I thought” he pulled you towards him, placing his hand on your waist. “Now apologise to her”.
It was fair to say, Kim Namjoon owned your whole heart by then.
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mikrokosmos713 · 2 years ago
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Someone pointed out the ending pose of I’m Fine, as the BTS members face towards their leader, Namjoon faces left, towards his members, his brothers. As Taehyung sings the last line “I’m Fine” they are looking to their leader & their brother whom they trust & admire. Namjoon is facing them, telling them everything will be fine. 
It’s 5am & I’m fucking crying okay. I went to re-watch all of their live performances of I’m Fine & I can’t stop crying. 
Cr: Do Not Repost Gifs.
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ppersonna · a year ago
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i’ll float away - myg | m
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they show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end. what if I don’t float?  - float, the neighborhood.
↳ summary- years after the breakup, yoongi, a successful award-winning rapper with an unhealthy addiction, finds your wedding invite on Facebook.
↳ rating- explicit/18+
↳ word count- 12.6k
↳ pairing- yoongi x reader
↳ genre- idol!au, postbreakup!au, very heavy angst, smut, fluff
↳ warnings- discussions of drugs and death, penetrative sex, oral sex (m/f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, min yoongi being a mental health king
↳ a.n- hi everyone! some of you may recognize this fic.  this fic is my baby. i went through and edited it a little more and put all the chapters together to make it a one shot.  i think it flows better that way!  i hope you enjoy this.  this fic means so so so much to me and while it’s heavy, i hope you enjoy the ride it will take you on.  this fic got me back into writing and i will forever be thankful for that.
↳ this fic contains adult content, such as drug use, discussions of suicide, accidental overdose, discussions of drugs and addictions.  while this is not romanticized, or idolized, it is discussed.  please take care of yourself and proceed with caution.  18+ | discretion is advised.
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‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’
Min Yoongi felt numb.
Yoongi always felt numb, but this felt different, wrong.  Like he was falling and had no ledge to grip.
It felt as if the world had stopped on its axis, and at any moment, gravity would turn off and he would just float, float away to nothingness.
There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.
His fingers couldn’t move. Eyes were glued to his phone screen where he stared at the wedding invite on fucking Facebook.
He wasn’t even sure why he was seeing it, considering you had blocked him on nearly every form of social media. Likely it was from your family, someone that still kept him around despite a million reasons not to.
It felt like centuries before Yoongi noticed his heartbeat again. And when it did, it hurt. It threatened to break his ribs, tear through muscle and sinew, erupt from the skin to go, get away, run run run from this.
The numbness was gone. Now all he felt was the pain.
Yoongi felt like his every cell, every fiber, was burning. Perhaps, they were mourning.
Perhaps, they were dying.
Water dripped onto his phone and it took him a few stunted breaths to realize the water was coming from him, pouring from his eyes like open wounds.
The numb silence surrounding him left him, and now he was too alert, too aware.  The sounds hit him like a tidal wave.
His body was reacting years before his brain could catch up. He could hear himself crying, choking on his sobs, and at first, it didn’t register as his own voice wailing your name.
And then emotion erupted and smashed into his psyche, nothing standing in his way to protect him.
He was heartbroken.
He had felt nothing in years, refused to face the sorrowful demons lurking around him. It was easier to hide, to run. It terrified him to think of what would happen if he allowed himself a chance to feel again. He didn’t think he would make it out alive.
Alive.
Was he? Had he been living since that day?  He wasn’t sure. He breathed, ate, drank, fucked, but he wasn’t positive he was alive at all.
Living? Sure. Existing? Yes. But alive, he couldn’t determine.
Now that he could feel every ounce of pain, his body accepted it tenfold. His throat felt angry and raw. He must be screaming—he thought. His fingers pricked with pins and needles as if they hadn’t moved an inch since the day he last touched you, refusing to believe you were gone. His arms wrapped around his own chest as his body wracked with sobs.
Yoongi hadn’t cried in years.  He hadn’t allowed himself to cry, hadn’t given permission to his mind to even think about it. Surely, once he started, he was confident he would never stop.
His mind reeled. He was only half aware of where he was, what he was doing. It wasn’t until he felt his legs moving, feet shuffling to his nightstand, that he realized what was happening.
He didn’t want to feel. His mind, in an effort to protect, to avoid, was doing the only thing Yoongi knew to do.
He grabbed the bottle of Oxy’s, poured out a handful and contemplated swallowing them.
He didn’t think he wanted to die. To be frank, he felt he was already living in purgatory. He just wanted it to stop, to end, to retreat into nothingness and stop fucking crying.
Swallowing them wouldn’t do. He would fall asleep, and likely stop breathing. Too much. He couldn’t die. He knew in his mind he would feel too guilty to die. He didn’t want death; he merely wanted respite, sanctuary.
He could continue surviving as long as his nerves dulled and frayed, mind sticky and hazy. Exist. Don’t feel.
With skilled hands and tools, Yoongi crushed some pills into a fine powder and sat on his bed to arrange the drug into 4 lines.
He always felt better this way.
He would add a line of coke had his situation been different. It was his go-to, enough to keep himself present, to do what he needed to get through the day while still feeling dissolved.  Sing, dance, record, smile for the cameras, sign for the screaming girls, plaster on that boyish smile, repeat.
He just wanted to sleep.
His body worked on auto-pilot. Yoongi was sure he was still heaving with sobs.  He could feel his chest shaking, and his hands were unsteady.
You were getting married.
One bump. Inhale. Hold it. Don’t think. Breathe.
Someone else was holding you, smiling as bright as your future. Handsome. Kind. Family man.
Alive.
Second bump. Inhale. Don’t let it go. Breathe.
He imagined your hands on someone else’s body, your voice crying out in throes of passion in someone else’s ear. Whispering someone else’s name as you succumbed to your climax.
Third bump, then straight to the fourth without stopping. It burned as it passed through his nostrils, straight to his bloodstream.
Children, a home and a dog. Family dinner. Movies, laughter. All of them without him. An outsider staring in through the window, wondering what it could feel like to be within; wondered what it was like to get what he wanted.
Yoongi leaned back on his bed, feeling the slow, syrupy wave wash over him.
‘Please, take it away’ he pleaded silently as if the drug were his doctor, his therapist. It was, in many ways. ‘I’m not strong enough.’
His eyes drooped and felt like lead. He was tired. So tired. He could feel his sobs slow, before ending in quiet little whimpers and sighs. His breathing mellowed, and he felt his chest deflate for what felt like hours before his lungs pulled in harshly more air.
He ached but felt as if someone had pulled a blanket over him, over his tortured heart and crumbling brain. No more thinking, just sleep. Can’t feel, can’t cry, don’t want to face it.  
Sleep.
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Warmth.
Warmth surrounded him. It felt as if he were napping in the shady grass during summer. Warm and comforting.
You were there, in the meadow of his imagination. You were walking to him, a white dress and pretty flowers. Yoongi felt his heart tug at every artery in his body, as if begging him to stop, heel, resist, don’t go.
“Yoongi,” You called across the valley. Your dulcet voice rang through his head as if you spoke directly to his mind.
“Where are you?” You asked.
In a blink, you were in front of him. Your eyes were searching for him, even though he stood inches away.
He opened his mouth to beckon you, but no words came out. He was desperate to call out to you, embrace you. He strained to move his hand. He wanted to touch your cheek, feel real and alive again. His body would not respond.
“Yoongi, go!” You pleaded, eyes filling with tears, still seeking the male. “You can’t be here!”
His body stung, wincing at your words and aching at your distress.
“Yoongi, you need to wake up!”
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The warmth faded.
It felt as if something had ripped his comfort blanket from him, exposing his body to the harsh chill of reality.
He could sense he was in a bed, and the lights were bright, so bright. He tried to open his eyes and groaned as the halogen pierced through his skull.
“Yoongi?! Oh my god, he’s waking up!” Distressed voices were too loud all around him, and he felt pokes and prods and beeping of machines.
“Ow-… loud.” His voice was rough as if he hadn’t used it in days.
Yoongi felt more acutely aware of his body as he struggled to wake up. He was so nauseated, stomach churning ferociously, even though he hadn’t eaten since… how long? He wasn’t sure. He wanted to vomit.
He wanted to sleep.
He lifted his eyes again and peered through the harsh lighting. His best friend Hoseok stood over him, along with Namjoon, his manager, and Jimin, his assistant.
Hoseok had tears in his eyes, and the sight made Yoongi wince with grief. Hobi hadn’t cried since high school when he got cut from the dance team. Something awful must have happened.
“Hobi…,” he murmured, coughing to clear his throat. “What happened? What’s going on?”
Adjusted to the light, Yoongi finally glanced at his surroundings and took stock of his environment.
He was in a hospital; he was the patient. An IV was stuck in the crook of his arm, his skin ghostly pale, enormous bags of saline attached overhead. He felt faint.
How had this happened? Did he hurt himself at practice? Was there a car accident? Yoongi could remember driving home from the dance studio but felt foggy about anything else. He didn’t even know what day it was.
His friends blanched at Yoongi’s questioning, side-eying each other.  Who would have to be the one to tell him?
Hoseok’s eyes flooded with tears again as he looked at the rapper and spoke. “Yoongi… you-… you OD’d.”
The words hit him like an oncoming train.
Overdose.  
It had never happened to him before.
He nearly died.
He had, unfortunately, been in the game long enough to watch it happen to others. Some were lucky to make it out okay, most weren’t.
It all flashed painfully in his mind as it all flooded back.
You. Marriage. OxyContin.
Inhale. Don’t breathe. Don’t feel.
“Oh, my god.”
Hoseok let out a soft sob. “Jimin found you in your bed.  Thank god you keep Narcan.”
Yoongi turned to glance at the gentle, pink-haired boy who had already done so much for him. Yoongi felt wrecked, utterly guilty for putting him in such a situation. How many times had Yoongi had to force a needle into a friend’s thigh, watch as their pinpoint pupils widened and lungs gasped for air as their synapses released?  Too many. Each time kept him awake all night and petrified for months. He regularly kept the overdose reversal drug on him, in the studio, in his home.
“Jimin,” he croaked, his own eyes filling with tears. “I’m s-so fucking sorry.”
Jimin couldn’t hold back the tears in his eyes anymore. “It’s okay, Yoongs.” Jimin’s voice was quiet, trembling.
Yoongi felt the tears slip down his cheeks at his best friends and team. He had put so much on them. So much.
“You saved my life, Jimin.” Yoongi’s quiet voice made the assistant cry more.
“You’d do it for me.” He whispered through tears as he pushed forward and fell into Yoongi’s chest, holding the rapper close. “Let’s just… get better, y-yeah?”
The rapper’s heart seized up.
Better.
What was better?  Surely, Jimin meant rehab. Sobriety. Meetings and sponsors.
To Yoongi, it meant feeling. It screamed hurting. It oozed heartbreak.
When Yoongi had been introduced to drugs at the beginning of his rap career, it had been fun and sexy. They used coke at the hottest parties, weed at all the clubs, acid at the raves. Yoongi sampled each like a buffet, found out which made him feel lightheaded and loose, which made him dizzy, which made him ache.
The drugs led to the girls. So many women begging for him. The cloudy haze of his mind found it hard to resist, even knowing you were still his, still waiting for him as you and he promised with thin silver bands symbolizing your shared devotion and dedication.
Therefore, drugs led to regret.
He left you. Days before your wedding. He exposed all of his misdeeds, his infidelity, his vices. He had promised you after he was famous, rich, well known that he would come back to you, start a family with you.
Instead, he turned away and left.
It was easier to avoid it all and leave; he rationalized. Seeing your heartbreak had been his undoing.
After the breakup, Yoongi self-medicated daily. He stuck with opiates and cocaine, finding it just the right combination to get him pleasantly numb from the guilt and loss of you while giving him the euphoric high he needed as a rising star rapper.
He had tried to keep it to himself as long as he could. Hoseok knew about the recreational use but hadn’t realized the extent of the problem until he found Yoongi too high to function, slumped in a chair in the recording studio.
Hoseok told Namjoon, his manager, who interrogated Yoongi’s assistant, Jimin. None had known quite how far Yoongi had spiraled down. And none had an idea to pull him out.
Yoongi didn’t want to go to rehab. He didn’t want the forced positivity. Group therapy. Social workers discussing ‘goals’ and ‘treatment plans’. He would risk his reputation. He was now a top-earning Grammy-winning artist. He was fucking Agust D. He couldn’t be just another celebrity who ended up in rehab. It would ruin everything he built.  He could do it himself, fix his problems alone as he always had.
“Yeah.” Yoongi croaked to his assistant. “I’ll get better.” His smile was weak, and probably unconvincing to the three men who knew him best.
As Namjoon opened his mouth to speak, a knock sounded at the door of his room. Yoongi’s brow furrowed in confusion. He did not know who it could be, the three people he interacted with most already present. His accountant? Wouldn’t seem likely. A fan? Definitely unlikely, Jimin and Namjoon had likely taken major strides to ensure his privacy and ask the hospital to provide security. Was it… you? Yoongi stopped breathing at the thought.
Namjoon strode to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. Yoongi couldn’t see who the manager was whispering too, but moments later watched as the door swung open.
It wasn’t you. He felt relief. He wouldn’t have been able to look at you. But the guest was only slightly better.  
Your mother.
The matronly woman’s eyes were full of tears. Yoongi’s mother had been your mother’s best friend from childhood, to the very day Yoongi’s mother passed away from breast cancer. Yoongi had been 17, void of any motherly contact at such an impressionable age.
Your mother had stepped in, no doubt or worry in her mind about caring for the teen. He was already such good friends with you and she even encouraged and supported the underlying feelings the two had for each other. Yoongi became family and nearly a son-in-law.  
Even after the breakup, after breaking your heart and leaving you at the altar, your mom still kept in contact with him. She still reached out, celebrated his achievements and ensured he was well. She was the picture of forgiveness and compassion.
Yoongi crumbled at the sight of her, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, and sobbed as she moved forward quickly to embrace him.  Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin stepped outside to allow privacy and Yoongi clung to the only mother figure he had.
“I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry.” He bawled. 
He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. For hurting you? For avoiding her and the entire realm of anything concerning you? For almost killing himself? Maybe a mix of it all.  
His chest hurt, god it hurt so bad. It felt as if all ribs snapped from the crushing weight of his sorrow and guilt.  
Her hand smoothed his hair, mint-colored now, and held his face to her neck and cried with him.
“Shh,” She soothed. “It’s okay, little lion.”
Yoongi cried harder at the childhood nickname from his deceased mother that followed him to adulthood with the woman holding him.
Yoongi couldn’t stop crying. It wouldn’t end. It felt like an endless river, a torrential storm that never passed. He felt raw, ripped from the inside out.
“You’re alive, Yoongi.” She whispered and kissed his forehead. “You’re still here.  I love you.”
He wasn’t sure what he had done in a past life to deserve this kindness and unconditional love. Yoongi knew he didn’t deserve it, especially not from the mother of the girl he loved and broke completely. Not from the woman who he promised to make a grandmother, only to turn away and leave destruction in his wake.
“She’s getting married,” He choked out, the pain in his chest overwhelming him at his own words, so consuming he felt devoid of air. He gasped, struggling to breathe at all.  “T-that should be me.”
She sensed this and squeezed her eyes tighter, hugging the boy closer to her as sobs wrecked his tired, thin body.
“I know, love.” She whispered. “I know.”  She had no words to quell the heartbreak, just as she had many years ago when you laid across her lap, crying over the boy you loved completely.  Words wouldn’t fix the wounds.  She could only provide comfort; a band-aid on a bullet hole.
Yoongi allowed himself to sob, fully cry until he felt he might pass out. She held him, rocked him like a child, whispered words of comfort as his breathing eventually slowed and even out. His sobs turned to sniffles, and though he stopped crying, his eyes remained glassy and broken.
He had stopped crying; he noticed.  The tears had stopped flowing, the thick pleas escaping his throat dried. But he hadn’t stopped the hurt. It felt as though the hurt was a gaping, infected, open sore that would never heal. He could hide it from the world, cover it up for none to see, but he couldn’t ignore the sting or the pain with every breath.
Yoongi steeled himself to look into the eyes of his comforter, preparing himself for the look of pity or disappointment in her look.
He bit back another cry as he only found compassion, comfort and unconditional love in her gaze. He didn’t deserve her.
“Please, don’t tell her,” he pleaded. “I can’t…,” he gulped. “I can’t let her know about this.”
She grimaced.  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” She sighed, stroking her fingers through his mint colored hair. “She wanted to come to see you, too.”  Yoongi groaned and felt his heart clench. “I told her it wasn’t the best idea.” She murmured.  Yoongi was suddenly comforted and struck by how very much he did not deserve the grace of this woman.
“Fuck,” he sighed. “She thought I was clean. That was the last thing I told her.”
He recalled the last time you two had spoken when he promised to get clean. Instead, he had left and spent the next few years in a haze.
“I think you should talk to her,” she admitted. “Not now. Not until you feel better, but she was distraught at the news.”
The idea of seeing you again plowed through him like a freight train.
“Sure,” he whispered. He couldn’t understand why you’d be concerned. You had swung choice words at him as he left, insults he deserved. “Maybe.”
Yoongi spent more time with his mother figure, comforting him and whispering sweet revelations and promises to keep in touch before his doctor interrupted and encouraged Yoongi to get rest without distraction.
Soon enough, he was alone again. Stuck in the too bright, too white, sterile room he had landed himself in because of his grief.
His attention diverted between the discomfort of his withdrawal and the gaping wound of having to see you again.
Even if he made it out sober, withdrawal free, he wasn’t sure he would make it out for long.
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He tried to stay away, stay clean. He managed for a few weeks, immersing himself in writing an album and using his creative expression to medicate his wounds.  And it worked.
Until it didn’t.
It started with the marijuana. He couldn’t resist the way it helped soothe everything. Not just the pain, but the world around him. He could sink into his bed, write away his feelings and worries, and relish in the sensation of absolutely nothing.
That lasted for a few weeks. He’d try to smoke every day, but the darkness continued to creep up, wrapping around his throat like a vice.
He demanded his schedule to get busier, to get tighter, despite the warnings from Namjoon. He insisted on shows, award dinners, radio interviews, everything. If he was busy, he wouldn’t think about you. He could survive another day if you weren’t the first thing on his mind.
That’s when the cocaine started again.
It helped him muster the energy he needed to plaster on Agust D, rapper extraordinaire. He could sing, rap, dance, wink at the girls, sign the scantily clad flesh, throw back a shot of vodka and charm the press.
A few lines of coke every few hours pushed him forward, and towards his end.
But he was handling it. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he working, being successful, making money?  He was rich. He was famous. He was beloved.  He was shining.
Did it even fucking matter?
The shine made his shadow darker. It made his fall from grace longer, more painful.
It didn’t fucking matter.
Yoongi found himself at the corner of the park, the same one you two had grown up playing in. It was in the center of the neighborhood you two lived.  It was where he first chased you around the swings, laughed with you over comics at the picnic table, and fucked you for the first time in the parking lot in the backseat of his car.
He couldn’t stop the memories rolling over him like a boulder, crushing his lungs and threatening to snap his bones into nothing more than dust.
It stunted his breath. He felt as if pulling in a full intake of air was impossible.
He finally sucked up his faux courage and scheduled a time to meet you here at this park. The park that held such significance to both of you.
If he thought it was hard to breathe at the memories of the park, it was even worse when you walked towards him, and planted your feet in front of him.
There was nothing. Stillness. Absolute silence as you both felt as if the barometric pressure dropped around your vicinity. A vacuum. Nothing but you two, and so much hurt it was palpable.
“Y-You’re getting married-..” Yoongi broke the silence, voice dry and quiet. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He couldn’t look anywhere but his feet.  Didn’t want to see a ring around your finger that wasn’t from him.
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “Yeah, I am.”
Yoongi couldn’t look at you, couldn’t look you in your eyes.  It was too much. Too painful. Those eyes used to look at him with so much love, so much pride. He couldn’t bear to see what you held in them now.
“Great, that is great,” his voice was flat.  “Happy for you.  I hope it goes well.”
You cringed and turned your face up to stare at the mint-haired boy. The man of your dreams. The one who took so much and left you with nothing.
“Hoseok told me what happened.”
Yoongi closed his eyes, as if blocking out the words.  Fuck. Of course. You and Hoseok were still close; it was bound to happen.
His world now was so dark, so ugly. Yoongi couldn’t bear ruining you any more. You had been the iron rod and lamplight that led him through the darkness. You were his lifeline. Without you, all stability, all light, gone.
“Yeah,” was all he could muster, flickering up to look at you. You were staring back, eyes full of unshed tears.
Yoongi inhaled sharply, feeling each tear from your eyes as a knife to his chest. He hadn’t seen your eyes in so long. Staring at you was like leaving a hand on a burning stove.
“Are you still using?” You asked. Your words weren’t callous or cruel. You asked to gather information, to determine an opinion, not to pass judgement. Yoongi knew you meant no harm and found himself powerless to lie to you, anyway.
“Just…,” he let out a puff of air anxiously.  “Yeah, sort of. Weed and some coke, I guess. Nothing else.” He rubbed his neck anxiously.
Your lips set in a line, and your eyes flicked back down, sadness washing over your features. He could feel it rolling off of you in waves, lumps building in his throat.
“I miss you,” He admitted, words tumbling out before he could catch himself. “So fucking much.  I know this isn’t fair, and I know that I fucked up. I just miss you more than anything else in the world.”
At first, you laughed.  Yoongi felt as if someone had punched him.
Then you cried. Yoongi felt as if he had been shot, point blank in the chest.
“You’re right, Yoongi. It isn’t fair,” You walked closer to him, a mix of grief and anger. “You ruined my fucking life.”
You pushed against his shoulder. “You left me at the fucking altar.  You cheated on me.” The tears came faster down your cheeks. “Then, you almost fucking died. And my mom won’t stop crying. And I can’t stop crying, I fucking cry my eyes out because my wedding is in 2 months and I realize I will never get over you.”
Yoongi felt another shot, execution style, to the head. He couldn’t speak and watched your anger, accepting the jabs to his chest.
“I thought I was happy, Yoongi. I really thought I would get the wedding and life I wanted so badly, and you took it away from me. Twice!” You were sobbing, pushed even closer against him. “You almost fucking dying made me realize I don’t want that life with him.  I want it with you, you fucking inconsiderate asshole!”
Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to speak. Any elation he might have had about hearing your revelation was quickly quelled by the fire of your anguish.  
“And, now you’re still using and there’s no way I could even think about seeing you high. I love you so much and it fucking hurts me knowing you do that to yourself, accepting no sort of fucking help. You can’t do it all yourself, Min Yoongi, no matter how fucking great you think you are!”
He couldn’t reply. He had no words, nothing of value to add. You were right. He couldn’t find a single argument. Your body pressed so close to him and his body ached. It yearned to close the distance and feel your shape against his, slotting together so easily as you always had. It was magnetic. He could almost weep at how badly he needed to hold you, to feel you, to touch you again.
You watched him, unable to stop the flow of tears you promised you would never shed for him again. “Look at me.” You asked quietly.
Yoongi’s own red-rimmed eyes lifted to yours. He looked so broken. So raw. He was crying, years of built up sorrow pouring down his pale cheeks.
You closed the distance and pushed together your bodies, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your face against his neck. He smelled as he always did. Dove shampoo, Old Spice, laundry detergent. You knew Yoongi nearly down to his DNA.
You lifted your face level to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. He felt no heat in the kiss, no desire.
It felt final, resolute.
“Goodbye, Yoongi.” You whispered, pressing your forehead to his.
And you turned. And you left.
And another piece of Yoongi’s broken heart slipped away with you.
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Yoongi avoided any semblance of routine. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t feel anything but ache. He saw you in everything he did.
He tried to stay away from the drugs.  He sincerely did. He knew the risks. He knew he had nearly died.
But he could not bear to take the pain anymore. He could not continue fighting his very breath, forcing himself to breathe even though it hurt too much.
He was still standing on the outside of your world, so far away from you. It was so cold. He didn’t remember what warmth was. He didn’t think he deserved to remember, either.
It was easy to score a baggie of smack.  Yoongi had plenty of money and connections. But Yoongi had never done heroin intravenously. He had smoked it with his old dealer, the first man he ever had to revive with Narcan. IV use scared him. But it was what he could get a hold of, and what he needed.
Tie off. Fill up. Inject. Hold it. Breathe. Don’t feel. Release.
It washed over him quickly, the same fuzzy warmth that started at his toes and slithered up to his head. It felt headier than snorting it, less of a slow rush, more of an instant dive into warmth. Comfort.
The knot in his stomach loosened. Yoongi relaxed against his pillows and inhaled deeply before exhaling. He could breathe again.
He was so sleepy. So tired. He could sleep again without the torment of his dreams. He could live again without feeling his shattered heart. No hurt. Only comfort.
His only love.
He wasn’t sure how long he slept for. He didn’t dream. He couldn’t recall if five minutes had passed or five days. His head pounded him back to reality as he woke, and he realized it was dark outside his bedroom.
His phone was still on his bedside table. He checked it and groaned. It was the next day, next evening really. He had slept over 24 hours. He felt like shit.
The nausea and the chills came soon after. He felt as if he was burning. He couldn’t stop puking, even with minimal content in his stomach to begin with. Sips of water would come back up. His fever got worse. He became so drenched in sweat he stripped his clothes and sat in a bath, hoping to sweat the fever out. It chilled him to the bone.  He was so hot, and so fucking cold at the same time.
Yoongi cried as he held himself in the tub. He was alone. He was withdrawing. He wanted more, god he wanted to sleep and feel good again, didn’t want the sickness or the grief. It was so much. So fucking much.
His fingers danced along his phone, dialing your number out of habit, out of a need to hear you.
“Why are you calling me, Yoongi?” Your voice, flat, asked through the phone.
Yoongi croaked. His voice was hoarse due to disuse for over a day. “I fucked up, baby.”
Your heart clenched at the sound of the pet name. It had been so long. God, you had missed it so much. You missed him. You fucking hated him for it.
“Are you okay?” You asked, concern edging out the anger at his call.
“No,” he sighed, shivering and holding his knees to his chest. “I sh-shot up.”
He could not stop the whimper leaving his mouth. “I’m withdrawing. I w-want to keep using it, but I can’t!” Yoongi sobbed, openly weeping at the physical and emotional pain. “I’ll fucking die again. I don’t want to die. I love you.”
Tears poured down your face, heartbroken at his words and actions.
“Yoongi, where are you?”
Yoongi quickly replied. “I’m at home, in the bathtub. The front door is locked,” He whispered.  “I don’t think I can stand.”
“I still uh… have my key.” You admitted. Yoongi felt his heart clench, unsure of what to make of that idea.
Yoongi remained in the bathtub, holding himself and shivering violently when you arrived on scene. Your heart, already so broken, shattered at the impact of seeing the love of your life and the cause of your heartbreak, suffering.
“Fuck,” you whispered, quickly grabbing towels and kneeling by the tub at his side. “Yoongs, let’s get you dry, okay? Can you stand with me?” You grasped his clammy arms and allowed him to use your weight to balance himself on shaky legs.
You were so gentle. So compassionate. Yoongi felt his resolve breaking, wanting nothing but to wrap you up and never let you go again, tell your future husband to fuck off and allow the rapper to take his rightful place.
With your help, Yoongi stood and allowed himself to be dried. He normally would have felt the stirrings of arousal at such an intimate gesture, but all he felt now was unbridled affection and overpowering guilt.
You led Yoongi to his bed, settling him on the soft surface while you moved to dig through his drawers for clothes.
“Don’t make me go to the hospital,” he pleaded softly.  You stole a look back at him, at his words.  
“Yoongi, you need to see someone.  You’re not okay.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m… I’ll be okay.  I’ve gone through the worst of it already.” He rubbed at his sweaty forehead. “Will you just stay with me? I’m so cold.” He shivered.
You glanced at the man on the bed.  He was thin, so sickly thin.  While he had always maintained a lean physique, it looked as if the rapper hadn’t eaten in weeks.  His skin was sallow, paper white with bruises on his arms and legs that seemed onyx against his alabaster skin.
You weren’t sure you could argue with him, but he definitely appeared less ill for wear now that he was out of the bath and dry.
“Yoongs,…” you breathed, dropping the clothing in your hands. “Let me hold you.”  All reservations were held back. The anger dissipated. You couldn’t fight the need to help him, to nurture and hold him.
You moved to tear your thick jacket off your frame and toe out of your shoes before making towards the bed.  Together, you took hands and slid gently in between his sheets.  Yoongi’s body was trembling.  He didn’t know if it was from the withdrawal or his proximity to you.
You pulled the blanket up and over your bodies, pressing yours against his thin body. His skin was freezing, forcing out a shiver of your own.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, forehead leaning to press against yours. You didn’t reply, not sure you’d be able to form words.
You laid in a long, comfortable silence as your warm hands rubbed along Yoongi’s arms and back, willing the blood vessels in his body to expand and return his heat. His breathing was even now, but occasionally let out a groan.  He couldn’t tell if it was a groan of pain, or of pleasure. Your hands on his skin felt like heaven and hell, wrapped in one.  
Everything he loved and lost in one package.
Bringing him to life and sentencing him to death.
“I love you,” his voice was shaky, quiet.  
You nodded, tears now easily slipping past your cheeks. “I love you too.”  There was no use denying it. It was clear in the way you ran to him, in the way you held him tightly, as if he would disappear without you pressed up against him.
His lips found yours easily, as if magnetized.  The kiss was slow, gentle.  You felt your own tears slide down your cheeks and meet his own.  Yoongi couldn’t help them, couldn’t help the simultaneous ache and burn of your touch again.
His hand slid to rest on your hip, underneath your shirt, pulling you even closer.  The kiss deepened, tongues swirling in each other’s mouth, searching for each other in the only place you knew.
It didn’t take long for your shirt to come off, and Yoongi’s hands to slide down your hips to push at your jeans.  This wasn’t passionate or steamy.  It was broken, desperately seeking comfort in the solace of each other.  
Once your clothing laid strewn across the floor, Yoongi wrapped his thin arms around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he could.  He could feel your breasts press up against his chest and was positive you could feel his hardness pressing into your thighs.  
He didn’t want to fuck you.  He wanted to love you, to feel you again. He wanted to hide inside you. He wanted the security that being buried deep within you once gave him.  He wanted to feel alive, feel you. It seemed he could no longer separate the difference.
His tears wouldn’t stop flowing, neither would yours.  
There was no foreplay, no teasing or edging.  Yoongi laid you back against the pillows and kissed at your tears, eyes boring into yours to seek consent.  You nodded, opening up your legs as a response. You needed to feel him too, fill the ache inside of you that widened each day without him. Yoongi lined himself up and slid into the familiar, inviting heat.
You muffled a cry, thrilled at the feeling of him filling you completely.  You missed him.  You loved him.  You hated him. You never felt more complete.  The thought made you cry more, both in pleasure and in sorrow.  The man bringing you so much pleasure had wrought so much sadness and pain.
Yoongi kept a slow pace, uncaring about orgasms or getting off.  His desire to be within you was void of sensuality at this point.  Yoongi only wanted to be within you, to feel safe, to feel anything again.  He felt alive.  
Alive.
His thrusting moved quicker as your lips met and danced together, pouring out emotion through unspoken gestures. He didn’t have the words, couldn’t tell you every single thought ran through his brain.  He hoped he could convey them to you here, in each roll of his hips.
Yoongi felt his release quickly approaching, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what the moral code for cumming inside your ex fiancé was. He groaned as he kissed you.
“I love you, I’m close.  Where…?” He hoped you would understand his broken question.
You sighed with relief, feeling yours coming quickly too. While there had been no fire, no passion, the unadulterated emotion coursing between the two of you was enough to bring you close to completion.
“Inside me, please,” you sniffed, gasping at the tendrils of orgasm beginning to wrap around you.
Yoongi pressed his face against your neck, leaving salty kisses as he felt your channel pulse around him in completion, triggering his own end. He momentarily thrilled at his cum coating your cunt again, but the thought quickly left him.  Not that kind of night, nor that kind of fucking. Your moans were quiet, and he merely breathed a soft sigh into your neck.
It only took a moment for the reality of it all to hit you.
You had just fucked your ex. Who was in the middle of a withdrawal. While you were engaged to another man.  Who you had no desire to ever see again.
Fuck.
Yoongi pulled himself out of you, but pressed you close against him. Despite the agony in his head and his stomach from the pain of withdrawing, he felt secure again. He felt, for a minute, like he was finally on the inside of his dream, no longer looking in from the outside.
It was quickly wrenched away as you slithered out from under him, your tears quickening.
“I need to go,” you murmured. “I can’t believe I-we…,” you shook your head as you pulled your clothes on quickly. “I’m engaged.”
Yoongi winced and sat up as he watched you. “Yeah,” he felt his own tears slip down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“You’re always sorry, Yoongi,” you snapped. It felt like a dagger to his heart.
He was. Always so sorry. He rarely felt anything other than sorry.
You felt guilty at the look that crossed his features.  Fuck.  
“I’ll-… I’ll call Hoseok to come check on you. Okay?”
Yoongi remained solid and didn’t move, only tracked you with his eyes as you shoved yourself into your coat and cried as you put on your shoes.
“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you whispered. He wondered if it was the last time he’d see you.
The door closed; all that was left of his weak heart left with you.
Fuck.
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Sorry. Always so sorry.
Yoongi mulled that phrase through his mind since you left.
He was sure at this point sorrow and grief fueled his body alone.
He stopped caring, only subsisted on weed and whatever cans of food he found in his kitchen, or what Jimin would leave out for him.  He stopped caring. The minuscule amount of care inside him evaporated.
He felt like he was wandering an empty, dark pathway with no light. No end in sight.
He hid from the world, stopped all the press conferences, the interviews, the shows. He dropped out of a three-month tour of Europe, one that would have brought him significant money and status. He wasn’t sure he could even perform anymore, drugs or not.
The tabloids started running about him then, too. Tales of drug addiction, of his deep and dark secrets he tried to keep away. They spun false tales of illicit sex, arrests, gang connections, violence. His career was on the precipice of crumbling around him.
He shined, he burned bright and fast.  
Now, he was ashes on the ground.
He burned through his money, ate nothing but packaged ramen and beer, and cried himself to sleep at night.
His life was fucking pathetic.
Namjoon avoided him, only talking to him about business-related concerns and the press. Jimin remained steadfast and loyal, constantly checking in, but only looked at him with pity and sadness.  Hoseok refused to spend time with him, citing his concerns about watching his best friend die in front of him.
Losing everything eventually broke him.
He stayed up all night, every night, so drugged out his mind, and cried. He looked at old pictures of you and him, of his best friends, memories of a time much easier and happier.
He had lost all of it.
For something that was going to fucking kill him.
He let you get away. He lost his friends. All for trying to be rich and famous. And that was quickly slipping through his fingers too.
It was time to stop. It was time to stop fucking around.
It was time to end it all.
With one last jab of the needle, Yoongi slid away.
Far, far away.
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Rehab wasn’t as bad as Yoongi had painted it out to be.
There were group meetings, individual therapy, social workers and their treatment goals.  There was crying.  There was pain, so much it felt overwhelming. There were the withdrawals, likely the worst aspect of it all. The nausea, the fever, the stomach churning.  He wanted so badly to end it, just use one more time to stop being sick.
But there he found healing. He found each time he cried, a piece of his heart built back up, sturdier this time.  Each dry heave of sickness brought him one step closer to never feeling it again.
He found camaraderie.  He found wellness. He found his muse and his passion again.
He met new friends, Taehyung and Jungkook, both fellow opioid addicts. Through them, they formed a bond of sobriety and perseverance. They held each other accountable and held each other close through their subsequent relapses and returns to rehab.
Yoongi started working out, started putting weight back on in places it was meant to be: his cheeks, his arms and thighs, around his ribs. Jungkook was a personal trainer and guided him through personalized workouts and a nutrition plan. Yoongi found peace in each 60 minute cardio or weight-lifting session with his new best friend.  He realized he could pour out all his pent-up emotions through his sweat, his hard work.
Taehyung was an artist, a phenomenally gifted and talented man. Yoongi felt inspired by him. Yoongi wrote and wrote. He wrote songs, poems, stories, rap lines. He found that what he couldn’t release physically through his training, he could release through his gift of creative writing.
Yoongi released his album from rehab, with the help of Namjoon. He merely titled it ‘goodbye’. Taehyung’s creative muse helped him finish the lyrics to all his songs. Yoongi felt cathartic, releasing his last record, an ode to Agust D and a goodbye to the live fast, die young lifestyle he no longer wished to partake of.
Yoongi’s therapist, Kim Seokjin, likely made the biggest impact on him.  Yoongi learned about love, actual love. Loving yourself, respecting yourself, allowing yourself to feel the entire scope and range of emotions.
It was amid a therapy session with Jin that Yoongi decided he wanted to be a therapist.
Yoongi stepped out of the spotlight, out of the lifestyle of the rich and famous, and Yoongi returned to school in the fall for his Master’s in Social Work, with Jungkook at his side working towards a degree in exercise science and Taehyung working towards a Master’s in Fine Arts.  
Yoongi followed the Narcotics Anonymous guidelines to a T.  He admitted to himself his faults, his addiction.  He attended all meetings, called his sponsor regularly and in emergency situations where the need to use was so overpowering he felt he might give in.  He apologized to Hoseok, Namjoon, and Jimin. It was important to him to mend those relationships. He felt it was important to right the wrongs he brought upon them over the last five years.
He apologized to your mother.  He visited her weekly, checking in on her and surprising her with her favorite foods and flowers.  She bought 6 copies of his newest album, and together they wept over the lyrics, the intricately weaved storyline, and the stunning change the boy made.
She attended his graduation, too. She cried when Yoongi slid the tassel on his cap to the right, to the left. Yoongi felt a rush that drugs never compared to as he shook the hand of the president of his university and held that thick roll of paper.
He had accomplished something. He had done something; he had worked through incredible odds stacked against him and achieved it. No longer was Yoongi content with watching his life slip by in a haze.
Yoongi became a therapist, a social worker. The same people he thought would drag him down and ruin his career and reputation were the same people who lifted him out of his darkest place.
Min Yoongi, social worker.
He liked that better than Agust D, dead rapper, anyway.
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Yoongi was leaving work, a group home for adolescent men suffering from addiction, when he ran into you.
His horn-rimmed glasses framed his face and newly bleached blonde hair fell around his forehead.
His heart stuttered at the sight of you. It all came rushing back.
Pain. Sadness. Drugs. Addiction.
You smiled at him, surprised to see him looking so healthy.  You had heard all about his progress from your mother, eagerness and pride in her voice. But seeing him was as if walking into another dimension.  He looked fit, strong, healthy, intelligent. Frankly, he looked sexy.
“Hi,” you meekly croaked, a blush floating to your cheeks at the thought of finding your ex so dashing.
“Hi,” he replied, a soft smile filling his lips as he practiced his mindfulness to allow the self-sabotaging thoughts to work themselves out, replaced with hopeful and insightful ones.  Min Yoongi wasn’t afraid to feel anymore.
He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to ask you out. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to fuck you.
He felt mildly guilty about wanting to fuck another man’s wife, but shook the thought away. He would settle for talking. You may have been his ex fiancé, but you were also his childhood best friend. He craved to just settle back into that role, alone.
“Do-…” he faltered for a moment, then swallowed harshly and summoned courage. “Do you wanna grab a coffee with me? I was just headed to get one.” He pulled his backpack tighter to his back, unable to part with the bag that guided him through school and into a real-life job.
You nodded, finding it hard to speak. “Yes.”
Yoongi couldn’t stop staring at you. You looked so beautiful, so different while still so similar. Your hair was longer, healthier. Your clothes fit well to your body, accentuating your curves and sliding down elegantly and conservatively. Your eyes glistened with something. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was desire.
“I heard you’re a therapist now,” you murmured as you clutched the hot matcha latte in your hands, sitting across the tiny wood table from the ex-rapper.
Yoongi blushed and nodded. “Yeah, I am.” You didn’t miss the way his voice sounded so confident, so proud.  “I work at a group home for young men with substance abuse addictions.” He smiled, poised and content. The pride clear on his face had never been there when he was a musician.  
You couldn’t help the hard beat of your heart. “Wow,” you sighed. “That’s incredible, Yoongs. Mom said she’s proud of you,” you gulped.  “I’m proud of you, too.”
Yoongi took a moment to nod graciously, feeling a swell within him.  You were proud.  Of him.
“How’s errr…” he faltered, not remembering the name of your fiancé, or husband now, he supposed. “Your husband?”
You blanched at the words. “Oh, we, umm, didn’t get married. It didn’t work out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
You looked at the blonde boy, a smile reappearing on your features.
“It’s okay.  It was for the best,” you surmised. “Everything happens for a reason.”
Yoongi caught the look you sent and smiled. “You’re right.”
You two fell into easy conversation.  He told you all about his new best friends from rehab, Jungkook and Taehyung, and how seamlessly they fit into the friendships he already had.  He discussed stories of their escapades in graduate school and how Namjoon, his manager, quickly fell in love with Seokjin, his therapist, and how Yoongi had played matchmaker for the couple. He discussed concepts he learned in therapy, in school, and now in his practice as a therapist.
You were enthralled and captivated. You were so unabashedly in love with Yoongi and realized you had never stopped.
“Care if I walk you home?” He asked, standing suddenly as he finished his chai, holding out his hand.
Your heart leaped, and you nodded, chugging down the rest of your drink and slipping your hand into his.  He felt warm, strong. So much different from the pale, thin, clammy man you slept with years ago as he suffered through withdrawal.  
This wasn’t the Yoongi of your childhood, who wanted to be famous. This wasn’t the Yoongi who broke your heart, who wanted to hide away in his substances.  This was a culmination of all the Yoongi’s he had been and became. A strong, broken, healed, confident, loving man.
“I would love that.”
This was the Yoongi you were meant to be with. The man who you loved more than life itself.
Yoongi had courted you again since that initial coffee date. He sent flowers to your workplace, asked you out to lunch, kept things simple, proper and conservative.  Yoongi was in this now, for the long haul, and wanted to prove his devotion to you.
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While in rehab, they had forced Yoongi to face the fact that everything he did in relation to you was self-sabotaging, self-deprecating; a self-defeating prophecy. Facing that was his greatest struggle through his entire treatment process. He fought against it, even relapsed a few times because of it, and refused to accept that as a possibility.
Yoongi, with the help of Seokjin and his new friends, found that a world that didn’t revolve around you was finally a world he could live in, possibly thrive in. While you could exist in his world, making you his sole singular reason for breathing was dangerous. In that mindset, being without you meant dying.
Yoongi had finally lived for himself.  Not for the money, the fame., the status, the reputation, or even you.  Yoongi loved himself, as he was.  Broken and healing.  Addicted and sober.  Yoongi lived for Min Yoongi, alone.
When he started seeing you again, he reached out to Seokjin. He was terrified that diving back in to you would be his undoing. Seokjin, in all his wisdom, spoke words of comfort.
“She is not your entire world, Yoongi. You are your entire world,” he spoke gently through the phone. “She can be part of your world, an enormous part of your world, but she cannot be the entirety.  Life does not stop without her. Life is better with her, but does not end without her.”
Yoongi had been so obsessed with the idea of never having you, that he lost you.  He stopped loving himself, stopped caring about anything but you and the pain he caused you.
“You hurt her, yes. But, it appears she is ready to forgive you now. Are you ready to forgive yourself and allow yourself to be vulnerable?” He asked the blonde boy.
Yoongi rolled the idea through his mind. “Yeah, I think I am.”
“You are allowed to love and be loved by who you want, Yoongi, but do not make your entire existence rely on that. Loving yourself will extend into all other relationships. And do not allow yourself to be consumed with the mistakes you made a long time ago. Focus on what you can do today. Living in the past causes us the most pain.  Do not run from the pain, allow it to sit within you and give yourself permission to hurt, and then move through it.”
Yoongi allowed it all. Every emotion, every feeling. He cried.  Jesus, he cried so much.  He remembered that he used to think if he started crying he would never stop.
It was true, mostly.
But what Yoongi didn’t know was that within all the crying, all the pain, was a high unmatched by any substance that could be snorted or injected or smoked.  
Yoongi no longer hid himself from feeling the darkness, but he allowed himself to remain in it until the light came back. And it came back ten thousand times stronger.
Yoongi felt encouraged to continue seeing you and progressed in his career and treatment. He took you on dinner dates, movie dates, picnics and theme parks.  The only reservation was the lack of physical intimacy.  He would hold your hand, kiss you, rub your back, but he always left your apartment without lingering. He wanted you to get to know him again, all of him, before he took that step. He wanted to do this right.
It was at the most recent date where things changed. It was a relaxing picnic in the park, the two of you laid in the soft sun-warmed grass, your head resting on his chest.
Yoongi felt content at the feeling of holding you against him. He thought of the dream he had when he was overdosing, nearly dying. Being so warm in the valley and meadows of his imagination, brain synapses firing off as his body shut down. You had been there, pretty white dress, telling him to go back, to wake up.
He admitted this to you, spoke out what he had told no one before. While he knows Jimin, with the help of Narcan, saved you, his subconscious attributed his revival to you.
“I’m in love with you, Yoongi,” you admitted, gently and easily with tears clouding your eyes, as you both watched the clouds roll by.  
Neither of you had uttered those words since you held him in your arms and within you as he came down from his high so long ago.
Yoongi let the words soak over him. If he thought drugs had been like a warm blanket wrapping him up, this was like an absolute inferno of satisfaction and comfort.
The arm he wrapped around your shoulder pulled you close.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
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Yoongi pressed you up against his wall, lips crashing into yours as his hands desperately sought the skin of your waist.  
After the picnic, Yoongi suggested taking you back to his place for a movie. The charged energy in his car on the way there spoke volumes, knowing you wouldn’t be watching a movie by a long shot. A giddy grin lit up your features.
“God, I missed this,” he mumbled against your lips as his hands lifted your white sundress you bought specifically for the date with your ex-fiancé, now-boyfriend.
You moaned an affirmative reply, gasping as his hands rolled over your breasts, encased in creamy satin.
“I missed you,” he mumbled over your lips, hands tugging down the cups of your bra to rub against hardened nipples. “You’re so pretty, so warm.”
You couldn’t hold back any sound, gasping and keening at his touch. You were soaked, absolutely dripping, from his ministrations against your neck and breasts.  You missed him too. Your short-lived engagement had ended without a wedding, for the second time in your life, and you pined after the boy who stole and broke your heart completely.
Yoongi pulled away from you, using the separation to tug the dress up and over your head and to gaze at you. Your breasts were haphazardly pulled out of the bra, your panties becoming slick against your core. Yoongi was sure he had never felt a pleasure this strong in any high.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured.  Your cheeks heated, you couldn’t help it.  Hearing him speak so gently, so lovingly, after so long and after so much pain flooded your senses pleasantly. His words wrapped around you like cashmere, warming and smoothing every inch of you.
“I need you, Yoongi,” you whispered, hand reaching towards his erection tenting his jeans. “Want to please you.”
Yoongi hissed at the feeling of your hand against his length. He nearly came right then. He hadn’t slept with anyone since your last time, the most heartbreaking sex he had ever had. 
The feeling of you both crying as he entered you kept him turned off of it for over a year. And now you were back, pliant in his arms, and most of all, happy. He never wanted to see your anguished grief during sex again, or ever, if he could help it.
Your eyes looked so determined to please him, how could Yoongi say no?  He nodded and leaned forward to kiss you, before switching positions and resting his back against the wall.
You thrilled at the switch and quickly dropped to your knees.  Being on your knees in front of Yoongi was so familiar, so comforting and so incredibly hot. He looked so good.  You could tell he had been working out. Muscles shone through his skin, and detailed lines appeared at his obliques and hip flexors. He was mouth watering.  You missed him.
You loved him.
You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning the black denim and pushing down the zip and sliding the tight pants down and off his legs. He stood in his tight underwear and shirt, eyes so full of love and grace, staring down at you. He couldn’t believe it was happening again, and on such better terms.
Yoongi knew he had so much to make up to you, so much trust to build and apologies to promise you daily. Yoongi was grateful you were giving him that chance again.
Within moments, Yoongi’s boxers laid on the floor next to his jeans and his thick, heavy cock laid hot in your delicate hand.
Yoongi nearly cried at the sensation. Not only had it been long since any stimulation, it had been so long since he had been with you. The fact it was you again after all this time held the most significance to him.
Your eyes flicked between Yoongi’s thick and delicious cock, and his own face.  No longer was the selfish, uncaring man present from so long ago.  No longer was the drugged out, sorrowful, too thin addict in front of you.  
As you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock and swirled your tongue around the tip, you felt amazed that you now had the confident, lovely, compassionate Yoongi you were in love with.
Yoongi groaned out loud, uncaring if Jungkook or Taehyung heard from their respective rooms in his shared apartment.  
“Oh fuck, baby,” he whined, sucking air in through his teeth harshly. “So good.”
A smile danced upon your features as you stroked each vein and ridge of his cock with your tongue, flicking at the space he liked most.  The resulting gasp encouraged you more. With a quick, deep breath, you lowered your mouth and fully encompassed his length in the hollow of your throat.  
Yoongi nearly screamed, pleasure coursing through his veins as you allowed him to fuck your throat, a mix of gentle and rough. Your moans spurred him on and the visage of you with your lips wrapped around his cock and saliva streaming down the sides of your mouth nearly forced his undoing.
“Shit, C-Christ, baby,” he gasped. “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up… fuck.” He grabbed at your hair to gently pull your mouth away from him.
You pouted for a split second, already missing the luscious heat and weight of his hard cock gagging you. The pout was quickly wiped away as he wrapped his arms around your waist and carried you to the bed, unable to stop the giggles escaping.
“My turn then,” he grinned as he pushed you down to lie on the pillows. He quickly disrobed you of your bra, tits now fully on display.  He sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling over the bud, while his other hand pinched and tugged at the opposite. He remembered how much you enjoyed the pain of nipple stimulation. The thought made you wetter.
“Yoongi, holy shit,” you cried, dazzled at the pain in your nipples as he bit down gently at the one in his mouth. “Yes!”
Yoongi couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he switched hands and nipples, sucking the other harshly now and twisting at the wet and red nub he released.
“So good, princess,” he cooed. “So good for me.”
His mouth moved south, kisses burning up your skin as he trailed. He suckled at skin here and there, leaving delicious marks on your abdomen and thighs. You loved being marked by him, even more so now.
Yoongi groaned as he pulled your satin panties down your legs. Your cunt was slick and sticking to the fabric. His mouth watered at the sight.
“My sweet, you’re so wet for me. All from sucking my cock?” He murmured, teasing you by kissing at your thighs. “My dirty little princess.”
You mewled in response, aching to feel him where you needed it most.  Words escaped you, unable to speak except in moans and sighs.
Yoongi looked up at you, watched your cheeks turn pink, your nipples hard and moistened from his mouth, marks of him all down your body.   His cock throbbed, and he rubbed himself against the bed once to relieve some tension. He could hold himself back for now, but he knew as time passed he would be absolutely aching to plunge into your depths.
“I missed this cunt,” he pressed a kiss to the mound. “I’m sure you taste just as perfect as you always have.  I’m drooling for you, baby.”
“P-please, Yoongi, I need you,” you begged, squeezing your eyes closed in desperation. “So wet.”
“I love hearing you say please, little princess.  So sweet.” He kissed the outside of your lips, between your thighs. He loved teasing you, getting you absolutely fucked out before he even touched you.
“Please, oh god Yoongi! I need you so badly!” You were desperate now, nearly tearing up at the ache in your pussy.
“I can’t resist you when you put it like that,” he teased, before finally descending on your cunt. His mouth swirled around, sucking on your clit. You gasped your satisfaction at his touch, finally satisfying that burning desire.
Yoongi took his time, ensured pleasure at each twist and flick of his tongue.  He fucked into your cunt with his tongue, groaning at the sweet taste of your channel. His mouth suckled at your clit, transitioning between harsh sucks, and tongue flicks. As he flicked up against your bundle of nerves, he slid two fingers into your pussy, hissing at the tightness.
“So tight, my sweet,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.”  
You groaned in reply, nodding quickly.  Your fingers tugged at your nipples, relishing in the painful stimulation there and hot mouth coaxing an orgasm out of you.
“Close, Yoongi!” You gasped, unable to complete a sentence. “Right there! So close!”
His fingers thrusted faster, slipping a third to stretch you out. His tongue fired rapidly against your clit, suckling and swirling as he went.  
“Yes, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers, my love.” He encouraged, panting with excitement, to watch your undoing.
It only took Yoongi’s salacious words and skilled mouth and fingers toying a few more moments for the orgasm to completely take over.  It rolled over you like an avalanche. You screamed in delight, gasping as you felt your channel grip his fingers and milk them as if it were his cock.
Yoongi believed he was watching heaven, itself.  You looked divine, radiant. The feeling of your convulsions around his fingers made him whine, cock head oozing pre-cum and begging to be stuffed inside your heat.
“Fuck, my love. You came so good, you did so well for me,” he praised. “I love this cunt. I love watching you scream for me.”
Your breath was heavy, chest heaving with exertion. Every nerve, every synapse felt alive, alight with ecstasy.
“I’m going to fuck you, my sweet. I will fuck you and love you, all fucking night.” He sucked at the wetness on his fingers as he pulled out of you, before he kissed back up your body to your lips. The kiss was hot and messy, all teeth and no grace or finesse.
“Please, Yoongi, I need to feel your cock,” you gasped.
Yoongi could not delay any longer. His cock felt as if it might implode if it wasn’t buried into you. He pulled your legs up to his shoulders and gazed at your open slit.
“Mine,” he whispered as he lined himself up and allowed your pussy to swallow his length.
There were no words, no accurate description or way to describe how being inside you again felt. He couldn’t put into words the feeling of your slick heat hugging his cock close, your body heaving with ecstasy, your mouth crying his name in joy and pleasure. Yoongi would go through hell a million times over again to feel this again, to feel the physical and emotional love and pleasure he felt here.  
You were his, again.  He could work to make it right.
Yoongi started a slow pace, transfixed at the vision of you taking his cock so well. Your gasps and whines encouraged him.
“You were made for me,” he whispered as he quickened. “This tight little pussy was made for me, to love and to fuck and to ruin.” His words left his mouth without thought, acting on instinct alone. “You’re all mine. Only mine.”
You clutched at his arms, lifting your hips to meet his harsh thrusts. “Yes, baby, yours!” Your voice was five octaves higher. “All yours!”
Yoongi turned feral, his dominating internal narrative spewing from his lips. His cock thrusted into you quick and fast.
“That’s right, my love.  All fucking mine. Gonna fuck you so good every fucking day,” he promised through gritted teeth. His thumb ran down to the apex of your thighs and rubbed at your clit. “Gonna fuck all my cum into you, baby.  You’re mine.”
He continued his ministrations and your pussy felt like the definition of pleasure, itself.  Sparks felt as if they erupted from your coupling. You cried his name, gasping at his possessive promises.
“Gonna marry you, baby,” he intoned. “Gonna make you my wife.”  He felt his end coming close, your shattered cries and impossibly tight cunt bringing him soaring to the edge.
“Gonna fill you with my cum, gonna make you nice and fucking pregnant with our children,” the idea thrilled both of you. “My fucking perfect wife all swollen with our children.”
You agreed loudly. “Yes! Fuck me! Fuck, I want your baby!”
“That’s right, my little love.  Your greedy cunt takes me so well. I know you want all my cum, wanna be nice and full for me.”
The end was nigh, you could feel the burning in your stomach blaze higher and higher. You begged him for more, harder, deeper, which he was more than happy to oblige.
“Fuck, babe, I’m gonna cum, gonna coat your tight little pussy.”  
It only took a few more rough poundings before Yoongi crushed your lips together.  Your orgasm washed over you with the power of the sun.  Your eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets, gasping for air against his lips as your body convulsed.  You moaned loudly as your walls pulsed around him, as if begging him to give you more and more.
Yoongi closed his eyes and soaked in the feeling, biting your bottom lip as he spilled into you, moaning your name with each pulse. The feeling of emptying himself into you rivaled the highest emotion he had ever felt. It felt like the ultimate expression of his love, his devotion.
He held you close as you both breathed heavily, allowing the afterglow of intense orgasm to bathe you in serenity. He carefully slid his cock from within you, groaning at the sight of a slow drip of seed following out your lips.
“I love you,” he murmured, leaning to kiss your lips tenderly this time. “I meant what I said. I want you to be mine again, forever.”
Tears sparked at your eyes, feeling more full, more loved, more warm than you had ever felt before.
“I love you, Min Yoongi.”
Yoongi held you in his arms as he showered you, kissed your body in the warm water, dried you gently with soft towels, and pulled you close in his bed.  You melted against his body perfectly, two puzzle pieces who had been trying to force themselves into the wrong spot, finally coming together.
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‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’
Min Yoongi felt anxious.
His stomach flipped. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was faster.
A warm hand landed on his back as the ex-rapper stared at himself in the mirror.
“You did it,” a gentle voice spoke. Yoongi looked at the male through the mirror.
“Jimin,” he breathed, feeling a bit of his anxiousness float away with his friend’s words.
Jimin smiled, pink lips puffy and sweet as always.
Yoongi felt his heart clench slightly.  Jimin was the one who saved his life, who stuck a needle in his thigh and revived him when Yoongi was on the verge of death. He choked up at the idea that being here wouldn’t have been possible without the pink-haired boy.
He gazed at his trusted friend, no longer an assistant but a constant companion in the tight group of 7.  He wanted to tell Jimin so much, thank him for saving his life, for pressuring him to check into rehab, for feeding him when he was too drugged out to care.  
Yoongi didn’t need to say anything.  Jimin understood at the tears pricking Yoongi’s eyes.  Jimin’s cheeks turned pink, and he nodded slowly.
“You deserve this and more, Min Yoongi,” his voice was full of such care and sincerity. “I may have revived you, but you saved your own life. I just gave you the spark to continue it.”
Yoongi had started his adult life as an addict, as an award-winning musical artist with platinum albums and money, status, reputation.  Grief had consumed Yoongi, along with regret, sorrow, loneliness.
Yoongi fought back, pushed against the odds.
Yoongi was beginning a fresh life—as a recovering addict, a therapist, a best friend, a husband.
He smiled at himself in the mirror as his groomsmen surrounded him and joined in the moment of happiness. It was peaceful. It was joyful.  Yoongi smiled at each of the 6 men who affected him.  
Hoseok, from childhood who allowed him to face the ugly fact that he was killing himself.  Namjoon, his nurturing manager, who protected him at all costs and stood by his side through each dirt-dredging tabloid. Taehyung, his creative muse, his inspiration. Jungkook, his reason for health and wellness, his comedic relief.  Seokjin, the therapist that changed his life and course of his future. Jimin, the man who saved his life, who accepted and expected nothing in return except Yoongi’s sobriety and happiness.
Together, the men walked out of the dressing room and orderly into the reception hall.
Yoongi took his place at the altar, the very one he left you at, and inhaled a breath.
The piano played gently, a soft and light version of the traditional song. It sounded ethereal. Yoongi felt as if he was flying.
The large, oak double doors swung open and the parade of flower girls and bridesmaids walked down the aisle to stand opposite the groomsmen.
Yoongi stopped breathing as the music played louder, more intently, more beautiful.
You appeared.
You looked like an angel.
Your mother flanked you to give you away. You both looked more beautiful than he could have ever recalled.
Yoongi couldn’t stifle the tears that poured out of his eyes. He couldn’t pull his gaze from anywhere but you.
There you were. Walking towards him, as if a dream. The loveliest of dreams. Wrapped in silk and chiffon and lace, delicate pearls around your neck.
Yoongi would endure it all again, feel every ounce, to have this moment.
It was complete as you stood next to him, hands clasped in each other, tears sliding down each other’s face.
At the word of the pastor, Yoongi leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, sealing you as husband and wife, finally.  
Yoongi was on the inside of your orbit now, basking in the warmth he had desired before on the outside.  Yoongi simmered in the sweet, gentle glow of you and your encompassing love.  
Now, Yoongi knew what it felt like to be the one on the inside of your world, instead of looking in from the darkness. Yoongi knew it now, and knew, with all his heart, that he deserved to remember it for the rest of his long, healthy life.
Yoongi was living.
Yoongi was finally, truly,
alive.
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© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.
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writtenyoongi · 3 years ago
Text
begin again - 01
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part 2  part 3  part 4
pairing: taehyung x reader, yoongi x reader
genre: SingleParent!AU, angst, fluff, a sprinkle of smut
wordcount: 8.3k
description: things had been tough since your divorce from yoongi, you were still heartbroken over losing him whilst trying to balance being a single mother and providing the best you could for your daughter. when kim taehyung enters your life you start to learn how to love again, but the beautiful man is not without his own source of heartbreak.
March 5th, 2018
Your heart pooled with anxiety as you approached the car park. In the light drizzle of the afternoon you could scarcely make out his car but it was most certainly there. Through the haze of grey you could make out its curving outlines. The driver’s door opened. You watched as he stepped out, his figure shifting into focus as you walked closer.
“Mummy, walk faster!” the excited girl clutching onto your hand called out. Her palm was sticky with a congealed mixture of sweat and craft glue - you had helped her make Yoongi his father’s day card a few hours before. You were certain you’d gotten all the glue off the stubborn girl and you briefly worried what Yoongi would think.
“I’m going as fast as I can sweetheart,” you reassured. It was only a partial lie. In your other hand you were clutching a small pink suitcase with all of Mae’s overnight items, toothbrush, pajamas and her purple teddy bear, which had lovingly been named ‘purple bear’. Despite the bag’s small size, it weighed you down considerably. You were happy she was so excited to spend time with her father (it’d certainly been long enough since he’d managed to clear enough of his schedule to make room for his daughter) but another part of you was undeniably scared.
You could see Yoongi fully now. He was dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, the standard work outfit. His sleeves were rolled up and you noticed that his skin looked to be paler than usual. He never got enough sunlight as it was, but his schedule had been so crammed recently you wondered when was the last time he spent any length of time in the sun.
“Daddy!” Mae cried happily, oblivious to everything else. Her hand slithered out of yours as the speed of her feet increased, she rapidly glided across the slippery carpark and you had to bite your lip in order to not call out for her to be careful. She flew into her father’s arms. Suddenly, your hand felt rather empty. You looked down at your palm to see the glitter and glue that constantly seemed to emanate from Mae had wiped off on you. You smiled sadly, making no effort to clean it off.
“Hey there, tiger,” Yoongi said affectionately. He wrapped his arms around the small girl and lifted her up so she was perched on his forearm, her own arms wrapped around his shoulders for support. You approached cautiously, not wanting to spoil their moment. For all his faults, you took note of the way he looked at the young girl, love shining in his eyes so fondly and in that moment you knew he saw nothing else but his young daughter. Your mind flashed back to the times when he had stared at you with equal amounts of adoration.
“Look at you, all covered in paint, have you been busy?” he asked softly. Your heart sank. Stupidly you still worried about this kind of thing, that perhaps he'd think you were a lousy parent, or that you weren’t looking after Mae well enough. You questioned why you got so anxious over a measly bit of paint.
“Yeah,” Mae giggled, “I’ve been making you a present.”
“A present, for me?” he spoke in an hyperbolic tone, but you didn’t miss the way his eyes sparkled with delight.
“But I can’t give it to you until tomorrow, so you have to wait!” she commanded. Both you and Yoongi laughed and finally his eyes flashed towards you. You resisted the urge to cower away and drop your gaze.
“Say goodbye to your mum, and then we’ll get going, okay?” he lowered Mae back to the ground and she happily trotted over to you, oblivious to the tension that hung thick in the damp air. That was the way it should be, you thought.
“Goodbye sweetheart,” you whispered. You knelt down and she hugged you tightly. The warmth of her body shot a rush of affection straight at your heart and you found yourself reluctant to ever let go. During the hug, you locked eyes with Yoongi. Something passed over his face, something near indecipherable, but within the expression you could make out a sense of hurt. In a twisted way, that hurt reassured you. You felt comforted, knowing you weren’t the only one that carried the burden, you weren’t the only one that longed for things to have been different. And then, rather abruptly, Mae let go. A chill ran through your body.
“I’ll have her back home on Sunday evening, probably about seven.”
You nodded. You handed Mae her suitcase and watched as she wheeled in towards the car. Yoongi lifted it into the trunk and then slammed the door down with a resounding thud. The dear girl gave you a final wave before clambering into the backseat of his sports car, he fiddled around with her child seat, making sure she was properly buckled in properly and then shut the door on her. The tinted windows obscured your view.
“I’ll see you later, Y/N,” his voice was flat.
“Yeah, um, have a nice weekend!” you mustered up as much enthusiasm as possible.
And that was that. He disappeared into the driver’s seat, pulled out of his parking space and sped away (admittedly far faster than you would have liked, considering your baby girl was sat in the backseat)
Your heart felt as if it were made of lead.
//
You were startled by how huge your small apartment felt in the absence of Mae. It was only comprised of a living/kitchen area, two small bedrooms and a bathroom, that was all you had been able to afford after the break up. Yoongi tried to convince you to let him help out, get you somewhere more spacious, but you’d declined. You had been tempted, you wanted the best for Mae afterall, but the idea of accepting his pitying handouts made bile rise to your throat.
Besides, you found that the place rather suited the two of you. It was cosy, homely. You had happily spent many evenings snuggled up on the sofa with her, watching her favourite cartoons, or you’d sit down by the coffee table, crayons rolling loose all over the place as she worked on her latest masterpiece. The fridge was plastered with her artwork, the bold coloured paper she liked to draw on a welcomed assault to your eyes. Her creativity was a great source of joy for you, though it came as no surprise with a music composer for a father and a (struggling) writer for a mother.
You wandered through the flat like a lost sheep, briefly considering opening up your laptop and working on your latest commission. Writing an article for the local paper about littering felt greatly unappealing. You’d had to accept all sorts of commissions over the years to make ends meet whilst working on your novel on the side. In your bedside drawer lived a steadily growing collection of rejection letters. You tried not to let them deter you too much but day by day you felt yourself growing more and more discontent.
It was all easier when Mae was around. Just one pure, joyful smile from her could wash away all your stress, everything seemed more manageable. Now she was gone, and you were left alone to fester in your anxieties.
She’s only gone for the weekend, pull yourself together woman.
You told yourself that repeatedly, but the more you said it the worse you felt. For distraction, you cleaned up the leftover craft materials that were scattered about the living area. You thought back to earlier today, the look of determination in Mae’s eyes as she’d made the card for her dad. She’d been so meticulous, taking extra care to colour within the lines and using her very best handwriting to sign it. It had been somewhat of a bittersweet sight for you. Often, you couldn’t help but resent Yoongi somewhat, he barely made time for his own daughter, and yet to Mae he was nothing short of a hero. He could do no wrong. You understood he was busy, his career had skyrocketed in the last few years but god, you knew it certainly wouldn’t kill him to take the afternoon off to spend time with Mae.
Once the cleaning had been done you trapsed into your room, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The bed was a rather overbearing item in the room, taking up the majority of the floorspace. You had managed to squeeze in a bedside table and a small desk, thankfully the wardrobe was built in. As you looked around the measly room you were filled with an enormous sense of guilt. What sort of place was this to bring up a child? As Mae grew older you knew the apartment would only appear to shrink, the day was rapidly approaching that she would outgrow it. She should have space to run around, somewhere the bring her friends over so that they could play together. Why hadn’t you just accepted the help Yoongi had offered? It was normal, after all, to accept help from the father of your child after separation. Why did you have so much pride?
You thought of Yoongi. He’d changed. Of course, you both had. But still, thinking back to the boy you had met at university, the man that had stood before you today might as well have been alien. He had been so wonderfully alive when you first met him, all ripped jeans, loose t-shirts, cigarettes and spontaneity. You knew it was normal to grow up, if the two of you still acted as you did back in your university days it would be cause for worry. But you had never realised that adulthood for him meant losing that wondrous sense of vitality that you had adored.
You missed him.
Impulsively, you reached out and pulled the small jewelry box that had been sat atop the desk onto your lap. The layer of dust surrounding it became displaced and tickled your nose. Cautiously, as if afraid it may disintegrate in your hands, you lifted the lid and peered in at the contents. You rarely opened the thing, any jewelry you wore regularly was left lying about loose on your desk for ease of access. You felt a lump rise uncomfortably in your throat as the shimmering sapphire of your engagement ring caught the light of the loose bulb hanging overhead. It glimmered mockingly at you. You couldn’t help yourself from pulling it out and sliding it onto your finger.
It was beautiful and you hated it.
You despised you perfect it was, despised his good taste in picking it out. The slim band was light gold in hue, the sapphire, which was a brilliant shade of azure blue was emphasised by a frame of tiny diamonds. It felt bitterly cold against your skin.
With Yoongi, there’d been no cheating, no bitter arguments that ran into the early morning. Instead, there had been a dreadful, sickening silence as two broken people struggled to find any words to say to one another. It had all come apart slowly, your love had unravelled until there was nothing left to hold onto, and your lives, that had once been beautifully tangled together began to run parallel from each other.
He’d been kind in the divorce, helpful even, he paid you generous amounts of child support each month and loved Mae very much. But a distance existed between the two of you, a distance that dried out your mouth and choked the air from your lungs. The man you once loved so fully had become little more than a stranger in recent times. Just because the divorce hadn’t been a messy one, it didn’t mean that your heart didn’t break whenever he glanced in your direction. Mae had been three when it all happened, thankfully too young to really understand what was happening. But she’d recently turned six years old and had started to question why her mummy and daddy didn’t live together like everyone else’s did.
You slid the ring off your finger and snapped the lid of the box shut. You were being foolish.
//
The weekend rolled by slowly, you spent your time writing your commissions and working on your novel. Your only human contact had been Jisoo dragging you out for a coffee Sunday afternoon, which ultimately, you had been grateful for. You kept yourself distracted, trying not to wonder what Mae and Yoongi were getting up to on their weekend together. You knew he would spoil her,  she needed some spoiling every now and then, especially when money was so short on your end. You’d been to his large apartment in the city a few times before and  knew how exciting it must be for Mae to stay somewhere so luxurious compared to her usual home.
You had been pacing around nervously when the buzzer went at 7:05pm. You scrambled towards it and let them in, this was promptly followed by even more nerves as you waited for them to reach the flat. You opened the door when you heard footsteps and chattering in the hallway. Mae was clutching onto Yoongi’s large hand, her hair in two neat plaits tied off with baby pink ribbons. You were slightly taken aback looking at her, she wouldn’t be able to do her own hair so neatly and Yoongi certainly had no skill it the hairdressing department.
“Mummy!” She exclaimed brightly, running into your expectant arms. It was amazing, how your heart felt so soothed by her presence.
“Hi angel, did you have a good weekend?”
She removed herself from your arms and nodded eagerly. She was covered in paint, as usual, a detail that made you smile. Her need to create things really did seem to be insatiable.
“Sorry about the clothes, I did get her to wear an apron but she somehow got paint all over herself anyway,” he explained, a little more chirpy than he had been on Friday.
“Don’t worry about it, she’s a bit of a mucky one,” you cooed lovingly at Maewho stuck out her tongue cheekily. She walked back over to her father, wrapping her arms around his left leg.
“We had loads of fun, didn’t we kiddo?” he smiled, looking down at her.
“Yep,” she agreed enthusiastically, “ we went swimming and I beat daddy in a breath-holding contest and then he let me have pizza and ice cream for dinner and then the next day daddy’s nice friend Eungjung came over and she helped me with my painting,” she chuntered on speedily, eager to relay every detail of her weekend. You felt yourself freeze up at the last detail.
“Sweetheart, remember to breathe when you’re talking,” Yoongi chuckled, but you could hear the apprehension in his voice.
You couldn’t let your emotions show, not to Yoongi, and especially not to Mae. You smiled and knelt down so you were level with your daughter, “That all sounds lovely, I’m glad you had fun. Why don’t you go put your pyjamas on and then I can read you that special story you like so much.”
To little surprise, she puffed up her cheeks in protest and folded her chubby arms, “I’m not tired!”
“But I just washed your favourite pajamas, the pikachu ones! They’re all clean and waiting for you on your bed” you cried with false sadness. You saw her eyes light up and with no further protests she tottered away to her bedroom.
When she was gone, that familiar, heavy feeling settled into the room. You stood up and gazed nervously at Yoongi. He licked his lips awkwardly and shifted, unsure if he should simply say goodbye and leave or elaborate a little more on his new “friend”. He had every right to date, it’d been almost three years and you knew he’d been with other people, but he’d never introduced anyone to Mae before.
“So, a new friend?” you asked quietly.
“I...I’m sorry you had to find out so abruptly,” a blush rose against his cheeks.
“Yoongi, it’s ok, we’ve been separated for three years now.”
“I know, but,” he didn’t finish whatever it was that he wanted to say. Sometimes unspoken words held a more painful weight than spoken ones.
“I’m glad that Mae seems to like her,” you smiled, perhaps he could see past your facade, in fact, you’d been married to him, you knew he could see past it.
“I should have asked you, before I introduced them. I didn’t really plan it, she came over to drop something off and it just sort of happened, I’m sorry.” You wondered what his new woman looked like. His other girlfriends from after the breakup had bared little resemblance to you and you had begun to worry it was a conscious choice, that he couldn’t even stand to look at a woman with features similar to yours. You couldn’t remember him being so serious about someone since, well, you.
“Seriously, stop apologising.”
He nodded, “I’ve been thinking, maybe we should meet up for coffee sometime, without Mae, so we can talk about this a bit more, it’s just, I want us all to have a good relationship, I know it’s not...I know none of this is what we planned but I want to do what’s best for Mae.”
Your heart filled with dread at the thought of such a conversation, but you agreed, knowing it was for the best.
You often felt pathetic standing next to Yoongi. Compared to his expensive flat, the beautiful women he dated, you were just about scraping by.
“Great, we’ll discuss a time both of us can do later on. I’ll text you.”
Yoongi crept into Mae’s room to say goodbye and then politely said his farwells to you. You stood for awhile after he left, the sound of the door shutting echoing through your mind, it reaffirmed that you really had no clue who he was anymore.
Eventually you shook yourself out of it and went to find Mae.
The young girl was sat in her room, feet swinging off the bed joyfully as she looked through one of her old picture books. Once, when you had gently told her that she was old enough to read proper books now, she’d pulled a face and in an alarmingly mature manner, explained that she wanted to draw as well as the beautiful illustrations one day. It had made your heart swell with love.
Her room was painted a soft shade of lavender, you’d hung up fairy lights around the walls to make it as pleasant for her as possible. Of course, it had the usual clutter of toys and books that came with a child’s room, but you were quite proud of the results of your decorations.
“Are you feeling a little more sleepy now?” you said with a smile as you approached her. She shut the book and collapsed onto the bed in a dramatic manner, which made you giggle. You settled down on the bed and brought her into your arms.
“I didn’t brush my teeth yet,” she admitted.
“Did you show dad how good you are at brushing your teeth?”
She gave a toothy grin. She had yet to lose any of her baby teeth and they sparkled proudly in her mouth, “Daddy doesn’t let me go to his house a lot, but I like going there.”
“Hey,” you murmured, you brushed some of her hair away from her eyes, she had his eyes, everytime you peered into them you were astounded by their likeness, “Your dad loves you a lot, but he’s very busy.”
“Yeah. Daddy’s friend was really nice. She was pretty. Daddy had to work for awhile and she looked after me.”
You felt a touch of anger that he had gone away to work during his weekend with Mae, but you kept your mouth shut, “I’m glad you liked her,” you pressed a kiss against her cheek, “It’s already past your bedtime, if you be a good girl and brush your teeth now I’ll read you any story you want.”
It took little persuasion to get Mae to brush her teeth, she seemed to have an affinity for it.  She liked being grown up enough to do it without adult supervision, her toothbrush even came with an inbuilt timer so she could brush them for the correct two minutes. She clambered off of you and made her way to the bathroom.
You lay on your back for a moment, staring at the fairy lights that twinkle in their repetitive motions. You always made sure to turn them off before you went to bed yourself for fear of them overheating.
You couldn’t let yourself feeling anything, not now. Being a parent had tested your bravery in ways you never would have imagined. She was your entire world and as petty as it was, you felt threatened by the idea of Yoongi’s beautiful new girlfriend forming a close relationship with Mae. You would have to get over it, for both of your sakes. You could never let your foolish emotions possess you.
//
You had grown rather used to the questioning stares and whispered giggles that met you as you waited by the school gates to pick Mae up. The women, similar or slightly older than you in age, would stand in circles, reminding you painfully of those impenatrable high school cliques. Apparently, because your hand no longer bore a ring, you were deemed an outcast.
Of course, there were other parents who tended to just hang around by themselves too, sometimes you would make eye contact with them and give a small knowing smile, poking gentle fun at the group of women who acted ten years younger than their real age. It was a simple sign of solidarity.
They were chatting loudly as you waited for the school day to be over. You often felt somewhat underdressed in your jeans and shirts compared to their tailored trousers and heels but it didn’t really matter. It was a school pickup, not a fashion competition afterall.
It was a warm day, the sun finally starting to rear its head after a drawn out and harsh winter, you relished in the feeling of it against your bare forearms.  
A few metres away an unfamiliar man exited his car and sidled up to the gate, waiting somewhat awkwardly surrounded by a population entirely female. It wasn’t too often that you’d see fathers picking up their children, for some reason that role seemed to be designated to the mothers. It made sense, you knew a lot of these women had husbands who worked overseas.  A few whispers, reminiscent of schoolgirls, erupted from the inner circle as they caught sight of the man. He was handsome and looked rather young to have a child already of school age. You glanced his way for a second before dropping your gaze.  You were oblivious when he started making his way towards you.
“Hey,” his voice startled you, “Um, are you Y/N?” he looked at you with a dazzling curiosity. Something overwhelmingly sincere lingered in his eyes.
“Yes I am,” you confirmed, not missing the confused and perhaps slightly malicious stares aimed at you by some of the other women, “Sorry, do we know each other?”
He pushed his hair away from his face and smiled sheepishly, “I don’t expect you to remember me, we went to high school together, I was a year younger but we were both in the art club.”
You were hit with a rush of recognition, those honest looking eyes should have prompted you to remember that enthusiastic boy from all those years ago, “Taehyung. Kim Taehyung?”
“That’s right,” he grinned.
You laughed, having always carried a fondness for the younger boy your body filled with a warm sentimentality, “God, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you, it’s just you’ve changed a lot, appearance wise.”
“Don’t worry, it’s been so long after all and you know, I dyed my hair,” you smiled and took notice of his chestnut brown locks, there’d been a no hair dye rule at your high school and his hair had been its natural inky black.
You hardly thought about that little art room anymore, with its paint encrusted tables and earthy smell it had been somewhat of a safe haven. You and Taehyung often used to stay late, sometimes painting in silence and sometimes trying to cram as many words as you possibly could into the short time that you spent together.
“You know all the girls in the club used to have a crush on you, some of the boys too I think,” you teased gently, it was scary how quickly you could fall into a routine from so long ago. A faint blush emerged from his cheeks. It faded quickly. Maybe you only imagined it.
“Oh that’s not true! A lot of the boys used to like you though, do you remember Jungkook? He would mess up his painting intentionally to get you to help him.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief, “Don’t be a fibber Kim Taehyung,” he grinned and you felt a wall of nerves rise up from your stomach, you could still feel the glares of the other women on you and the last thing you wanted was for them to think you were on the prowl after your divorce, “So anyway,” you cleared your throat, “Are you here to pick someone up?”
You noticed his gold wedding band catch the sun, amber light splintered away from it prettily and you relaxed. He was married. Politely, he made no comment on your bare ring finger.
“I have twins, boy and girl, little terrors. We just moved into the area recently and this is their first day.”
“Oh how sweet, well, welcome to the area. I have a little girl, she’s been going here since she started school last year.”
“It seems they’re about the same age then!” he noted enthusiastically. His eyes darted around the play area and he shuffled a bit closer to you, leaning in as if he were about to reveal an earth-shattering secret, “you know, I was a little bit terrified when I first arrived, a lot of these women seemed a bit scary,” he gestured with his eyes to the central clique, “I felt like I was back in high school, I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I saw you.”
You peered down at his wedding ring once more. It was difficult for you to comprehend that your cute junior from high school was now married with children. You wondered what his wife was like, you could picture her being a very artistic woman, the kind who wore loose, flowing clothes and large hoop earrings. For some reason you couldn’t shake that image of her once you imagined it. Someone like that would certainly suit him.
“So how about it?” he continued. You looked at him questioningly, “I have to work late some nights but I’m gonna try and pick the kids up myself as often as I can. Would you want to be school gate buddies?”
You laughed heartily at his earnestness, “Sure, that would be nice.”
You meant the words too. You’d always enjoyed his company and would certainly be relieved to no longer stand alone. Briefly, you wondered about the mother of his children, why couldn’t she pick them up? Perhaps she worked late.
Soon the telltale sound of children’s voices could be heard as they came running down the playground to greet their parents. The slightly older kids would pace themselves, talking in groups of friends as they wove their way through the small crowd of people, meanwhile the younger ones, such as Mae, would run about carefree until they located whoever was picking them up. The sound of her voice calling out brought an instant smile to your lips. However, she wasn’t running alone today, she was holding hands with a boy who looked to be the same age. His small legs worked tremendously to try and keep up with her.
“Mummy!” she sounded even more excitable than usual, “this is my new friend,” she finally announced proudly once she reached you. You looked down at the boy she seemed to have taken captive and he gave you a carefree grin, one of his front teeth was missing and the gap was endearing.
“Well it looks like our kids have met already,” Taehyung commented. So this was one of Taehyung’s children. You could see the resemblance now that you looked again. The young boy appeared to be bursting with energy and you thought back to how Taehyung was in high school. Mae let go of the boy’s hand, much to his displeasure, and clung onto yours.
“Y/N, this is my son, Jisung,” Taehyung said, you waved at the boy who happily returned the wave, “and this little one is Jiyeon,” he motioned down to the fragile looking girl who had attached herself anxiously to Taehyung’s leg. You had heard with twins there always tended to be a more outgoing one. You knelt down to greet the girl properly. Her large eyes grew with shyness as you did so.
“Hello Jiyeon, it’s lovely to meet you,” you cooed softly, “that’s a very pretty flower,” you motioned at the pink clip in the front of her hair. This seemed to please her thoroughly and she offered you a joyful, albeit shy smile. When you stood backup you noticed Taehyung looking at you fondly. Awkwardly, you tucked your hair behind your ear and avoided his gaze.
“Mae, make sure to say hello to Taehyung, he’s my friend from high school.”
Your daughter gave Taehyung a loud hello and then went back to fussing over Jisung. She pulled something out of his hair, a twig perhaps.
“I should really get going now, but it was lovely to see you again, Taehyung.”
“Yeah, you too. Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
The children said their goodbyes and eventually you separated, his car was parked in the opposite direction to the way you walked. You listened intently as Mae told you all about her day, the classes she liked and the ones she hated, she seemed to have a strong aversion to maths and you laughed softly to yourself. She was a lot like you after all.
The two of you meandered down the footpath and for a fleeting moment you felt wonderfully content, weightless almost. In the sun’s warmth it was easy to delude yourself into thinking that everything was as it should be. Kim Taehyung was an old, but not unwelcome memory. You looked forward to seeing him again.
//
October 15th, 2011
There was something tranquil about the way that the moonlight flooded in from the sky to your bedroom, as if the moon itself had been created specifically for your own enjoyment. The mellow light was beautiful, even if it was polluted with the streetlights from below, it still shone softly, making the tiny world inside your bedroom come alive. You didn’t turn any of the lights on as you opened the bedroom door, both of you wanting to savour the beauty of that precious light.
As you stood in the doorway, you felt a pair of large hands creep their way around your waist. You giggled and sighed into the touch, letting your body fall backwards. You relished in the feeling of his hands on you, something about them felt intrinsically right, they seemed to fit every curve perfectly. He placed a kiss on your neck. It induced a shiver throughout your body.
“Finally, we got away,” Yoongi murmured, his lips still softly pressed against the exposed skin of your neck.
“You can’t say that! It was a beautiful wedding and they’re our friends. How would you have liked it if people had been wanting to get away at our wedding,” you felt his smile as his arms wrapped themselves entirely around you. He hugged you against him as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.
“I wouldn’t have cared. At our wedding I wanted to get away myself, so we could escape to that nice hotel room.”
“God, you horny bastard,” you scolded teasingly. You untangled yourself from him, feeling pleased when he let out a dissatisfied whine at the absence of your body. You made your way to the bed and flopped down onto it, your body landing in a panel of yellow light pouring in from outside. In the darkness you swore you could see the way his eyes filled with love, or perhaps you could feel it, deep inside of you. There was nothing more heavenly than being adored in equal amounts by the one you loved. Your stomach filled with butterflies as if you were on that first date oh so many years ago. Eventually he collapsed beside you. You lay silently for a while, enjoying the way your breathing was synchronised with his.
“Namjoon’s baby was really cute,” you thought aloud, “and his wife seemed nice.”
“I don’t know, it wouldn’t stop wailing during the ceremony.”
You reached out and hit him lightly on the arm, “Grumpy old man.”
He shifted, turning on his side so that he could wrap his legs around you like a koala. A rush of affection burned inside your heart. You loved things like this, you loved being the only one who ever saw this side of him, his clingy, needy side.
“I’m just joking, “ he whispered, “the baby was very cute,” he paused, as if choosing his words carefully, “Actually I’ve been thinking recently…”
You snuggled closer into him, “ What have you been thinking?”
“It’s weird isn’t it, how grown up we’ve all gotten. I mean, Hoseok used to smoke a shit tonne of weed in college and basically just lounged about all day, and now he’s got some fancy job in the city and is raking in loads of cash. And Namjoon, he was always a genius but that guy barely used to be able to look after himself and now he’s got like, this whole other person that he made and has to look after.”
You chuckled at the memory of your old university friends. They had certainly been a colourful bunch.
“You’re right, but I don’t think it has to be a bad thing, growing up. I feel like I’m ready.”
“Yeah, I mean we have our own place now, we don’t have to drive to the beach and fuck in the back of the car like we used to just to get some goddamn privacy.”
“I thought that was quite fun,” you said, pecking him softly on the lips.
“It’s cool though isn’t it, how Namjoon and his wife just made another human,” his voice was soft and dripping with gentleness, you wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, a little more deeply this time, “ we could totally make one of those,” he murmured against your lips. You pulled away and looked at him with uncertainty, wondering if you had misinterpreted his words.
“You mean you want to?”
“Only if you want to.”
“I want to. I just didn’t think you would...not yet.”
He grabbed your hips and pulled you on top of him, your legs either side of his body. You could feel the rapid beating of his heart against your own. As you looked down at him, his face bathed in golden light, you thought that he had never looked so beautiful. His hair, in its natural black state, shined like onyx and his face was graced with the beauty of love. He kissed you, one hand in your hair, stroking it gently as his tongue snuck its way into your mouth. You let him have his way, taking control of the kiss as you gladly drank up everything he had to give, “You’re my entire world Y/N,” he said when you pulled away, “I never thought anyone could make me so happy and I want to have lots of babies with you.”
“How many?” you giggled as he began to work his way down your neck, pressing chaste kissing and playful nips into your sensitive skin. You let out a contented sigh at the feeling.
“As many as you can pop out,” he whispered against your skin, “Twenty, twenty five? We can move to the countryside and start our own family farm business.”
“Shut up Min Yoongi,” you tried to scold, but his hand was snaking its way under your dress, shamelessly roaming up your inner thigh. You let out a breathy moan as he gently kneaded the soft flesh of your ass. Whenever you were close to him, you swore you felt your soul leave your body, it lingered somewhere up in the clouds, as if it couldn’t quite believe that this was real. He was really yours, forever. He teasingly hooked a finger around the elastic of your underwear and you felt a mild panic, realising how plain they were. You wished you had worn something prettier for him. Then again, it was dark, the underwear would likely be coming off soon and he had agreed to love you for better or for worse, your ugly underwear being the worse in this scenario.
“Why don’t we just start with one?”
“Sounds good to me,” you agreed.
//
March 8th, 2018
You reread the text message again. It was very formal, detached almost.
Would you be able to meet up next Saturday for coffee? I know a childminder that can watch over Mae for an hour or two while we talk. Let me know.
You smiled as you remembered the way Yoongi used to text you when you were together. When you had started living together you’d been working an office job out of town, the commute meant that you often had to leave by the brink of dawn every morning, before he had even stirred. As you had sat in the cramped cubicle, typing away at the computer your day would be lit up by the sound of your phone buzzing on the desk. There would be text after text professing how much he loved you and hated that you had to leave so early to work every morning, how he was going to make a great dinner on your return. Those texts got you through each day of that dead-end job. Though you had upgraded phones several times since then, the texts had been backed up onto each new phone. Once, a few months ago when Mae was at Yoongi’s and you’d had a few too many glasses of wine, you scrolled all the way back up to those messages. It had been a mistake. It only lead you to question what had gone so wrong? Why was it that your replies became so short and his texts became more and more sparse? Why hadn’t either of you tried to hold on?
You read back over the text again. Briefly, you questioned whether this ‘childminder’ was actually a childminder. If last weekend was anything to go by, he had no problem with pawning his child off to his new girlfriend whilst he went into the studio to work. It was none of your business really. Yoongi thought the world of Mae and he would never put her in the care of someone he didn’t trust entirely.
Saturday is fine for me, where and what time?
Eventually, you decided on that response, wanting to match the tone of his text, so you neither seemed too desperate nor too mean. Already, you were dreading it. What could he possibly have to say? He had always been someone who needed strong prompting before he spoke about his feelings, so why was it that now he was so willing? Perhaps his new girlfriend was having a positive influence on him. With your head spinning, you got up from the couch and crept quietly into Mae’s room.
“Are you still awake, sweetie?” you asked.
“Yeah,” she whispered back, “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise,” you reassured. In the dim light, you made your way over to the edge of the bed and sat down, “Did you have fun today, with your new friend?” You noticed how she visibly perked up.
“He’s really nice. Boys are stupid but he’s nice. We did finger painting together,” you nodded as you listened, of course, she had already told you about the finger painting multiple times but you would never dismiss something that she had enjoyed so thoroughly.
“What about his twin, Jiyeon?”
“She was very quiet,” Mae shrugged. You hoped that the girl would be able to come out of her shell soon, you knew Mae could be quite a boisterous personality and that must have been rather intimidating for someone so shy.
“Hey, on Saturday would it be okay if your dad’s friend looked after you again for an hour or two?”
“The pretty one?”
“Possibly. Would that be okay with you sweetheart?”
“Yeah, why?” she asked curiously. You fidgeted nervously, unsure of what to say. She was too young to understand the difficulties of your relationship with Yoongi and you didn’t want to say anything that would cause her upset.
“Your dad and I are going to talk for awhile,” you kept it vague, knowing she would follow with relentless questions.
“But I thought you and daddy were angry at each other,” she spoke so innocently that you felt your heart break a little. She wriggled out of her duvet and snuggled up next to you on the end of the bed. How was it that she always seemed to know when you needed a hug?
“No, we’re not angry at each other, we just have some things we need to talk about. Grown up things.”
“If you’re not angry at each other then will you start living together again?”
You wished you could provide her with the perfect happy family, but it just wasn’t feasible.
“I’m sorry baby, but no. We both love you so much but it’s better if we don’t live together again. When we lived together, we got upset with each other a lot and we don’t want that again.”
She looked up with big, doe eyes. God, she looked so much like him, “So it’s like time out?” The final blow to your heart. You felt it splinter into dust for the billionth time.
“Yeah,” you lied, feeling like an utter failure.
After a few more minutes of cuddling, she grew sleepy and you guides her back to the pillow. You gently tucked the blanket around her body so that she was enclosed in a layer of soft warmth. She looked so peaceful and innocent as she drifted off to sleep, like a lamb. The strong urge to protect her overwhelmed you once again. You had already lost too much, there were two people you would never be able to get back, you never ever wanted to have to add Mae to that list. You vowed to  always, always, put her needs and feelings above your own. It was the least you could do.
You fell asleep on the sofa that night. In the moments as you slipped in and out of consciousness, you thought of Yoongi, and oddly, Kim Taehyung. The memory of his warmth in that old art room lulled you into a peaceful sleep.
//
The next day brought about sunshine and your spirits were lifted as you saw Taehyung sidle his way up to you by the school gates. You no longer paid mind to the stares, instead you directed a smile at him. He was wearing loose black trousers and a striped shirt that hung from his strong frame effortlessly. His hair was pushed back from his face in a casual way that made it impossible to tell whether he had spent a long time styling it or simply tossed it back when it became a nuisance. He twirled his car keys around in his fingers as you spoke. It was all rather easy, being in his company, his presence was relaxing.
“So what is it that you do now?” you asked curiously, realising that you hadn’t got as far as sharing those sorts of details yesterday.
“I’m an art director,” he smiled, “how about you?”
“Wow, so the art club came in handy after all, that sounds good. I’m working as a freelance writer at the moment.”
“Sounds impressive.”
“I assure you, it’s not,” you laughed, “things have been a little...difficult at the moment. I’ve been thinking about taking up a proper job but the good thing about working from home is that I can always be around for Mae,” you abruptly stopped speaking, unsure of why you were telling all of this to someone you had reunited with just yesterday. It felt a little too intimate, he had no need to know about your financial difficulties.
“I understand. A few years ago I took a considerable amount of time off work and once I came back it was hard to recover, things were pretty tight for awhile. But I kept working at it and eventually I managed to get back on track,” his thoughtful words warmed you. He had always been like that, conscientious, doing whatever he could to make someone feel better. Being with him made you feel back in touch with your old self. Your happy self. You didn’t probe any further into the reasons for his time off work.
“Thank you, Taehyung,” he reached out and gave you a reassuring pat on the arm.
“By the way, Jisung wouldn’t stop talking about Mae last night,” he changed the subject much to your relief, “I was wondering if you’d like to arrange a playdate for Mae and the twins some time?”
“Mae seems to have taken a strong liking to him too, she’s quite an independant young thing so it’s good to see her so fond of someone her own age. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“That’s great,” he dropped his gaze, “To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about Jiyeon. She’s so shy and she relies on her brother so much, I’m really hoping that she and Mae could become friends, it would help her a lot.”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Are you you to free on saturday afternoon?”
You were about to agree when your heart dropped, you were meeting up with Yoongi on Saturday. He had replied to your text telling you to meet him at a small coffee shop you’d been to a few times at 2 o’clock. Your body was instilled with dread once more. You pushed those thoughts aside, “Actually, I’m busy on Saturday afternoon but why don’t we meet Friday after school? I could pack some snacks and we could all go to the park together, the weather has been so nice recently after all,” you knew how much Mae loved going to the park and it was a failsafe way to keep young children entertained.
“That sounds brilliant, Y/N,” and his face was so genuine you couldn’t help but smile. A look passed over him, a sudden flood of sadness, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, “I have to work late for the next few days so a babysitter will be picking the kids up for me, but I’ll definitely be here on Friday.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
You talked some more about high school, laughing over old stories and forgotten memories as you waited for the children to come out. You liked listening to him, even though you had lived the stories, you found yourself hanging onto every word as he recounted them. The way he spoke was enchanting.
When the children came out you said your goodbyes and split off in opposite directions. As you walked home, Mae’s hand interlocked with your own, the idea of Saturday afternoon no longer felt as daunting.
Still, one thing you couldn’t look past was Kim Taehyung’s wife. Who was she? It seemed rather odd that he hadn’t even hinted at her existence, despite the wedding ring placed firmly on his finger. Obviously, you hadn’t spoken about Yoongi either, but you didn't wear a wedding ring, it was rather self explanatory for you. Was she not very involved with her children’s lives, maybe she had gone away on a long work trip? You pondered these possibilities but none of them seemed quite right. The brief look of sadness that passed over Taehyung’s face flashed in your mind. That hadn’t meant anything significant had it?
You let go of the thoughts, telling yourself you were making a big deal out of nothing and instead, focused on the warm feeling of the sun on your back as you strolled home.
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cinnaminsvga · 3 years ago
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 🍑 social media au where y/n and yoongi are mutuals but they’re constantly at each other’s throats for reasons unknown (aka emotional constipation) 🍑
A/N: Hello :) So, do you want to see Part 25 today? If this post reaches 500 notes by 6PM PST, I’ll double upload today and post the next part at 7:30PM PST. Think you can do it? HA HA HA :)
Hints: Yoongi still has three more tracks to go!! Also... whose phone is playing the music?
prev // part 24 of ? // next
[updates every 12PM PST]
2K notes · View notes
glassbangtan · 3 years ago
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Forget-Me-Not {Min Yoongi}
Words: 5564
    Notes: This was inspired mildly by Jimin's song, but not really. But kind of. I'll probably end up writing one entirely dedicated to Jimin's song with Jimin, but until then, here's the fake version with Yoongi.
   Summary: You and Yoongi are in a private relationship. So private, that Yoongi has to deny it. What happens when you can't take the denying of such strong feelings any more?
   Warning: Fluff + Angst.
   Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader.
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   That's Jung Hoseok's girlfriend.
  That's Park Jimin's girlfriend.
  They got praise.
  That was all you ever noticed when you were out with them. Fans would stop them, ask for pictures, ask about Jimin and Hoseok and have a real conversation with them about love lives they quite honestly didn't feel like talking about.
   You watched it happen on an almost daily basis. As you paraded around Bangtan Sonyeondan with a camera in your hand, stopping each boy for individual interviews every now and then, you heard it all. You heard them complain, heard them laugh, heard them get angry, heard them get overjoyed at the simplest of things. It was Jin with his food, Jimin whenever Jungkook did something even slightly wrong, Jungkook with Overwatch.
   It was them with their girlfriends. Laughing, enjoying their time together that was so limited yet always so treasured.
   Not many people believed you when you told them you were Min Yoongi's girlfriend. But why would they? You rarely ever spoke about it. People asked you who you were and you always replied with your name – never your relationship status.
   But then there was the odd time when people would ask you why you were with Yoongi all the time. Why Yoongi looked at you like you were sun. Why you were so special to him, but the truth never filtered through their brain. Why would it? You weren't an idol – Yoongi wasn't even allowed to publicly talk about your relationship without getting a slap on the wrist from his management.
   You had liked it for the first few months. The privacy. The intimacy that the odd moment between you and Yoongi would be, because they were so rare. You two weren't allowed to be seen giving affection when there were cameras around, though that barely ever bothered you due to you being one of the staff who were forced to haul the cameras around.
   But then it got more serious.
  When asked who was single, Yoongi would always raise his hand. When asked why, he would just say, “I'm not really looking for anybody right now,” and it was the way he said it that pulled at your heart strings. The way he said it so casually and with so much truth behind every word made you want to curl up in a ball and cry.
   And then it got worse. Date nights were cancelled. He would barely look at you if there were cameras in the room. You weren't allowed to film him – it was only ever the other camera staff who got to interview your boyfriend, and it hurt. It hurt and it pained you to see him put up with it so casually and easily, but it wasn't your place to say.
   That was your excuse. This was Yoongi's life, Yoongi's career. You didn't see an area where your opinion was needed, or where your feelings could be taken into consideration at all.
   So you let the topic drop. You didn't bring it up – you showed up to work with him every morning, let him go off to hair and make up or to greet the members, and you went to work with your camera, hoping to distract yourself. Like Yoongi with music, filmography had always been your outlet. Setting up the perfect shots and backgrounds for the number of interviews you were doing was always something that cleared your mind.
   Today was no different. Yoongi had merely grazed his lips against your cheek before he was waving goodbye to go and get his hair and make up done for the interview line-up he had today – one of which, you were in charge of.
   It didn't take long for you to walk into the production room, being greeted by your usual array of 'good mornings' and 'hellos' coming from every corner of the room. Eunji, the beloved girlfriend of Park Jimin, stood up and gave you one of her usual pecks on the cheek, before the two of you were stowing off to fix up your camera equipment.
   “I saw you and Yoongi walking in this morning,” she commented when there was nothing else to talk about. You were unsure what it was with people and they're conversation starters, but it was always relationship speak that filled in a silence.
   You shot her a glance over your shoulder as you dragged your camera from your bag. “As we do every morning.”
   “Yes,” Eunji agreed. “But there was something about this morning that made me feel a little – I dunno.”
   “Made you feel like you had to bring it up,” you suggested. Eunji frowned, your lack of filter leaving her unimpressed.
   You sighed and shook your head as you kicked open your tripod, setting it up around the lights which you would soonn have to detangle in order to make the set look nice enough for the boys of Bangtan Sonyeondan.
   “At least they're letting you film him today,” Eunji offered. “It's a step in the right direction. Soon, you two will be able to basically have sex in the middle of the town.”
   You rolled your eyes. “I don't care about going public, Eunji. Remember when you and Jimin did it and those people added you to that group chat? Yeah. I don't want that.” You hollowed out your cheeks, silently praying that the conversation wouldn’t go on any longer than it had to. “I'm perfectly fine being the lonely, forgotten housewife.”
   “You're not a housewife. You're smoking hot, and you need to be appreciated.”
   “You and Heejin get enough appreciation that it basically melts onto me. You don't need to worry. My lack of attention doesn't hurt me.”
   And it didn't. You didn't need the public eye to be on you for you to feel welcomed in a relationship – neither did Eunji or Heejin, but the two of them were just lucky enough to have it as an added bonus. They had started going out with Hoseok and Jimin long before BigHit got strict about relationships. They were already public, meaning nobody could take that back and BigHit didn't really care enough to make the effort.
   It still hurt talking about it, though. Eunji and Heejin were both on the hair and make up team, meaning they were close to their boyfriends almost the entire day. You were tucked away behind a camera, not even allowed to give your boyfriend a second look.
   You often thought you were overexaggerating, and the thoughts didn't die down as you prepared the set for the boys to finally enter and get ready for the interview you were due to film. You weren't speaking – god forbid somebody saw you conversing with Yoongi – but you were in charge of angles, making sure the boys looked good on camera through the entire interview. It was difficult working with somebody like Taehyung, who insisted on making ugly faces every three seconds in his attempts to make your job that little bit more difficult.
   Eunji watched you closely, letting the subject of you and Yoongi drop. You were thankful for it – you weren't sure how long you could hold the rant off for, because there had been plenty of times where you had gone off and just started yelling about your troubles, how lonely you felt. That was one of the reasons you and Eunji were so close – you told her everything, whether she wanted you to or not.
   An hour or so must have passed before the boys were finally entering into the room, greeting the interviewer in their usual kind manners. Hoseok came in yelling about how Jin had dropped a bag of powder that Heejin had to clean up and Jin followed after him, beetroot red even under the make up Heejin had just applied to his face. You shook your head at them, folding your arms as you leaned against the wall in the corner.
   Always in the corner. Out of sight, out of risk of looking at Yoongi in that way you weren't supposed to.
   “So loud,” you heard the familiar voice of Yoongi grunt from the door. Your eyes broke off to look at him, intaking his attractive looks in the quick way you had trained yourself to do so. One glance and you knew exactly what he was wearing, exactly what his make up was like, and exactly how much you wanted to pounce on him.
    He wasn't exactly dressed up. This was a casual interview, after all. The interviewer, Jaehyun, was only dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, meaning Yoongi had matched up with the casual attire with a simple white jumper from Puma, jeans and his Puma trainers which had been kindly given to him as part of the ad campaign.
   He still pulled it all off though. The way his black hair was styled to cover his forehead, the way his blue contact lenses made his eyes pop with the way the lights shone off of them. The way he smiled that gummy smile whilst messing with his microphone pack. The way he just radiated Yoongi in a way that reminded you why you had fallen for him in the first place.
   You inhaled sharply, half tempted to let somebody else do the directing for you. You weren't sure how long you could last being in the same room with Yoongi as he lied about having a relationship.
   But you couldn't just walk out. Not without looking weak. Not without the risk of your job being lost because you 'couldn't handle the simple rules.' So you stayed, grinning as the boys took their seats in the order they had always sat in.
   You kept your eyes off of Yoongi. He sat on the arm of the white sofa you had set up, the maknae sat beside him, cracking his usual jokes which had everybody laughing. You looked at them through the view finder of the camera, stifling your laughs with your hands.
   The interview began all too soon for your liking. You felt the stress building up in your body as Jaehyun sat down and rattled off his questions one by one. You got to work, losing yourself in the camera angles and the way you zoomed in on their faces every one in a while, getting those shots which fans would screenshot and post with heart warming captions which always seemed to make smiles appear on your face.
   The boys answered each question naturally, sounding like they had met Jaehyun years before the current interview. The way they passed jokes, the way Hobi sometimes hopped up to show us a random dance move, the way Taehyung did his own thing in the back ground – all of it is just Bangtan. It made you grin, chuckling quietly behind the face mask you were wearing.
   But then talk of love life came up, just like it always did.
   “So, enough games,” Jaehyun said, still calming down from the burst of laughter he had released after one of Jin's dad jokes. “Let's talk about love lives. I know some of you currently have girlfriends, and have had girlfriends for quite a while. Tell me, for them boys, is it difficult working your schedule around the intimate times? Like, can you two go for a date and just enjoy yourselves?”
   Hoseok answered first, Heejin standing beside you with a small smile and a blush adorning her features. You gave her a comforting smile when her eyes met yours, though her gaze instantly dulled when she saw who she was standing next to. The Forbidden Girlfriend.
   “I think it's only difficult if you let it become difficult,” Hoseok said. “I've been with my girlfriend for nearly two years now, and we've never really had issues with schedule's and stuff. She's a busy girl, just as much as I'm a busy man, but we always find time to wind down together and just ask about each other's day and how it all went. It's easy if you love them enough.”
   Oh, God, no.
   Jimin nodded along to Hoseok's reply. “I wish I could add something more, but that's really it. I don't want to go a day without talking to my girlfriend, so I don't. People tend to think we're, like, cramped in this bubble all the time, but it's really not true. We work hard to create the stuff we do, but we still have lives outside of the cameras and outside of Bangtan that we enjoy just as much as anything else. As Hoseok said, you'll make time for them if you love them enough.”
   You weren’t sure if you wanted to cry or not. You had never once heard Jimin and Hoseok talk openly about love in the way they just had, and by the looks on everybodies faces, neither has anybody else. It made you feel wobbly, like you could throw up then and there. You avoided looking at Yoongi, pulling your face mask further up your cheeks as if doing so will hide your embarrassment, will hide the way your eyes were darting around the room, looking for any place bar the camera.
   Any place bar his face.
   Heejin reached a hand out, placed it lightly on your shoulder as Jimin continued to talk about love and dating and his love life like it was the air he breathed or the music he created. He talked about it so naturally, so easily, whilst Yoongi sat at the side of him, pretending you didn’t exist.
   “I need fresh air,” you whispered. Heejin looked at you, raiseed one of her brows.
   “You can't just leave. Nobody else knows how to get the camera angles like you do. Can you not just wait a minute?”
   You bit your lip, turning back to the camera. “Fine.” You didn’t want to be there. It hurt. It was clenching against your chest like a weight, your cheeks flushing a bright red colour, because you knew Yoongi felt it to. He felt the weight of the words weighing down on him, too. He was just better at hiding it.
   Jimin finisheed his speech about love, proudly sitting back and giving Eunji a sly smirk which you refused to catch on camera. 
   “That was sweet,” Jaehyun said, grinning. “And to the single boys; does your busy schedule ever do anything to your love life? Do you find it more difficult to find genuine girls now that you're massive, award winning stars?”
   Namjoon replied first. “I mean, I think you can just kind of tell when somebody wants you for your money over your personality, you know? Being in this line of work, it definitely strengthens your senses to that side of things.”
   Jin, Jungkook and Taehyung all agreed, giving their own little proposals of speech. And Yoongi stayed silent, because for once, you were in the room to hear all about it. You were standing right in front of him and he could barely look at you because he knew you wouldn’t have that happy smile that always adorned your face. You would be frowning, trying to hold back tears and pretending to be happy when he could see right through every fake emotion you had been putting on the entire interview.
   Jaehyun nodded to the boys responses, before turning to Yoongi. “Yoongi-ssi? Any thoughts?”
  Heejin squeezed your hand. “I think you can go and get that fresh air you-”
  You shood your head, pulling your hand out of her grip and folding it over your chest. You stood up straight, focusing your gaze on Yoongi as much as you can, but he barely budged. It's the boys who looked at you with uncomfortable and sorry glances, whilst Yoongi simply shrugged to the question.
   “It's as Namjoon said – I think it's simple to know what somebody wants from you when you meet them.”
   “And what about your schedule? Does it give you less time to go looking for that other person?”
   “I'm not really looking. I'm just not interested in dating at the moment.”
   That was it. That was always the kicker, but the other times, you had at least been absent from the room before you had heard it. Now, you were looking him in the face as he completely dismissed the seven month long relationship you two had been in, and it hurt. It hurt more than you'd ever admit, hurt more than you'd ever believe, because god do you just want him to love you.
   Those three words had never even passed between you two before. It was swift kisses, smiles, asking if you'd eaten or if you were okay – at least, it used to be. Now, it was just smiling to each other when you got home, having a laugh at breakfast before completely ignoring each other for the rest of the day.
   Ignoring him was better than hearing him say those words, though, and the tears were building up in your throat before you could tell yourself that he's just protecting his job, doing what he does best.
   You turned to Heejin, shake your head and walk out before anybody can see you cry. You tried to play it off as a bathroom break, but nobody would believe that. Not when you were the director of todays interview. It had taken weeks for you to finally persuade them to let you do this very job, and now you were just walking out like it was nothing more than your daily routine.
   But everything hurt, and you couldn't take it any more. Something was swelling in your chest – something had been swelling in your chest for over three months now, and it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore it, let alone deal with it in the way everybody expected you to.
   You stormed through hallways, ignoring staff members worried calls for you to slow down or you'll trip over something. You hopped over wires, trampled over cables and pictures and cameras. You just needed to be alone.
   You crashed through the back doors of the studio, a gasp of air escaping your lips as you finally let yourself go. Crying over a boy in the back alley of a studio had never been something you wanted to do, but here you were – completely destroyed over a man who you weren't even sure loved you or not. He hadn't said anything – in fact, he seemed to be doing everything in his power to make you think he hated you.
    And that wasn't what you wanted. It wasn't a relationship. It was toxic, and as you pulled your knees into your chest, ready to completely let go, you couldn’t help but realise that very fact. You had played right into the hands of the man you thought you would spend the rest of your life with. He had played with your heart, let you think he cared, but if he truly cared, he wouldn't have let you go so easily.
   Right?
   “If you love them enough...”
  You would do anything for the person you loved, right? Maybe that very fact answered your question.
   You slid down the wall of the studio, tears falling from your eyes as you bundled your hands in your jeans, tugging at the fabric. Anything to distract your mind from what was happening inside. Anything to let you get engulfed in your own world all over again – alone. With nobody to mess with your feelings, nobody to break your heart or make you feel like any less than what you were.
   “Y/N-ah!”
   You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the wall as the door to the back alley opened, revealing a flustered looking Min Yoongi. You hated yourself for a moment, your heart doing it's usual skipping a beat whenever you lay eyes on him. He didn’t look like his usual, monotone self. He looked flustered, red faced with his large hands bundled in front of him as his face slowly moulds into nerves upon seeing you curled up in a ball outside of the studio.
   He knew what he had done.
   You shook your head and looked away. “Please go back in there and do your job.”
  Yoongi closed the door. “What are you doing out here? It's freezing.”
   “I'm warm enough.”
   “No, you're not. You left your jacket in there.” You didn’t get a chance to reply before he threw your dark red jacket onto your knees, he himself still hovering over you with his hands folded over his chest.
   “Thanks,” you muttered, plucking the jacket off of your knees and setting it beside you. “You can go back in now. I'm not gonna freeze.”
   Yoongi peaked an eyebrow, though he knew why you were acting like this. He knew why you were crying.
   You heard him sigh before he sets himself down beside you, pulling his own knees into his chest. “I'd rather stay here, to be honest. Beside you.”
   “What if somebody sees you?” Your voice drew out, clearly meant to tease him, though not in a good way.
   “Then they see us,” he replied, so casually it makes you half-angry. “I prefer being with you, anyway.”
   “You fooled me.”
   “I wasn't hiding it.”
   You narrowed your eyes, more tears slipping from them. You didn’t know how you were keeping yourself so calm with him so close to you, with his shoulder pressed against yours and his body heat moulding with your cold skin.
   “I'm just not very good at showing affection,” Yoongi continued, looking out at the rubbish bins in front of the two of you. “I thought you knew that.”
   “I'm not asking for you to get down on one knee and propose, Yoongi,” you sighed. “I'm just – I dunno. I'm not looking for anything, really. I know it's not your fault our relationship is like this, but it just hurts.”
   “What hurts?”
   “Hearing the other guys talk about how they'd do anything for the person they love, no matter how hard it is to do that certain thing. Yoongi, you can't even look at me in public without getting in trouble. How – How can you just expect me to feel comfortable with that?”
   Yoongi took a moment to reply, his mouth open slightly in that pout that used to playfully press kisses to every part of your body when you were upset. Those were the early days, though – days when you two could leave the house together and not be scolded for being 'irresponsible.'
   “I didn't – Jesus. I didn't know you felt that way.”
   You closed your eyes, finally ducking your head into your hands as the words fell from his mouth. “I didn't make it obvious?”
   “You never look at me either, jagiya,” he insisted, and his voice became persistent, as if needing you to listen. “You went along with the rules, too, so I just thought it was all going to be okay. I thought you didn't mind.”
   “Do you not mind?” you exclaimed, shooting your head up to look at him. So perfect, yet he looked so broken in this moment. His cheeks tinted red with the cold, his contacted eyes wide and his mouth hanging open a little bit.
   “Of course I minded. You know I minded.”
   “Do I know? Because for the past four months, I've genuinely thought you were just going to drop me one of these days. It would make the most sense, since we barely fucking talk any more! You look people dead in the eye and say you're single! Do you know how that feels?”
   “I wasn't thinking. I thought we were strong enough to get through this.”
   “This?” you barked, throwing yourself forward so you were standing above him. Tears were pouring down your face, heating your cheeks up as your hysterics began to heave at your chest, making soft sobs escape your mouth through the violent words leaving alongside them. “This isn't a relationship, Yoongi. This – This is toxic. It's hurting me, and I hope I mean enough to you that it hurts you, too.”
   Yoongi nodded swiftly, standing up alongside you. “This speech doesn't sound good, Y/N-ah. What are you-”
   You shook your head, shoving his outstretched hands away from you. “I don't want to lose you, Yoongi. I really, really don't, but being with you is making me lose myself. Making me lose my mind and I need to put myself first sometimes. I don't want to be in a relationship with somebody who isn't even allowed to leave the house with me.”
   Yoongi blanked, looking down at you like you had just slapped him in the face. The look he gives you breaks your heart in so many ways, but you couldn’t back out of it now. You couldn’t just say “Actually, you're cute. Never mind,” because you knew your reasons for doing it, and if he cared about you, he would know them too. You weren't doing this to smite him – it was for yourself, and sometimes, that was the only reason a person needed.
   He opened his mouth to speak, but he closed it soon after. You watched him as his eyes filled with subtle tears, his lip going between his teeth where he nibbled on the skin, clearly trying to fight off any sign of emotion.
   “Ah, really” he whispered, ducking his head down and brushing his hand over the back of it. “I fucked up so badly. I didn't – I should have told them to go to hell with their policies, shouldn't I?”
   “It's not your fault. I don't want this hurting your career.”
   “It's not hurting my career.” His voice broke when he looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours for the longest time they had met since the policies were given to the two of you. “It's hurting my life. It's hurting you. It's hurting-” He inhaled, cold air filling his mouth before it came out in a cloud of fog. “It's hurting the girl I love and I can't let it happen any longer, okay?”
   You went to reply, a heartfelt comment about how you two can still be friends playing on the end of your tongue, but it disappears amongst his word choice.
   You nearly choked on the freezing cold air of winter as you realise what he had said. For the first time in seven months, he had used the word 'love' when speaking about you. For the first time in seven months, he was looking at you like you were his world, and it was making you warm up from both shock and happiness.
   “What did you just say?” you questioned, unable to stop the words. Yoongi looked back at you, a look of dead seriousness on his face that makes your small smile drop, going back into the frown you had placed it in when you had run out here in the first place.
   “Christ, you make me insane,” he grumbled. “I love you, okay? You. Y/L Y/N. Light of my life. My world. My girlfriend. Hell, I'll scream it from the god damn rooftops if that's what you want.”
   Your eyes widened, but Yoongi didn’t stop. He stepped away from you, arms open wide as he looked up at the sky and started yelling: “Everyone! Y/L Y/N is my girlfriend, and I am the luckiest man alive!”
   You yelped, diving for his arm and pulling him back to look at you, your eyes wide in shock. “Yoongi, sh! Bang PD's in there and he'll-”
   “You're still worried about him?” Yoongi questioned. “I just confessed my undying love to you, and you're worried about PD-nim?”
   “He's going to fire you.”
   “He can.” Your jaw dropped. Yoongi simply smiled, gums and teeth and that cute little dimple in his chin showing all at once and it made your knees feel weak and your mind go foggy. “Jimin and Hoseok said it during the interview – if you love someone, you'll do anything to make time for them. If that means quitting-”
   “Don't scare me like that,” you hissed, hitting his shoulder. Yoongi furrowed his brows. “You will not give up your dreams for me, Min Yoongi. I won't let you.”
   “Then let me have one more chance.” You blanked, looking at him in shock all over again. He stepped closer to you, and you allowed him to take your hand in his, holding them close to his chest as he gently rubbed the backs of your palms, heating them up. “One more chance. I'll tell the world about us. I'll – I'll take you on a date. Tonight. Fuck what the company says. You need spoiled, because I have a lot to catch up on. And you can come to the studio, and you can film those stupid video diaries you film that I'm never in because they would look too cosy.”
   He smiled down at you.
   “I remember I used to watch you and Namjoon when you two would do that game where you catch the food in your mouth, and you'd film it for your video diaries. I would have killed to be the one doing that with you – absolutely killed, but I was too worried for your reputation and my own career to do it. So I just let you and Namjoon get on with it. I want to be in one, though. A romantic one. One that's cute and I'll kiss you on the cheek and hold you from behind and you can post that. If you really want people to know about us, you'll post it.”
    You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. You didn’t know what to say. Your mouth had run dry, the only thing you could hear being the thumping of your heart in your chest and Yoongi's skin rubbing against yours as he heats up your hands between his own.
   “You have a camera in your bag, right?”
   He let your hands fall, and before you could object, he's reached into your over-the-shoulder bag and has ripped your mini camera out of it's case, fumbling with it for a quick overview of the buttons. You coukd barely move, keeping your hands clasped as if it were Yoongi holding them together. There was an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach – nerves? Confusion? Mild guilt? You didn't want Yoongi to think that all you wanted was publicity, because it was very far from that. You would live in perfect harmony if not a single person but Yoongi knew your name – you just wanted Yoongi to be able to communicate with you in the way he used to.
   Yoongi let out an 'Aha!' upon finally finding the record button, and he was quick to wrap an arm over your shoulder, holding the mini Canon recorder in the air above the two of you. You blushed, hiding your face with your hands as Yoongi pressed 'record' and started to speak.
   “Hello everyone! This is Suga from BTS, and I'm highjacking Y/N's video diary today. I don't know the last time she did one of these, because I'm not in them. Not until now, any way.” He chuckled, looking at you. He frowned upon seeing your flustered state, quickly pulling your hands away from your face. You groaned, closing your eyes, turning around and burying your head in his chest in an attempt to hide your burning face.
   Yoongi laughed again, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders. “She's apparently shy in her own video diaries. I think it's just because I'm here and she doesn't quite know what to do with herself. Have we not got something to tell them, Y/N?”
   “Yoongi-”
  “This woman right here, ladies and gentlemen,” Yoongi interrupted, laughing a little at his own exaggeration. “Is the love of my life, and I haven't told anybody that. Not even her, until just a few minutes ago. But now that I've said it, it kind of feels like I'll never stop saying it, so forgive me if I get repetitive. It's just – I've never really loved anyone. Not in a soulmate kind of way, so for a while I was kind of just scared of what I was feeling. Hence the reason I was a complete asshole and didn't tell you sooner.”
   You grunted. Yoongi chuckled.
   “She agrees.”
  You looked up, rolling your eyes at your boyfriend. “Turn the camera off, you idiot. I forgive you. We'll sort this out.”
   Yoongi grinned, bright and fresh faced and it made your heart beat speed up to a speed you were almost certain had put people into cardiac arrest before. “Why should I turn the camera off?”
   “So I can kiss you.”
   Yoongi shrugged. “I'd rather you do that whilst this is recording. Something to show the children.”
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