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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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Oh my GOD, Vy - this is so good and touching and sweet. Also, I miss Yoongi so much, and the way that you captured both his anxious feelings and hers is so so amazing

I'm Just a Person, Too

Author: vyduan Pairing: Min Yoongi | Reader Genre: one shot (with possible future additions), fluff, idolverse, idol au, canon compliant, no explicit material with the option of possible smut in the future Word Count: ~7.8k Rating: General audiences (but may be explicit in the future, will update rating if so) Warnings: swearing, legal consumption of alcohol, light mentions of damaging Christian theology, light mentions of bad marriage, light mentions of breast cancer AO3

Summary: After serving his military enlistment, Yoongi surprises one lucky superfan at a cafe and makes their day.

Notes: Inspired by V's Dingo fanmeet and also @reliablemitten's Yoongi fanmeet/call fic.

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

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I'm Just a Person, Too

Yoongi’s stomach drops as he approaches the trendy cafe tucked in an unassuming corner of Gangnam (as if there are any unassuming corners in Gangnam). He is mindful of the ever-present cameras, aware of his face in the way only those who are constantly filmed are aware.

“Are you ready to meet ARMY?” the producer asks as they grab a seat in the corner. “We found a super-SUGA fan. She wasn’t born in Korea, but her Korean is passably good. We’ll have a translator on standby if either of you run into trouble.”

Yoongi looks around at the charming (but generic) wood accents, overflowing plants, the cozy aesthetic of pillows, and the Instagram-ready wall of ivy and flowers. The smell of roasting coffee beans permeates the air along with the faint scent of hot milk.

He doesn’t know why he’s nervous and mentions it. “It’s not like I haven’t met fans before,” he adds, “I did do a whole bunch of fan zoom calls during the last tour.” Yoongi hesitates a second. “You don’t think she will ask for the ‘I’m sorry for being cute’ challenge? It was two years ago?”

The producer chuckles, his eyes crinkling above the black face mask. His eyebrows are thick and bushy. “I’m pretty sure she won’t. It’s been out of fashion for years.”

Yoongi nods, rubbing his hands together and then pulling his chunky forest green sweater over his palms. He’s overdressed for the hot weather, but the air conditioning is always on too high in cafes. Plus, he just likes oversized sweaters and he missed this one.

“You’ll be fine,” the producer adds.

Yoongi smiles, the butterflies in his tummy worse than that before any concert. Being on stage is just another day in his life and though there are tens of thousands of ARMY in attendance at a concert, he doesn’t have to make conversation with them. He knows he’s an excellent performer — that he lives up to those sky-high expectations. That’s a far cry from when he’s just muddling about his life outside the bubble of a stadium. There are no teleprompters with scripted banter that he sticks to for security, only occasionally deviating from the memorized words.

Somehow, Yoongi doesn’t think him yelling SHIBAL at the top of his lungs will go over quite as well in this Gangnam cafe. (It would, however, make for interesting headlines.) He snorts at the picture in his head and the flutters in his belly settle a little.

“She’s coming,” the producer says after a few moments of companionable silence as the man checks his phone. “She’ll be here on the pretense of being interviewed for an article on BTS fans and their reaction to all of you coming out of enlistment.”

Yoongi nods. He’s one of the last to finish due to him choosing the longer civil service. Jimin and Taehyung just finished a few weeks ago and Jungkook should be out in less than a month.

Technically, he doesn’t need to do this, but he’s really missed his fans in the last 21 months. This had seemed a lowkey way to introduce himself back to public life and truthfully, part of him is intrigued by the fans who have held on all this time, waiting for him and his teammates.

“She’s here,” the producer says and Yoongi surreptitiously sneaks a glance towards the front entrance.

You trail in after the production staff, dressed in typical office clothing of a loose cream blouse, gray slacks, and sensible heels. Yoongi wonders if you’re coming directly from work or if you just had no idea what to wear to the meeting. He finds your face pleasant and friendly and he hopes that it’s representative of how you are in real life.

You’re sitting at the table, answering questions from the staff when the producer indicates to Yoongi that he’s up.

Yoongi swallows nervously and wipes his hands down his dark wash jeans. He rises quietly from his seat and approaches your table, hoping he’ll figure out how to greet you by the time he opens his mouth. He worries you may catch a glimpse of him before he’s ready and hopes the two people interviewing you will keep you occupied until the last moment.

“Y/N L/N,” Yoongi says as he stops a few feet away.

You turn your head and a yelp bursts from your mouth before you rush to clamp both hands over it. You immediately try to stand and bow at the same time, your body getting somewhat caught at the awkward positions you’re forcing upon it.

In an effort to save you from further embarrassment, Yoongi immediately motions for you to stay seated even as he says, “Please, don’t get up.” He rushes to a wooden chair newly vacated by the other two staff members and bows even as he attempts to sit. “Hello,” he greets sheepishly at your quickly filling eyes and worries that he has bungled the greeting.

“Hello,” you squeak back, bowing again from your seat. “I — this is — wow.” You cover your mouth again. Your fingers are trembling.

As much as Yoongi loves to make his fans happy — and he thinks you are happy despite looking as if you might explode into tears any second — Yoongi also wishes he could spare you whatever this is. You seem on the verge of an emotional breakdown and though he knows it’s normal (and quite frankly, he has experienced it a decent number of times), he still feels somewhat uncomfortable with it.

He does not like to dwell on how much his fans love him. It doesn’t feel deserved (though always, always sincere). He also doesn’t want to insist his fans stop loving him.

That seems absurd, too.

No, Yoongi accepts that it is part of his job to carry the burden of being loved by so many. That this is the sort of repayment to his fans he chooses because what else can he do except make music and accept the love from his fans (no matter how effusive or embarrassing)?

You look a bit piqued and Yoongi wonders if you are going to throw up.

“Are you okay?” he asks solicitously.

You nod a little too effusively and then you burst into tears. Your entire body shakes as you cover your mouth in an effort to hold your sobs inside.

Yoongi freezes and then remembers how to be a human. He gets up and wraps his arms around you, quietly murmuring, “Oh, no. Please don’t cry.”

You sob harder.

You are truly a blubbering mess and though Yoongi is discomfited, knows he has a tiny frown of concern on his face, his heart aches. A surge of sympathetic love pulses from his core. He feels a strange tenderness settle over him. After all, is he not a person?

What kind of person am I? he wonders again. Am I a good person / Or a bad person? The assessments are all different / I’m just a person, too.

Yoongi whispers his lyrics to you and you calm, your sobs stuttering into sniffles and finally, stillness.

He notes the moment you realize that you’re still clinging to world-famous superstar SUGA and staining his green sweater with tears and snot.

“Omo!” you exclaim as you stiffen in panic.

You scoot back in your chair to get away from him and Yoongi obliges as he stands up and steps back.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You cover your face in mortification and squawk an awkward stream of yeses and thank yous. “I’m so sorry,” you stammer. “How truly awful for you.”

Yoongi knows what is expected of him in this social dance and assures you that it was not awful. (It really wasn’t. Awkward, yes. Awful, no.) When he says as much, you crack a crooked smile that tugs at his heartstrings once again. He finds you uncommonly endearing.

“I promise I’m not normally this emotional,” you apologize again. “I really am so sorry.”

Yoongi finds that he cannot stand to hear you apologize one more time. You do not need to apologize for being a person. “You’re human,” he says, “and humans have emotions. No apologies are needed,” he adds as he sits back in his chair and reaches over to squeeze your hand.

Your fingers are still trembling a little and he notes how his palm completely covers your hand. Your palm is a little sweaty and clammy but your fingers are oh so soft. He remembers the cameras. Yoongi retracts himself, unsure of the protocol after comforting a fan and hopes when this content is released, his other fans will understand.

“Have you eaten yet?” Yoongi inquires and when he finds out you haven’t, he quickly remedies the situation by flagging down a server and asking for your order, hoping that in the face of such mundanities, you will relax.

He is gratified when his ploy works. You settle into yourself after requesting a cup of jasmine tea and a pain au chocolat.

“I feel like I should explain,” you say when the waiter leaves.

You are gazing at him so earnestly and Yoongi can’t help but nod encouragingly even though he hates hearing compliments about himself. He feels like a priest except he does not have the luxury of a latticed divider shielding him from the intimacy of confession.

“I found you and BTS almost ten years ago during your ‘I Need U’ era,” you begin, your words only slightly stumbling. “You saved me.”

Every time Yoongi hears his fans say he and his band saved them, he thinks, surely, surely they must be exaggerating. But they never are. There are too many stories of people being pulled from the brink to be a coincidence. There are too many stories of ARMY finding BTS right when they needed them.

“It sounds so dramatic, but you did,” you continue. “Your verse — the whole song — it captured exactly how I was feeling at the time.”

“What happened? Did a boyfriend or girlfriend leave you?” he inquires politely to encourage you.

Yoongi knows with experience that sometimes, people just need to get out what they’ve been storing inside them for perhaps years. Once they say their piece to him or his fellow members, they can finally move on and treat him like a normal person. He can do this for you. He senses he must do this for you.

You shake your head. “My husband,” you say, “ex-husband,” you clarify. “I got married really young. 10 out of 10 do not recommend.”

“Ah,” he breathes. What else can he say?

“I grew up very religious,” you explain, “and we got married while we were still in college. I thought he loved me.”

Yoongi hates that he knows where the story is going. Hates that men are the same no matter where they are. He hopes he can tip the scales for men however slightly. Hopes that other men can choose to be decent, can choose to be another way of masculine.

“I catered to his every whim. I was taught, you see, that that was the biblical thing to do. That was my role as a woman and as his wife,” you say. “I even quit school because why would I need it once I got pregnant and had children?”

Yoongi’s heart sinks. He aches for you. He is grateful you are sharing a piece of your soul with him even if it flusters him.

“I’d thought he was such a loving man. He always wanted to know where I was or what I was doing. I thought it meant he found me interesting,” you say quietly.

“What happened?” he asks in the silent space of your pause.

You flash him a grateful smile. “I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Breast Cancer,” you say. “It’s very rare for someone as young as I was to be diagnosed and to have it so far along.”

Even though Yoongi clearly sees that you are alive and well in front of him, his gut tightens at the news. He instinctively reaches across once more to squeeze your hand though he does not follow through with it. “Oh,” he says.

“I couldn’t take care of him anymore. In fact, he had to take care of me all the time,” you say, almost apologetically. “The treatment was very aggressive. I was sick for a long time and I lost my hair.”

“I’m so sorry,” Yoongi offers, even though he knows it wasn’t his fault.

You smile gently, as if to offer him comfort. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t really anyone's fault.”

He wants to reach out again but he reaches for his iced Americano instead and sips it. The rattling slurping sound is loud and embarrassing and he puts the drink back down.

“Turns out he didn’t really love me after all,” you say, laughing forlornly. “He told me that he didn’t find me attractive anymore, that he had his whole life to live and he couldn’t do that with me holding him back.”

Yoongi sucks in a breath. He’d known it was coming, but still, when you tell him, he is shocked. What kind of man doesn’t stick by his wife when she’s sick? What kind of man doesn’t help shoulder his partner’s suffering? How could his team have gone as far as they had if they hadn’t stuck by each other?

“He was a selfish man,” Yoongi growls with far more vehemence than he’d expected. “You deserve so much more.”

You beam at him. “I know,” you agree. “My parents were furious and his parents were embarrassed, but they stuck by their son. Said that he’d always been special and it took a special person to take care of him.”

“What did you do?”

You tear a small piece of the pain au chocolat and chew it thoughtfully. “I went home to my parents. They took care of me and nursed me back to health, but my spirit was broken. I was lost for a long time after, and then, I found BTS. I found you.”

Yoongi finds that his eyes are blurry, that his throat is tight and his chest throbs. “Oh,” he croaks.

“Your music saved me,” you continue. “Not only did I relate to your lyrics, you gave me someone to fight for when I couldn’t fight for myself. You gave me a reason to live.”

It is too much for Yoongi. He doesn’t discount what he and his band members mean to his fans, but he doesn’t deserve this sort of adulation. He is only human, after all.

“I think you did that all by yourself,” he says. He knows you won’t accept his outright refusal to accept your praise. “We just happened to be there.”

You hum neither agreement or disagreement. “Watching you all fight for yourselves, that gave me strength. And then, yes. I did the hard work by myself.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I hope that doesn’t sound patronizing.”

He sees your hands twitch as if you wish to cover your face again. Yoongi imagines how he feels when Tablo or Kim Jong-wan tell him they’re proud of him and he empathizes.

“No, it’s not patronizing,” you say, eyes shining. “I’m proud of me, too.”

Yoongi’s mouth stretches wide, his heart is so full. “I hope you’re also a little proud of BTS,” he teases.

“Of course!” you gush. “I’m proud to be your fan, Yoongi-ssi. So incredibly proud.”

And even though Yoongi has heard it a million times, it feels different coming from you. He knows he hasn’t heard even a fraction of your story, but the bit he has, he is amazed at your strength and willingness to lend him and his team your strength. He knows that during their bad years and days, it is your love — in synergy with the love of all his fans — it is your love that has sustained them.

The conversation veers off from there, you asking about his day, about how enlistment treated him. If he feels lost or strange now that he is out.

Yoongi answers honestly. Enlistment was surprisingly restful and he made good friends. He doesn’t miss it, but he does miss the rigid routine. After years of going non-stop, each day unpredictable, it was comforting to have a standard day (even if it was boring).

You nod, make the right sounds, and he finds that you are easy to talk to.

Yoongi asks about what you’re doing in Seoul, how you like it compared to your home, and if you see yourself staying. You tell him you eventually went back to school, got an MBA, and now work for a big consulting company. You transferred to their Seoul branch a few years ago because you wanted to see the world and why not start where BTS came from?

You seem a little sheepish telling him that last detail, but you forge ahead. Yoongi finds you all the more endearing because of it. He doesn’t know why he is so pleased to hear that you think you will stay in Seoul for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t know what bearing that has on his life, but a small part of him is satisfied by this fact, that you are (for the time being anyway) part of his home.

(Yoongi tells himself not to dwell on this reaction and he promptly stows it away for him to ponder upon later. He inevitably forgets.)

Eventually, you both finish your drinks as well as the complimentary fruit tarts which Yoongi is too polite to refuse. He doesn’t particularly care for sweet foods but he finds he would give anything to see your eyes light up again like they did when you first bit into the dessert. He thinks he’d even throw his fame around if it meant witnessing your palpable joy again.

He knows he’s being ridiculous. He can afford all the fruit tarts in the world. (And besides, he’s just met you.) Yoongi doesn’t know why it matters or what it means. He thinks he’s just emotional because you’re the first ARMY he’s met in years.

The producer catches Yoongi’s eye, and Yoongi knows it’s time to move onto the next part of the fanmeet.

“In your questionnaire, you mentioned that a dream of yours is to see our studios and watch us work on a song,” he says.

“Yes, that — that would be amazing. I don’t know anything about creating music, but it just seems so cool,” you say. “But really, my dream was to be able to tell you in person what you mean to me, and you already made that dream come true.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to come with me to see my studio?” he teases.

Your eyes widen and a stream of nervous squeaks and what Yoongi presumes to be words of assent emit from your mouth. You are so earnest it almost hurts Yoongi to see. He wonders how he and his band got so lucky to have fans like you.

On the way to the studio, he discovers you have so many more questions for him. It’s a little easier for Yoongi to open up without looking you in the eyes. He focuses on the passing scenery or the back of the passenger seat. He’s amused by how you don’t ask him questions about music or the creative process like many people do. Instead, you’re fascinated by business and the practical life side of things.

Does he get paid monthly or biweekly? (Monthly — but from various sources so it staggers in.) Does he have a closet just for shoes? (No, but he did convert a room into a closet and it has an area for all his shoes.) Does he bring his lunch or order out? (He mostly orders out.) Does he always treat because he’s more successful and usually the hyung? (He does not because he’s not always the hyung and many of his friends and colleagues actually make more money than he does.)

On and on, you pester him and he surprises himself by answering. Not everything can be aired but he’s got the shape of you now. You are intriguing because for every question that he asks you, you ask him three more in turn.

“Yah!” he finally cries. “I know all about me, but I don’t know much about you at all, Y/N-ssi. You have me at a distinct disadvantage.”

You giggle and it sounds like bells ringing. “Yoongi-ssi, you cannot ‘YAH’ me, I’m older than you — by a month, anyway.”

“Am I really?” he queries. “You look so much younger than me.”

You laugh again, a full belly laugh this time. “There’s no need to lie, Yoongi-ssi. I know what I look like. I’m no idol.” Your face twists into wistfulness and maybe grief and then untwists back into your public face. You stare out the window at the passing streets of Gangnam.

He wonders why he longs to see your private faces when he has only just met you.

“What do you want to know?” you concede. “I’m really quite boring.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” he says. “Other than obsess over me, what do you do for fun?”

Your mouth gawps open and you sputter indignantly. He laughs, pleased as if he’s riled Seokjin into a lather.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve gotten into other bands!” you say peevishly. “I might even like them better than you.”

Yoongi clutches his heart and leans back in his leather seat. “Who is this band? How dare you? Come back to us! Come back to me!” he jokes.

“TXT is my favorite. They’re adorable and so talented.” Your face becomes serious for a moment. “You can’t be mean to your little brothers, Yoongi-ssi. They’ve worked really hard and deserve all the fans they get.”

“Yes, they’re good people,” Yoongi replies, amused at how fiercely you leapt to his labelmates’ defense.

“Of course, no other band can compete with BTS,” you add shyly after a few moments. “Even my childhood favorites can’t compare.”

Yoongi nods haphazardly at you. He feels a warm tingling in his belly. “You’re allowed to love other bands,” he says with as much dignity as he can. He knows you’re both fooling around, but he also wants you (and by extension, all his fans) to know that it really is okay. “The heart is an ever-expansive muscle. We can love a new friend without detracting from our love of an old one.”

He can feel your gaze on him and he turns reluctantly to meet your eyes. They are warm and soft and fond. Yoongi does not know why his insides melt. You are not the only person to have looked upon him in this manner. You are not the first nor will you be the last, and yet, some long buried desire stirs.

Yoongi smiles, feeling shy and exposed. You smile back and return to staring out the window.

“You all feel like old friends to me,” you say, determinedly choosing not to look in his direction (he thinks in deference to his feelings and maybe your own). “You are old friends who saw me through the worst years of my life, and I am forever grateful.”

“You, too,” he replies. It sounds inane and nonsensical, but he means it all the same.

The conversation peters out and Yoongi is grateful to sit in silence. It doesn’t feel awkward or tense. He senses that like him, you also need some moments to gather yourself.

When the SUV arrives at HYBE headquarters, you take a few deep breaths and follow after him.

“I came here for a tour a few years ago when HYBE still had the INSIGHT exhibit, but I haven’t had time to come back since then,” you say. “It’s still so intimidating.”

Yoongi extends an arm and waves you into the parking lot elevator first. “Don’t worry,” he cracks, “I know a guy.”

You smile again and he wonders if you would be as generous with them if he were a normal man. He finds that he does not care; he is a man in the only way he knows how.

His security hands you a visitor’s badge and when the elevator stops at the 5th floor, you follow him hesitantly down the long hallway. You are visibly moved at the sight of Namjoon’s and Hoseok’s studios and when he pauses in front of his studio door, you look away as he inputs his keycode. He is oddly touched by your circumspection.

You slip off your heels and Yoongi scoots some slippers for you to put on and you thank him quietly. You scan his modest studio with eager eyes, taking in his dark gray couch, the Persian rug in the center of the room, the KAWS figurines on his shelves, his guitar hanging on the wall, his various keyboards, and finally, the giant screen behind his main monitor.

He idly notes that one of his speakers is slightly out of position and he quickly adjusts it. The side of your mouth lifts in amusement and he remembers an old video of him spending hours adjusting his speakers in one of his old studios until they were just so.

“It’s nice to know that you are still the same but different,” you say, “not that I actually know you. But it feels like I do.”

He directs you to sit on his couch and offers you a drink, which you decline politely. He answers your unspoken question. “At some point, it becomes too difficult to pretend to be someone I’m not,” he says. “I don’t show the cameras everything,” he adds, “but I am myself.”

“I’m glad,” you reply. “It would be too exhausting to put on an act all the time.”

“Seriously,” Yoongi agrees. “I would let you just watch me work, but that would probably be boring for you.”

“I really don’t mind,” you say. “I can be quiet.”

Yoongi stares at you for a bit. Somehow, even if you’re quiet, he knows that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. “Unfortunately, it’s also something I can’t force. And today, I just don’t have anything I particularly want to make.”

“Oh!” you say. “I suppose writing songs is like any type of work. Some days, it can feel like torture.”

“Exactly.”

Yoongi doesn’t say that he had originally intended to write music with you in the room or maybe show you some demos of already released songs. Instead, he finds that he wants to get to know you more. He is curious about how you’d found the strength to go back to school and move on after your ex. He doesn’t believe for a second that his group had anything to do with it.

You and he are chatting amiably about both of your favorite movies (he is waxing rhapsodic about “Inception” and you are explaining the premise of “Children of Men”) when someone knocks on his studio door.

“Mmmm,” he grunts, “door’s unlocked.”

Yoongi already knows who it is so he doesn’t turn his head towards the door like you’re doing. No, he gets the front row seat to your face as recognition dawns and you’re covering your mouth again while trying to rise and bow and greet Namjoon all simultaneously. It’s as gloriously genuine and awkward as it was the first time, except this time, he knows to soak it all in.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Namjoon-ssi,” you say.

As he expects, your voice trembles and becomes watery. Somehow, he knows you’re moments away from crying again.

“Aish, Y/N-ssi,” he gripes with exaggeration, “why are you honored to meet Namjoon but you weren’t honored to meet me?”

You startle at his whining, and Namjoon shoots him a puzzled look. Then Namjoon, good man that he is, grins.

“Ah, hyung,” the younger man says, “Y/N-ssi can’t help having impeccable taste.”

You watch with a bemused expression, your eyes slightly less shiny. “I wanted to thank you for being you,” you say. “Your music saw me through some of the worst years of my life, and I can’t believe I got to meet Yoongi and now I’m meeting you.” Your voice is rough with emotion again. “This is the best day,” you declare joyfully. “I’m going to remember it for always.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Namjoon teases.

He rubs a hand over his still short buzz cut and crinkles a good natured grin at you. Yoongi thinks you might swoon a little at his leader’s dimples, but he’s not too mad about it. You are only human, too.

The conversation lags a bit when you and Namjoon both look to Yoongi for guidance on what’s next. Yoongi shakes himself out of contentedly watching you and clears his throat.

“I originally wanted to show you how Namjoon and I work, but I’m just not in the mental space for it,” he admits. “And now, I have no idea what to do.”

“It’s okay, Yoongi-ssi. I don’t need to take up more of your time.” You beam at him. “I’ve already had the best day of my life.” You make to gather your things, few as they are.

“Wait a second,” Yoongi interrupts. “I didn’t say we were done.”

Yoongi adamantly ignores the way Namjoon’s gone practically feral with his shit-eating grin. He doesn’t need this sort of aggravation in his life. Instead, he focuses on the soft “oh” you breathe and the way your pretty eyes widen just a tad.

You have lovely eyes.

“Pretty,” he murmurs and he feels his whole face heat.

He doesn’t even need to look over at Namjoon. He can feel how the younger man is vibrating with glee. Yoongi violently hopes the producers will edit this part out, but he knows it’s a lost cause.

“What do you do for fun?” Yoongi asks. “We can do that instead if you want.”

Your face is comically horrified. “Oh, no,” you stammer. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. You will be so bored!”

“You can’t possibly be more boring than Jin hyung,” reasons Yoongi while Namjoon nods in agreement. “All that man does is sleep, eat, and play video games.”

“Well, I suppose he makes alcohol now,” Namjoon contributes. “Except most of that part is just waiting around for it to ferment.”

You wrinkle your nose and sigh. “I read, listen to music, and if I’m feeling creative, I knit.”

You shoot Yoongi a self-deprecating smile as if to say you told him so, but Yoongi is undeterred.

“I know how to knit,” he says. “We could do that while we listen to music.”

You gape at him. “I thought that was just for the XYLITOL commercial,” you say, “I didn’t realize you actually knew how to knit.”

“I can crochet, too.”

Yoongi feels ridiculously smug when you view him with renewed respect and awe. He would’ve added that he also knows how to sew, except if you’re any sort of fan at all, he knows you already know that about him. He pointedly disregards the way Namjoon has buried his face in his hands and is laughing most assuredly at him.

Yoongi’s smugness is short-lived.

“Oh, I don’t have any of my knitting with me,” you say sorrowfully. “And I doubt you have any on you, either.”

Yoongi deflates when he realizes you are right. But then, he has another brilliant idea. “We’ll just have to hang out another time to knit!” he suggests.

Your eyes widen again with shock. He doesn’t know how you keep managing to be surprised by him, but Yoongi likes it. For the first time in years — perhaps since his last relationship — he thinks he would like to see what else surprises you in the future. All he can think of is to prolong his time spent with you today in case the next time doesn’t materialize.

“How about I teach you how to play basketball instead?” he suggests.

Namjoon is unable to keep up any sort of appearances. “That sounds like a great idea, hyung. You know how bad I am at it for all my height.”

“Not you,” he scolds. “You’re hopeless.”

“That’s not very kind of you, hyung,” Namjoon teases. “How can I be sure you’ll be nice to Y/N-ssi here if you can’t even be nice to me? I should go with you to make sure.”

Yoongi glares at him. “That won’t be necessary. Come on, Y/N,” Yoongi says without even waiting for your assent. “I have some extra clothes around here that you can wear.”

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Uh, are you sure? Is that, um, inappropriate?”

Yoongi stops to think for a moment and considers that perhaps it could be read wrong if he lends you his own clothes instead of asking his staff to find you some merch you can wear. Except, well, you are close in height to him and it seems ridiculous to create more work for everyone when he has perfectly serviceable clothes at hand.

“It’s fine,” he says, “although, we may need to find you shoes.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Namjoon volunteers. “Just get Y/N to the court. Hopefully, it’s free.”

Yoongi narrows his eyes at Namjoon, but since the younger man is helping him, he decides to let Namjoon’s ulterior motives go for now. Yoongi can already imagine the shit he’s going to get in the group chat.

“Alright, then,” you say, a queer sort of look crossing your face. “Give it your best shot.”

Yoongi drags you to the third floor where all the dance practice rooms are — including the one with the basketball court. You change in the women’s restroom while he, still clad in his sweater and jeans, warms up on the court. The only concession he’s made to the change in activity is switching into slides. Though he and the other members have danced on these dark wooden floors in all sorts of shoes, he still swaps out his heeled boots for the softer slides.

Also, he doesn’t really anticipate working up much of a sweat but when he sees you clad in his clothes, he thinks maybe he should have. You are way cuter than he’d anticipated. His navy shirt fits reasonably well and his gray shorts, well, they seem a little snug around your hips, but overall, Yoongi likes it.

He likes it a lot.

“Okay,” Yoongi says after he shakes himself out from staring too long at you. “Here’s how you should hold the ball to shoot,” he explains and gets his hands and body in position. “And this is how you shoot.”

He executes a perfect basket despite being a bit rusty and then jogs lightly to retrieve the ball for you.

He says, “Can you do that for me?” and hands you the ball.

You seem to smother a grin and try to follow his previous movements into a proper stance. “Like this?” you ask.

Yoongi crowds into your space and notes how you suck in a breath. He likes how he affects you even though he knows that it’s because you’re a fan. Of course you would respond to him being this close. He’s laying on the fanservice thick today. He doesn’t care.

“Spread your legs a little wider to make them more shoulder-width apart,” he instructs. Then he adjusts your elbow so that it’s a little more directly underneath the ball and lifts both your hands so that the ball is more eye-level for you. “Okay, now when you shoot, you extend your elbow and wrist in a straight line to the basket and when your hand lets go, it should extend in a straight line to the rim.”

You shoot and the ball bounces off the backboard. He’s honestly a little surprised you got close to the basket at all.

He runs after the ball, hands it to you, corrects your form, and then you shoot. This goes on for about ten minutes and then he suggests a game of HORSE. He explains the rules to you, how one person can shoot the ball however they choose and if they make the basket, the other player has to copy them exactly or they will get an ‘H.’ Whoever gets to HORSE first loses. You nod politely and agree to play, biting back a troubling grin.

“I’ll start,” Yoongi says, “I promise to take it easy on you.”

“Thanks,” you reply happily. “Although, should there be a wager?”

“A wager?”

“Yeah, after all, you were a really good teacher. I might beat you.”

Yoongi squints at you and wonders if you’re just playing it up for the cameras. You didn’t strike him as a flirty type, but maybe you’re finally warming up to him. He decides he can turn it around to his favor.

“Sure,” he says. “How about if I win, you knit me a hat.”

“I can do that,” you laugh. “Let’s do the same bet. If I win, you knit me a hat in return.”

“Deal,” he says, and the two of you shake on it.

Yoongi lines up an easy shot close to the basket and sinks it without doing anything fancy or ridiculous. He doesn’t want to discourage you. Before he can run after the ball, you’ve already retrieved it and though he hasn’t taught you any dribbling, you are dribbling the ball steadily back to his original position. You line up the shot and make it easily.

“I made that easy for you on purpose,” he says, keeping his voice light and teasing as he runs down the ball and throws it to you.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you reply.

He notes that you have really soft hands as you catch the ball, fielding it with your hands moving back and up towards your body as the ball reaches you.

You walk back to the three-pointer line and bounce the ball three times. Then you proceed to execute a rather complex route to the basket and make a lay-up with your left hand (which he is pretty sure is your non-dominant one).

Yoongi scowls. “Am I being hustled?”

You shrug amiably. “You’re the one who assumed I didn’t know how to play,” you heckle cutely. “I just didn’t correct you.”

At the laughter coming from the camera operators and producer, Yoongi supposes he deserves that. “I suppose that was sexist of me,” he acknowledges. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” you say, your eyes softening at the mention of your father. “He loved to play and coached all my teams when I was little.”

“Did you play for school, too?” asks Yoongi.

Your smile brightens. “I did!”

“Well, I hope you’re just as rusty as I am,” he says as he tries to remember what you did as closely as possible. He almost makes it.

As the game progresses, it becomes clear that you are nowhere near rusty. Yoongi is both flustered and somewhat turned on.

“Do you still play?”

You sink another perfectly executed shot. “I do,” you divulge. “I play in a league at work.”

Of course you do.

“You’re the team to beat, aren’t you?”

You laugh, loud and proud. “League champions 3 years running.”

“You said all you do is read, listen to music, and knit!” Yoongi protests. “You tricked me!”

“A person’s gotta keep some secrets,” you joke, and then you get serious. “I didn’t want you to think I was just saying it to impress you or whatever. I didn’t want it to be weird.”

Yoongi considers you a few moments. You seem somewhat worried at your minor deception and he hates that the ease with which you two had been interacting is now disappearing.

“I get it,” he says, “and I appreciate you considering things from my point of view. But we’re best friends now, so no more secrets!”

The tension slips out of your shoulders and you spread your arms wide. “I’m an open book.”

Yoongi gets his head back in the game and decides he has to cheat because he is getting roundly beaten. He’s somehow at ‘HORS’ to your ‘H.’

First, he makes your shot and saves himself. Then, he pulls off his sweater and starts to execute the choreography to “Dynamite” before his shot and when he makes the basket, he gloats. He doesn’t care if it’s unbecoming.

“I bet the league didn’t prepare you for that,” he teases.

Your mouth hangs open, and he is inordinately pleased. You sigh and shake your body loose. “No, the league didn’t,” you say more slyly than he likes. “But you did!”

You copy the moves rather faithfully and he knew he should have chosen a harder or more obscure choreography. But he doesn’t have the heart to nitpick like Hobi might, and when you make the basket and shoot finger guns at him, he’s even more enamored.

Yoongi is down bad.

Then you execute some incredibly complex footwork before doing some weird twisty jump thing. You shoot, the ball hits the backboard and bounces on the rim and Yoongi thinks he’ll get a chance to beat back losing once more, but then the ball twirls and spins in the hoop and finally goes through.

Yoongi groans. There is no way he can make it. He’s tired and you are trying very hard not to boast prematurely (though you have every right). But Yoongi is not an idol for nothing. Even after being out of the game for 21 months, he copies your footwork admirably and shoots, aiming for the backboard like you did. And while Yoongi does hit the glass and the ball does bounce back to the rim, alas, there is no twirling or spinning and the ball betrays him by bounding right back out.

You crow in victory and pump your fists in the air. You even do the kick from “Dynamite” and Yoongi laughs, acknowledging your superior abilities.

“I guess I owe you a hat,” he says. Yoongi knows he is smiling too hard for a loser to be smiling, but he really is so very happy.

You are also smiling too hard. “I’m going to hold you to it! Everyone watching is a witness!”

“Yah! You have to be more gracious a winner than that!” he complains, but he can tell you see right through him.

“Be nicer to me, Yoongi-ssi. Otherwise, I’ll sell that hat for a profit,” you joke.

Yoongi clutches his heart and pretends to be hurt. “And here I thought we were friends now.”

You sigh, your eyes crinkling into happy moons. “It would be an honor to be your friend, Yoongi-ssi.”

“I think we can drop the formalities now, right? We’re the same age, after all.”

Yoongi doesn’t have too many peers born the same year and he finds himself looking forward to finally having another 1993-liner around. He doesn’t know why he assumes you’ll be a constant presence in his life from here on out, but he knows that his gut is rarely wrong.

You nod and say, “As you wish.”

The producer indicates from behind the cameraperson that this is a good place to end the program and Yoongi knows what to do. He neatly thanks you for spending the day with him, and you thank him in return.

You hesitate then add, “Thank you for the perfect day. It really is an honor to meet you.”

“I think the honor is all mine. I’m grateful for your support,” he replies. Yoongi knows these are trite words, but he means them all the same.

When the cameras are off, he thanks the crew and the producer and when they move off to pack up, he tells you to keep his clothes and that he’ll be scanning the resale sites so he better not see his clothes listed. You are painfully sincere when you say you wouldn’t dream of betraying his trust like that. Then, a glimpse of your sassier self comes out when you say that you have a good enough job — you don’t need the extra income.

“I like a person who can take care of themselves, but I hope you’ll let me take care of you, too,” he says before he can stop himself in time. “I better get your Kakao information just to be sure I can contact you when I finish your hat.”

You seem to be floating in a dream when you wordlessly hand over your phone and he inputs his account and texts himself.

“I promise not to abuse your trust, Yoongi-ssi,” you say solemnly.

“Yah, what did I say? No more formalities. We’re friends now,” he argues, and when you nod dazedly, Yoongi tells himself he’s still got it. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” you say.

He can tell you don’t believe him, and he understands. He wouldn’t believe himself either except Yoongi means it. He doesn’t know why he’s so drawn to you, but he wants the chance to find out.

He accompanies you and the film crew out the dance studio/makeshift basketball court and then instead of heading out with you all, Yoongi chooses to go back up to his studio where he finds Namjoon is waiting for him.

“How did the basketball go? Did you impress her with your skills?” his friend pesters.

Yoongi feels his face heat just slightly and knows Namjoon can tell he’s blushing. He only hopes that he can play it off as a side effect of playing basketball.

“It was great. She kicked my ass,” he replies.

Namjoon breaks into a delighted grin at the plot twist. “Did she! That’s awesome,” he says, “I wish I had been there to see it.”

“Well, maybe you can see it next time. I think she just surprised me this time, is all,” Yoongi says as nonchalantly as he can.

Namjoon lets his words slide by. They’ve known each other so long, Yoongi knows it isn’t because his friend missed what he said. He knows it’s because Namjoon is letting him off easy only to give him hell later in the group chat.

The younger man rests his hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and pats him a few times as he gets up and then heads out. “I can’t wait, hyung,” Namjoon comments as he leaves.

To Yoongi, that’s as close to a stamp of approval as he can get from Namjoon. He smiles, happy to know that his judge of character hasn’t failed him.

He brings out his phone, finds your chat in Kakao and types, Rematch?

~~~~~

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

Notes: I have all sorts of random fluff stories in my head for this, but realistically, I don't know if I'll ever get to them so let's just consider this fic finished for now and if I ever get the energy to write more in this pocket universe, then I will add on!

Thanks for reading, friends! Link for People translation: https://doolsetbangtan.wordpress.com/2020/05/22/people/

#min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fluff #canon compliant #idolverse

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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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JUNGKOOK — STANDING NEXT TO YOU (2023)

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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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like or reblog if you save or use.

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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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“He's such a sweet guy, really humble and soft spoken. but beneath the soft exterior, he's amazing and super talented. He has an amazing voice. I think it's his versatility. he can do it all and he's not afraid to try any different style or to try singing in a different way. He's a chameleon, he can mold into any different kind of song. he's got a great, beautiful high falsetto, and he can do strong, powerful notes too. It's really pleasing to hear him sing.” — producer Cirkut about Jungkook “He's a huge star and he's had huge hits. He was so open and willing to try. like, so many people would just sing the song and then be like "okay, I'm done, sounds great" and he was just willing to go and go, and go until it was right. (…) He's not doing that for everyone else to hear, he's doing that for himself. Because he knows he can get it better, he knows what he can do. He was a perfectionist. (…) Hearing him on his own on this song it's pretty clear how massive of a run this guy is about to go on. it's pretty dangerous what's about to happen.” — producer Andrew Watt about Jungkook SEVEN — Recording Film

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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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THIS is a MASTERPIECE. I want you to know this was worth every last word you put into it and more @vyduan. I love Y/N and Yoongi and I think you did them both so much Justice here.

One of the pieces about your works I love the most is how unique your characters always feel and that is definitely the case here. y/N is her own person, with flaws and quirks and she shows her love in her own way (the socks, the SOCKS). I love the way you let us experience how in her head she is, to the point where I could feel her prickles of sadness and struggle and also her happiness - her thawing.

Speaking of thawing - Yoongi!! Yoongi!!! Seeing him reevaluate his relationships and really focus on what love means and what it can feel like? Amazing.

I also really appreciate the idea that love can be different for different people and feel different too. Whether it’s the sun, the moon, or a distant star - the warmth between the two of them by the end just - I was melting.

ALSO the ritual scenes were FIRE.

I cried, I smiled, I got a little horny at 9 am, it was perfect!! Perfect!!

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

Author: vyduan Pairing: Min Yoongi | Reader, Min Yoongi | Park Jimin Genre: one shot, witch au, arranged marriage au, slow burn, friends to lovers, angst Word Count: ~23.6k Rating: Explicit Warnings: swearing, legal consumption of alcohol, light mentions of domestic abuse, explicit descriptions of masturbation, use of sex toy in masturbation/sex, m/f oral sex (female receiving), explicit descriptions of consensual m/f sex, woman on top, light mentions of consensual mxm sex, discussions of difficulty achieving female orgasm, sex is considered a part of their duties (but is all consensual) AO3

Summary: You didn’t mean to fall in love with your husband and fellow Witches’ Councilmember Yoongi, but here you are: in love. (How gauche and not the thing. You’re co-workers, not lovers.) It’s particularly inconvenient since he is in love with someone else.

Notes: Written for the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Halloween collab for @colormepurplex2. I hope you like it!! Happy Halloween!!

World inspired in part by melodiousb's "Trust in the Weather."

Special thanks to @hamsterclaw, @sugalaritae2, @thatlongspringnight, @minisugakoobies, @booboobutt, supertaster, lawyerjin, and superstars for your handholding, encouragement, and quite frankly, for listening to me complain and cry and whine and just throw a tantrum every five minutes because this fic was supposed to be about 5k and here we are at almost 5x that. (This is actually the second fic I had started for this fic exchange. I had shelved my original idea because it would have been too long. The irony is annoying.)

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

You awaken to the smell of eggs and bacon. The soft morning light filters through your sunshine yellow curtains and you hear the birds and burbling fountain outside your open window. You allow your awareness to sink back into your body and stretch. You had slept restlessly in the night and there is a crick in your neck and a twinge in your shoulder.

There is a tap at your door and you mumble a blurry, “I’m up.”

Your husband, colleague, and fellow witch opens the door just a tiny bit and peeks in, his button nose and dark eyes glittering underneath the black wave of his fringe. It’s too early for you to see him full in the face so you pull the gray and green checkered duvet over your head.

“I made breakfast,” Yoongi says, his voice a pleasant low burr. “Come down before it gets cold, Y/N.”

“Mmmph,” you grumble in reply. “You could just spell it so that it doesn’t.”

You sound whiny even to your own ears. You don’t know why you’re so grumpy except a sudden memory of Yoongi and Jimin’s desperate panting and grunting traveling through the open windows last night reminds you.

Even now, the mere recall of their fucking leaves you burning and breathless. It doesn’t help that Yoongi had been so out of his mind with pleasure that his control over your psychic link had slipped and his orgasm had reverberated through you, leaving you wanting and weeping. If that had been merely an echo of Yoongi’s release, you can only imagine how mind-blowing it had been in reality.

You feel an ache behind your eyes.

“You know if I did that, you’d stay in bed all day,” Yoongi reasons. “Come on, Y/N. Jimin wants to see you before he leaves.”

Your gut twists and you choose to blame it on needing to relieve yourself. “Gimme a few minutes,” you say carefully.

Yoongi chuckles. “Alright,” he says and shuts the door.

You hear him pad down the wooden hallway and thunk down the stairs. His footfalls are surprisingly heavy for such a slight man (although you suppose he isn’t as lean as he used to be — years of physical and magical labor have filled him out nicely). You throw your covers off yourself and reluctantly swing your legs off the edge of the mattress and set your feet on the carpeted floor.

You shiver even though it’s still the beginning of autumn. The morning carries a slight chill, but you know it will burn off by mid-afternoon once the shadow cast by the forest is behind your cottage rather than over it.

You quickly grab the burnt orange sweater you were wearing last night from its resting place over your wooden desk chair. You head to the bathroom and get yourself both physically and mentally ready for the day. You wonder how long you can delay, but then you remember how Yoongi will have no qualms about dragging you downstairs by the ear.

You remember how much you also love Jimin, that it is neither Yoongi nor Jimin’s fault that you had been foolish enough to fall in love with your husband.

You are once again grateful that early in your marriage, you’d mutually agreed to keep the boundaries of your psychic link tightly wrapped around yourselves. It allowed you to maintain the privacy of your feelings (both emotional and sensational) and only in moments of extreme duress would they leak through to the other person.

The two of you are only married because that is part of the job description as Tranquil Valley’s witch representatives to the Witches’ Council. Every town or village’s witch representatives are married regardless of gender or sex. Such unions are perfunctory and pragmatic. Like all coworking relationships, some matches are lucky enough to eventually fall in love, but they are few and far between. More often than not, councilmembers just take on lovers or companions. It is a much simpler solution (and one which Yoongi has clearly availed himself).

Sometimes, marriages have to be dissolved due to irreconcilable differences between two parties. (And sometimes, sometimes, they have to be dissolved due to abuse. The Witches’ Council tries to keep these cases hushed lest humans and regular witches lose the respect they feel is their due.)

(Jimin was one such case though he never spoke of it. His husband had been removed from the council and their marriage sundered years ago, though Jimin had refused to keep his seat. He’d balked at the inhumane requirements for him to be re-bound to another person almost immediately after in order to retain his position as witch representative. The council had wanted to save face and Jimin had unceremoniously told them all to fuck themselves. You had not blamed him.)

“Y/N! Sometime this century!” Yoongi calls from below, effectively pulling you out of your reminiscing. You’d taken too long.

You dash down the wooden stairs and sheepishly slide into your small kitchen. Jimin is already seated in the nook, happily occupying the sunny spot. The sunlight reflects off his cotton candy pink hair and though your heart is sore, your eyes drink him in anyway. You marvel at the sly curves of his lips, the round of his cheeks, the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Jimin is so, so beautiful.

“Take a picture. It lasts longer,” Yoongi teases in his gravelly voice from the wooden kitchen counter as Jimin preens and bats his dark lashes at you. “It’s not like we’re living in the olden days.”

You feel your face heat at being caught, but you push through it. “Pictures can never fully capture our Jiminie’s beauty,” you say as you slide into your seat at the table opposite of Jimin. There is, after all, no point in denying what you were doing. Jimin knows you appreciate his appearance. So does Yoongi. He’s found you looking at Jimin often enough in the past. (Jimin is looking especially fine and soft this morning in a fluffy sky blue sweater that allows peeks of his collarbones.)

“Hmmm,” muses Yoongi, “just so.” He hands you a cup of coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk), chopsticks, and a plate of eggs over medium, bacon, kimchi, sourdough toast with ample butter and jam, and a peeled tangerine. Despite how long you took upstairs, the food is still warm (except for the tangerine) and your coffee is still hot.

You thank him and wonder if Yoongi has ever discovered you looking at him, and if he would tell you to take a picture. If he knows you appreciate his looks. If it causes Yoongi to preen. (He is in an oversized black hoodie and low slung pajama pants and looks delectable.)

You mentally shake yourself off this line of thinking. What does it matter if you find your husband attractive? The two of you have a duty — and you do it.

You consummate your marriage during every harvest moon to honor the moon and as thanks for a bountiful year. You consummate your marriage on the winter solstice as prayer for the grounds that lay fallow and the grounds planted with winter crops. You consummate your marriage on the vernal equinox to symbolize the literal sowing of fields. You consummate your marriage on the summer solstice to honor the sun and its life-giving force.

You do your duty. You never shirk it (though you are not quite sure you ever enjoy it either).

(You tamp down the disappointment that Yoongi always enjoys it enough. You remind yourself that releasing his seed, too, is part of his duty.)

You wonder if Yoongi loves Jimin because consummation with him has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with pleasure. You wonder why you do not seek out the same for yourself, except the thought of consummation with someone you do not know down to the depth of your bones is repellant. That and it rarely ends in climax for you anyway so why bother?

You decide for the countless time this morning to divert your thinking. “You wanted to see me, Jimin?”

Jimin beams a smile at you, his crooked front tooth charming you as always. “Jungkook has been asking after you, Y/N,” he says.

Your stomach churns. Jungkook is pleasant enough, but his energy is too bold for you. He feels like a puppy and it makes you tired to be around him. “Oh?” you reply.

You can tell Jimin draws the incorrect conclusion from your muted response when his face morphs into delighted calculation. “Yes,” he says. You can practically see the glee vibrating off his compact form. “He was wondering if you were going to attend Namjoon’s councilmember ascension event next month.”

You grimaced. You had known Namjoon when you were both young witches and though you had ascended to your position with Yoongi at Tranquil Valley more than a decade ago, no township or village had ever fit Namjoon quite right. Though most of the witch population chooses to settle somewhere and become part of that community by marrying as humans did and starting families, he had become a traveling witch (much as Jimin was) and wandered from territory to territory, apprenticing himself to many different talented witches until he chose to move on again.

Jimin is friends with him through his wanderings so you know more than you care to about Namjoon and his eclectic tastes and penchant for absorbing as much magical lore as possible. You secretly contend that Namjoon is petty and tedious (though competent enough), and that’s why he is constantly passed over. Perhaps he’s finally found a place as tiresome as he is.

“I had no intention of doing so,” you say harsher than you had intended, “Yoongi already agreed to go. The event doesn’t require both of us to be there.”

Yoongi shoots you a puzzled look because you hadn’t yet told him of your intentions to stay home, but you ignore him. When Jimin quirks his head at Yoongi, your husband merely shrugs so slightly that you almost miss it were it not for the fact that you are always aware of him when in his presence. It was not always so, but ten plus years working and living with a person will do it to even the most self-absorbed (and you are not self-absorbed — or at least, no more than the average person).

But as much as Yoongi knows how to read you, he still doesn’t know all of your story — only the bare bones of it. You prefer it that way and had taken the position years ago as a chance to start over. You do not wish to be reminded of your past, let alone revisit someone you find obnoxious.

Besides, you also aren’t going because you can’t stand the idea of Yoongi leaving you alone in your shared quarters while he is off fucking (or being fucked by) Jimin. Though you know distance doesn’t mute your psychic link — what good would the link serve if that were the case — you hope being at home will distract you enough so that you won’t notice as much if Yoongi’s control slips again. It doesn’t happen often and for that, you are exceedingly grateful.

“Jungkook will be disappointed,” Jimin remarks, his expression sneakier than you like.

You wave him off as you take a sip of your coffee, grateful for something to occupy you before something uncharitable slips from your lips. “He’ll get over it,” you say after you get your mouth under control. “I’m sure there will be plenty of witches who will be willing to take his mind off of me when he’s at Namjoon’s ascension afterparty.”

“Oh, I’m sure, too,” agrees Jimin. “But they won’t be you.”

You sigh. “He’ll eventually figure out that I’m not interested,” you say and dig into your eggs with feigned gusto.

“Well, if it’s not Jungkook, do you have your eyes on anyone else?” asks Jimin. He leans in as if this crafted intimacy will divest you of your secrets.

You do not bother replying and Jimin wisely keeps any additional comments to himself (but not before shooting Yoongi another glance).

The three of you continue breakfast and Yoongi changes the subject to the library re-opening that he knows you won’t object to. You allow yourself to settle into the safety of town administration and Jimin pipes in occasionally with observations and advice of his own. You know your contribution to the discourse is half-hearted at best, but your thoughts are scattered and you want to sulk.

You do not understand why you want to sulk. You do not sulk; that is not a thing you do.

Soon enough, breakfast is over and you clear the dishes into your kitchen’s farmhouse sink as Jimin goes to gather his bags from Yoongi’s room.

You are staring at the mess debating whether you will do the dishes with your own two hands because you need something to do or if you will expend the requisite energy and magic to spell the dishes clean when Yoongi says, “You’re moody.”

“Am I?” you murmur distractedly. You turn on the water and pull on your teal dishwashing gloves. You need the meditative task today.

Yoongi ambles to your side and bumps your shoulder in a friendly gesture. “You’ve seemed moody a lot lately.”

You turn, startled to see him peering at you with such scrutiny. “Have I?”

“Yes. Have your courses been bothering you? I know some months the pain is considerable,” he continues, the picture of solicitousness. “Are you nearing the change? Or perhaps you are with child?”

You are surprised. Jimin is still here (though in another room) and Yoongi is casually discussing your work-related duties as if Jimin can’t just waltz back into the kitchen at any moment. As if he is also part of your marriage. It is inappropriate.

“That’s unlikely,” you glare at your husband.

“Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean you can’t be,” Yoongi says.

“As you know, our last consummation was mere days ago,” you reply coldly while you turn back to the task at hand, “and I was menstruating then. I doubt I am pregnant.” You scrub a plate with more force than necessary. “Also, I resent the insinuation that I’m anywhere near perimenopause let alone menopause.”

You know Yoongi thinks that should be the end of it, and you normally would stop, but a frisson of fury forces itself up, emerging from your normally impassive waters.

“This line of reasoning is outdated and sexist,” you continue. “Should I blame your intrusiveness on your testosterone rising thanks to an increased proximity to Jimin? Too much fucking is stirring up your baser emotions?”

Yoongi sucks in a breath, sharp and astonished. You know it’s out of character. The two of you were chosen for Tranquil Valley because of your temperaments: calm and steady, even-keeled. Though you are the grumpier of the two, no one would ever call you hot headed let alone spiteful.

Your last comment was spiteful.

Your day is doomed to be one unacceptable humiliation after another when you sense more than hear Jimin as he comes back into the kitchen and tries unsuccessfully to go back out.

“Jimin and I are concerned,” Yoongi continues. You can tell he is trying very hard to dredge up as much civility as he can.

You resist the overpowering need to smash the plate in your hand. Breaking dinnerware is only satisfying if you cannot magic it back together, the evidence of brokenness swept away and hidden by a neat party trick.

You do not wish your cracks to be temporal, tempered, or temperate.

“You’ve discussed me with Jimin?” You turn to face him in full.

“I’m worried about you,” insists Yoongi as if he’s in the right. “And of course we talk about you. You and I talk about Jimin all the time. You’re our friend.”

“But I’m your wife,” you hiss, your gloved hands dripping over the floor as you gesture between you. “Our marriage is none of his business. Tranquil Valley is not his town. He is not our superior. He isn’t even a councilmember anymore.”

Anger rushes across Yoongi’s face and his eyes dart to where you know Jimin is frozen by the kitchen entrance. Of course his primary concern is for Jimin’s feelings. You wonder if he even realizes you have any.

You feel strangely vulnerable, ashamed of the ugliness you never suspected was buried within you.

You don’t need to see the younger man to know you have breached trust. You know why Jimin is no longer on the council with you two anymore. You and Yoongi had been his staunchest advocates, documenting the abuse and providing refuge for your friend.

You are uncertain whether Jimin will still allow you to call him as such.

“I guess I should be grateful you chose to be nosey then, hmmm? I can’t imagine what would have become of me had everyone continued to mind their own fucking business.” Jimin’s voice drips with calm though you know he is not. He whips you with his dignified composure.

“That’s not what I mean, Jimin,” you protest, “of course we couldn’t allow that man to —”

“I know what that man did,” Jimin bites, cutting you off. The air cracks and shudders with Jimin’s magic. “I was there.”

Yoongi crosses the kitchen to Jimin’s side, leaving you to stand alone against the sink. He approaches slowly and fissures spread across your heart as you witness the way Yoongi asks and Jimin permits with just subtle inclines of their heads. Theirs is the language of lovers, the casual intimacy of people who know each other’s bodies thoroughly. Yoongi wraps his strong arms around Jimin, his forehead kissing Jimin’s forehead.

You cannot bear to look. You cannot bear to look away.

The electric hum recedes as Jimin allows Yoongi to soothe him. You watch as they hold each other with a devotion you never before begrudged but now find yourself doing so.

The water is still running and it is too loud, too alive, too clean.

You break your gaze and move to turn off the faucet. When you turn back around, Jimin is gone and Yoongi is alone.

In the days following, you and Yoongi assiduously avoid one another. You hide in your workroom and Yoongi goes out in the field early and returns home late.

He no longer wakes you for breakfast, except when you finally go down after he heads into town, your food is always still warm and your coffee is always still hot.

It shames you.

Though you know you need to apologize to him, you cannot bring yourself to do so. (You can’t even bring yourself to think about Jimin.) You know if you do, your husband will try to get to the root of your outburst and you do not have the emotional wherewithal to discuss it at length with him.

You do not know if you will be able to keep your dignity intact, if your jealousy of Jimin will only spotlight the unfortunate happenstance of you being in love with Yoongi. It is embarrassing and gauche.

You presume Yoongi avoids you because he is angry on Jimin’s behalf (though he doesn’t take it out on you because that is not his way). He has every right to be, and for the first time since your ascension day, you are afraid.

What if Yoongi chooses Jimin and leaves you? What if he quits his position and you no longer have a husband or a friend and have to consummate quarterly with a new husband — one who would be a stranger? (You recoil at the thought.) Or worse yet — what if he reports you to the Witches’ Council and asks to have you removed?

(It is irrational. It is extremely difficult to depose a sitting councilmember. You know from seeing how they dragged their feet when Jimin was actively being harmed and controlled.)

You’d spent your childhood dreaming of being a councilmember, of working so hard to be at the top of your classes and excelling not only at spellwork and potion making, but also at management and administration. Namjoon had been your main rival for top marks, but he had never seemed to care for the trappings of success.

You’d had no choice but to be outstanding. Your family lacked the connections and wealth to influence the Witches’ Council into providing a position. (Unlike Namjoon, but you suppose if he had really wanted a seat, he could have prevailed upon his family to procure him a spot. You reluctantly allow for this point in his favor.)

When you and Yoongi had been selected for the sleepy town a few hours out from Tech City, you’d been so anxious, desperate to please both him and the councilmembers you would be replacing. It was rare for both councilmembers to be replaced at the same time, but Chirawan and Saanvi had served the town as wives for more than four decades and were waiting for Yoongi and you to finish your apprenticeship before retiring. The two witches had been kind and patient and you and your fiance had thrived under their tutelage.

Yoongi was the better people person and better at raw magic whereas you were the better administrator and loved intricate spellwork and practical potions. Chirawan helped Yoongi get to know the citizens of Tranquil Valley as he learned how to visualize what they needed (and wanted), and then used his raw magic to create it — sometimes in conjunction with local craftsmen, sometimes without.

The sheer power and magnitude of Yoongi’s abilities had always seemed more useful than your own, but Saanvi had helped you see the need for both of your talents. Your wards kept shops and streets safe from crime, your potions helped the local witches with supply issues during the heavy cold and flu season, and your knack for administration kept the town government in good working condition. Saanvi had even shown you how the townspeople liked you just fine (and they still do).

Though Yoongi had been a stranger to you at the start of the apprenticeship, by the time of your ascension day, you two had become good colleagues and friendly enough. You’d found him restful and hardworking, and he had not seemed to object to your company, even occasionally seeking it out during your downtime. Your practice consummations had been textbook (if not very exciting), and overall, Saanvi and Chirawan had assured you both that you would be fine.

Up until now, it has mostly been fine. The two of you, like all people, argue and differ in opinion, but eventually, you two usually come to some sort of accord.

This detente does not feel like one of those moments.

But when the days turn into weeks and your superiors have not fired you and you each have resumed speaking to one another (albeit stiltedly), you hope that perhaps given enough time, Yoongi will remember that you are not the monster you’d shown him. You hope he will remember that as much as he knows Jimin, he knows you, too. That there is also an intimacy between people who have steadily lived and worked together for over a decade with minimal friction.

You may not know Yoongi’s body like a second skin, but you know enough.

You know the slow, steady rhythm of his days, how he wakes before you and starts breakfast, does an immediate triage of any bureaucratic fires that have erupted overnight before leaving the long term solutions to you, and then heads out to make the public appearances and networking events around town he knows you hate.

You know his favorite stews and soups, how he takes his coffee and whisky, his favorite sweaters and slippers, his favorite playlists and sports teams, and most of what he is going to say before he says it (especially when it comes to the town and its residents).

You know the way his shoulder aches in the winter and the exact pressure points to push so his pain can ease. (It helps that you can feel an echo of the pain in your own body when he is too tired to shield you from it.)

You know the way he will hum under his breath as he prepares your cozy cottage for winter and the way he likes to peer into the forest behind you, smiling softly at the deer and tiny foxes that wander into the clearing around your home.

You know the way his weight settles over you during your consummation rituals, the way his eyebrows scrunch and his breath hitches right before he spills into you and onto the fertile soil below.

You know by the way he comes back from Namjoon’s ascension ceremony just as weighed down as before that he did not spend his nights with Jimin in heartfelt reconciliation and joyful celebration.

You know the way he will hover near the windows to check the road into town on days he anticipates Jimin making an appearance, even so.

You know the way Yoongi shrinks into himself as the days pile into weeks and then into months, and Jimin never appears.

When Yoongi finally returns to his tiny cottage after a long day of clearing snow from blocked roads and parking lots, he is relieved to see the warm lights through the windows. He is exhausted, his left shoulder aches, and his magic needs replenishing with one of your reconstitution brews and hopefully, his mother’s kimchi jjigae that you learned to make years ago. Instead, he is met with an unfamiliar sand colored Toyota Highlander parked on the side of their driveway.

Yoongi sighs and checks his phone to see if you’d texted him about the guest and absent any, sighs again. Maybe it was a last minute drop-in from the locals (they try to discourage such drop-ins, but sometimes, it just can’t be helped). He hopes that whoever it is will take the hint and leave as soon as possible, but Yoongi isn’t confident.

He stomps into the mudroom, flops onto the simple wooden bench, and slips off his muddy boots, debating summoning the energy to spell them clean. He ultimately decides against it. After all, tomorrow will be more of the same shit. At least his thick woolen socks are dry. Not only are they made with some sort of fancy dry-weave sweat-wicking technology, you have painstakingly stitched in spells to make doubly sure his socks stay dry and always maintain his preferred temperature level.

Yoongi sheds his gloves, woolen beanie, checkered scarf, and his thick, shearling lined flannel jacket, hanging them from the wall hooks. He checks the convenient mirror you’d hung and ruffles his hair so it doesn’t look quite so matted down. His cheeks are ruddy and wind-chapped and his eyes are lined with weariness. Yoongi doesn’t bother to straighten his flannel shirt or the thermals underneath. If his guest is offended at his appearance, they shouldn’t have dropped by so late in the day.

He sucks in a cleansing breath, holds it a few seconds, and then whooshes it out his lungs. Though Yoongi does not mind dealing with people, he is still an introvert and he is all peopled out. That’s in great part why living with you used to be so soothing and comfortable. You, too, are an introvert and content to leave him to his own counsel.

Yoongi is sad as he realizes that you no longer seem to be his resting place. He doesn’t know why — has given you ample chances to open up and tell him, has even given you months of space — but you never say anything. That combined with Jimin refusing to answer his calls and texts has made this fall and winter season the worst he’s weathered in years. The lack of sun always makes him feel a little down, but he’s usually had you and Jimin to help him through.

Yoongi is worn out and he hates that he doesn’t even know how it happened.

He forces himself into the kitchen and is pleased to see kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. He doesn’t know why he didn’t smell it when he got in. He idly wonders if he’s catching a cold and reminds himself to ask you for one of your immune boosting teas before he goes to bed.

Yoongi hears lowered voices and when he pops into the common room, is stunned to see Jimin — now with gunmetal gray hair — sitting on the couch in the arms of a beautiful man. Beautiful is an understatement. Yoongi thinks this might be the most arrestingly attractive man he’s ever seen — and he grew up with Seokjin Kim. The otherworldly man is saying something in a low baritone (which would be distracting enough) except he is also nuzzling Jimin’s face with his own and playing with Jimin’s tiny fingers.

The stranger’s dark brows are sensuous slashes above smoldering brown eyes, and they lift when Yoongi grumbles a greeting.

“Oh, Yoongi,” you say as you scoot over on the forest green loveseat to make room for him. It’s the first time in months he’s heard you address him with anything but passive politeness, and yet, he hadn’t even realized you were in the room until you’d spoken. “Jimin requested a last minute meeting and he brought a friend along. This is Taehyung Kim — they are old elementary school friends.”

Yoongi finally takes you in. You are in your favorite tangerine colored angora sweater and soft, gray lounge pants. Your face and body language are forcibly placid and he sees pity in your eyes. Suddenly, he hates you.

“Hello, Taehyung,” Yoongi says, remembering his manners. What he does not remember, however, is Jimin ever mentioning this Taehyung. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” he adds, though he had no idea to expect guests tonight. He used to consider Jimin family — but since his radio-silence and this surprise Taehyung, Yoongi doesn’t know what Jimin is to him anymore. “Clearing the smaller roads took longer than I thought.”

You make some small sound of commiseration and then pour him some tea from the tea service on the coffee table. Yoongi must be out of it if he didn’t even notice how you’d taken care to bring out his favorite tea set with the little cartoon cats. He can’t even smell what he’s sure must be his favorite valerian root tea and when he notices the beveled honey jar, he knows he is right. He must be coming down with something if he didn’t even smell the bitter, earthy tea.

Yoongi sits down on the loveseat and nods a thanks as you hand him a cup with a cat eating tangerines. He scoots as far from you as possible without it making it seem as if he’s doing so. He can tell from the way Taehyung’s eyes bore holes into him that he is unsuccessful.

“They showed up about fifteen minutes ago,” you say, acknowledging not giving him a head’s up. “Said it was urgent but wanted to wait for you before telling me. I had just started apologizing to Jimin right before you got home.”

Yoongi almost spills his cup of tea. He waits for you to say more, but you do not. He peers at you and Jimin but does not see any of the previous comfort and love you used to share. He only sees strain on both of your parts as Taehyung hugs Jimin tighter (if possible).

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

He is gratified to see your grip on your teacup tighten just a fraction before you release it. He’s glad you haven’t apologized yet. He’s glad he gets to witness it. Yoongi doesn’t care if that means he’s a bitter, petty person. He is feeling bitter and petty.

You turn to face Jimin, your face contrite and nervous. “I’m sorry for throwing your status as a non-councilmember in your face, Jimin. It was not only classist and elitist, it was also cruel considering both your history and our friendship.”

Jimin considers you for a few long beats. “Is that how you really see me? As someone who doesn’t have a say in your life because of my status?” His face is strained, and Yoongi can tell he’s holding back his hurt.

“Oh, no, Jimin. I was just lashing out, and you were there.” Your face crumples. “Of course I value your opinion — both on my personal life and about our Tranquil Valley duties. I truly am so sorry.”

“Why were you lashing out?” Jimin asks, “and what’s to stop you from doing that again?”

Yoongi thinks he sees genuine pain and hurt in your eyes, but before he can wonder why you are hurt when it is Jimin and him who were the injured parties, you answer.

“I suppose that’s fair.” You seem distinctly more ill at ease, as if you’re trying to figure out what story to spin them to make this line of questioning go away as quickly as possible. “I — I was upset at the idea of you two discussing me. I know you were both concerned, but it felt — I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like I was on the outside, like you two were a team and I was not.”

“That’s stupid,” Yoongi says before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up and he cannot decipher your expression. He suddenly realizes that as much as he knows you, there is still so much he does not.

“Well, sorry you have such a stupid wife,” you say so matter of factly that it takes Yoongi several beats before your sarcasm registers, “but that’s the reason, or as best as I can explain it.”

Jimin and Taehyung keep glancing back and forth between you and Yoongi. It is clear that there are also unresolved issues in his marriage and he is somewhat embarrassed that this is being carried out in front of a stranger. He wishes again that Jimin had come alone, and his gut tells him that Taehyung is here for more than just emotional support.

You refocus your attention on Jimin. “I’m sorry it’s not more specific. But truly, I love and care about you so much. I’m so sorry that I’ve hurt you and I understand if you can no longer trust me.” You pause and grimace as you look at Yoongi. “I’m also so sorry if what I said has ruptured your relationship with Yoongi.”

This time, Yoongi looks away. He does not want you to know just how angry he still is at you. Instead, he watches Jimin. He misses Jimin with his entire being.

Jimin does not move for several long moments and to your credit, you do not rush him or pressure him to accept your apology.

Yoongi hopes (even though he knows that perhaps he has none).

“I see,” Jimin finally says.

A look of regret flashes across his angelic face and Yoongi knows. He knows Jimin does not love him in the same way Yoongi does (and perhaps always will).

“Taehyung asked me to be his husband. I agreed.”

Yoongi hears himself gasp. You tentatively place your hand on his arm, but he shakes you off. He feels as if he’s underwater.

“I thought you said you’d never get married again,” Yoongi spits. He knows he is being ridiculous. Plenty of non-married councilmembers fuck each other. There is no rule that prohibits it. Except, some foolish part of him had hoped that perhaps one day, when Jimin wanted to settle down, he would settle with Yoongi and you. “Is this because of what Y/N said? Did you miss running a city that much? We could have made space for you here.”

Yoongi doesn’t turn to look at your face even though he can feel you freeze by his side.

He knows he has never discussed this with you — and truthfully, it’s not common for there to be triad representatives in a marriage, but it’s not unheard of either. Usually, triads and even quads are reserved for large, bustling metropolises, not sleepy little townships nestled in picturesque valleys.

Either way, the point is now moot. Jimin is marrying Taehyung.

“I realized recently that if I hate the council so much, I can change it,” Jimin says, his voice trembling with emotion, “but the only way to change it is from the inside.”

“So this is a political move?” Yoongi asks.

He asks because though Jimin has never said so, Yoongi has always hoped the wandering witch returned his feelings. He has always hoped that one day, when Jimin was ready, they could all settle down together in Tranquil Valley.

“It is political,” confirms Jimin as he straightens himself, as if his body could lend his voice resolution, “and it is also more. Taehyung loves me.”

Yoongi cannot bear it. “I love you,” he grates out, uncaring that you and Taehyung are witnessing the first outward confession of his heart.

Grief steals into Jimin’s eyes right before he glances away, refusing to meet Yoongi’s gaze. His Jimin, who when they’d made love, would force Yoongi to look him in the eyes as he came.

You and Taehyung avert your eyes, too. As if your not looking provides him the dignity he’s abandoned. As if your not looking makes the fact that Jimin does not want him anymore less true.

It is not enough.

“I know,” Jimin says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Yoongi tries to salvage the situation. Jimin has not said he loves Taehyung (though he also has not said he loves Yoongi). Perhaps, they can at least continue their arrangement.

“Where is Taehyung’s city?” Yoongi hates how his voice is so raw and hopeful.

Jimin winces. “It’s in the Southern Territories,” he says to the floor, “a 5 hour flight from Tech City. There are talks of the Witches’ Council forming a southern council and letting the Southern Territories self-govern.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yoongi does not bother hiding the hurt in his voice. He is reeling and all he wants is to go back to thirty minutes prior when he was driving home, anticipating some kimchi jjigae and sinking into his mattress, lonely but still dreaming of companionship with Jimin. “I thought we were at least friends?”

“I — I’m telling you now.” Jimin stutters. Yoongi has never known the younger witch to stumble. Perhaps, this is affecting Jimin more than he is letting on. “I know it seems sudden, and I suppose it is,” he explains. “But after what Y/N said — how I wasn’t part of your Tranquil Valley, how I wasn’t even a councilmember anymore —”

Jimin cuts himself off and stares at his hands which are currently hidden in the frayed sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Yoongi vaguely registers that it’s one he gave Jimin years ago.

Taehyung leans in even closer to Jimin and whispers in his ear. Jimin’s dark lashes flutter and Yoongi feels twin daggers twist in his heart and gut. Jimin used to flutter his lashes for him, his cock heavy in Yoongi’s mouth, his hooded gaze pinning Yoongi down while he thrust. Yoongi hates how he remembers exactly how Jimin’s lush lips used to glisten, parted to pant his name or pinched between Jimin’s teeth.

A wave of despair crashes over Yoongi and he grits his teeth. He’s flustered and frustrated at his reaction. He is normally not so emotional. He knows that love is not usually in the cards for witch representatives, that the nature of their duties prevents them from what the rest of their world considers normal, healthy relationships.

Yoongi’s younger self had not cared, had been more than satisfied to run a town in his parents’ footsteps, to have meaning in his work, to have companionship with you and his carnal needs met by other people. He had thought Jimin would be a convenient melding of friendship and physicality. Yoongi had not expected to love him, had not expected for love to come in his thirties when Yoongi had never before loved anyone.

Yoongi did not love until he did and now that he does, he regrets. He thinks that perhaps you have the right of it, never attaching yourself to a particular person or even seeking a paramour.

He reels himself in, forcing himself to call upon over thirteen years of dealing with irate citizenry or pompous councilmembers trying to lure him into pissing contests. Yoongi forces himself to remember that it is not about him, that though his heart is breaking, it’s Jimin’s life, and ultimately, he wants Jimin to be happy.

He gentles his voice. “Jimin-ah, if you think this will make you happy, then I’m happy for you.” When Jimin lifts an eyebrow in disbelief, he adds, “I wish you had told me when you were considering this, but a lot of it is because I hate the idea of you struggling with this alone.”

“Taehyung helped,” Jimin says.

Yoongi pretends that it doesn’t cut deep. He can make it through the next few seconds, the next few minutes, the next few hours.

Taehyung has the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t do much,” he mumbles in a deliciously low voice. Yoongi hates that he can’t help but notice. “Whatever my family can do to help you in spearheading change, we will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Your family?” you ask. “And who is your family?”

It is only when you speak that Yoongi recalls that you are still here. You have been so quiet, so still — almost as if you wanted to disappear and give him as much privacy as you could.

Taehyung’s honey-colored skin deepens. “Ah,” he says as he clears his throat. “I’m from the southern Kim clan.”

Your eyes widen. “As in Kim Magus Industries and Kim Thaumaturgical Enterprises?” Your face suddenly screws in suspicion and Yoongi cannot help but be grateful. “How did you end up at Jimin’s elementary school? He grew up in the Western Territories.”

Taehyung hesitates before deciding to share. “There were some succession issues when I was small,” he explains. “They sent me with my mother’s youngest sister to live somewhere far away to protect me.”

“Her youngest sister?” you scoff. “Sounds like they weren’t particularly concerned.”

“My imo is Seong-Min Chae.”

“Oh, shit,” you breathe, immediately recognizing the name of one of the most powerful elemental witches in modern times. “I stand corrected.” You sweep your eyes over Taehyung as if with renewed respect.

Yoongi takes this moment to more carefully look over Taehyung in his brown cabled sweater, maroon corduroys, and black woolen socks. His hair is a white blond with a centimeter of black roots. He doesn’t look like he’s from one of the richest and most powerful witch families of the last century.

“And is the succession issue adequately resolved? Will Jimin be in any danger?” you doggedly continue, as if trying to make up for your prior behavior.

Taehyung regards you approvingly even as Jimin rolls his eyes. Yoongi knows that Jimin is likely chafing at your protectiveness. Jimin hates being perceived as weak, hates showing any sort of weakness.

“You have my word that Jimin will be more than safe and secure with me. No one will dare fuck with the Kim heir and his husband,” Taehyung says, his soft tone belying the steel in his words. “My family would annihilate them.”

“That, um, seems adequate,” you choke and shake your head ruefully. You sigh. “Well, I did ask.”

Yoongi wants to hate Taehyung, but even he cannot deny that is more than Yoongi could ever hope to provide. And if Jimin truly wants to change the council from the inside, the Kim clan would be the muscle and money influencing decisions. Loath as Yoongi is to admit that outside powers have any sway over councilmembers, everyone knows that is patently untrue. The only reason you and Yoongi are generally unaffected is because Tranquil Valley is too small to be considered worth affecting.

“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Yoongi finally offers, “but you have to tell us. No more shutting us out, Jimin.”

“He can shut us out if he wants to, Yoongi,” you interject softly. “We hope you don’t. We hope to be worthy of your trust, but I understand if there are times you cannot or choose not to. For all the changes you wish to push, you will have your own city to worry about and consider first.”

Yoongi wants to glare at you, to scowl and throw a tantrum like he did as a child. Except he knows you are right. He knows that once a witch ascends to the council, they are no longer their own. Their people, their land, their city — they all clamor for priority so much so that Yoongi sometimes forgets that he is his own person. It is a huge reason why he’d found such solace in Jimin.

Jimin had just been for him.

Jimin nods and accepts your offer graciously. “I will do my best.”

His face rifles through expressions so rapidly that Yoongi only recognizes them because he has spent so many hours studying Jimin’s ethereal face. Yoongi cannot decide if he prefers Jimin vulpine and predatory or tender and vulnerable. He is unsure if he has ever seen Jimin truly with his guard down and Yoongi’s heart pangs.

Jimin clears his throat. “We’ve taken enough of your time.” He picks up his neglected tea cup and gulps down a few tepid sips. “Thank you for your apology, Y/N,” he adds for your benefit and something in your posture loosens, sagging in relief. It is a small thing, but Yoongi notices. “And Yoongi,” Jimin starts before stopping, his tenor voice hitching with emotion.

You suddenly stand. “Taehyung, would you mind helping me clear the dishes?”

To Taehyung’s credit and Yoongi’s surprise, Taehyung unwraps his body from Jimin, collects a few cups and then follows you into the kitchen.

Yoongi shivers.

Jimin reaches across the coffee table for Yoongi’s hands and Yoongi lets him. He does not want to admit that he is busy memorizing the feel of Jimin’s smaller hands in his larger ones. He does not want to cling, to beg for one more night of mapping out Jimin’s body with his palms and tongue.

Yoongi is afraid to make eye contact, but he is more afraid to lose this chance to drink in Jimin’s warm, brown eyes. He wills himself not to tremble, to not reveal himself as he did so gracelessly before.

“Do you love him?” he inquires before he can stop himself. There goes Yoongi’s resolve to not reveal himself.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Jimin says, all honey and regret. “I was a coward.” Yoongi notes that Jimin does not answer his question. “I was afraid you would talk me out of it.”

Yoongi flinches. He removes his hands even though he immediately wants Jimin to regrasp them. “Do you think me so selfish?”

Jimin shrugs. “I know how love goes,” he tosses carelessly.

“That man did not love you,” Yoongi snarls. At Jimin’s nonchalant waving off of his words, he feels a throbbing build at the base of his skull. He does not want to argue. (It is an old argument, at any rate.) “I’m sorry,” he utters, though he is not sure what exactly he is sorry for. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and he means it.

Yoongi watches as Jimin gets up from the couch and settles next to Yoongi on the loveseat. Jimin wraps his arms around Yoongi and nestles his face in the curve where Yoongi’s neck meets his shoulder. Yoongi hates how weak he is. He hates how he cannot help but embrace Jimin, desperate to have the man he loves enfolded and clasped to his chest.

Yoongi breathes Jimin in, letting his scent of light gardenia and tuberose wash over him. He hates how even now, even knowing that you and Taehyung are in the next room over, Yoongi wants. He wants to run away and use his magic to construct a fortress or castle or both and sequester himself with Jimin to love and to fuck for the rest of his life.

For the first time he can recall, he despises their societal strictures. He hates how his foolish, younger self dismissed love out of hand, consigning it to lesser mortals who did not have his sense of duty (filial or otherwise). He does not think his parents ever loved each other, though they had seemed congenial enough. They have long since retired and gone their separate ways and Yoongi hates how what had seemed so normal to him at the time now strikes him as cruel.

He suddenly realizes he does not want the life his parents had and set as an example for him. Yoongi does not know what this means. He only knows that the love of his life is holding him (or is Yoongi holding Jimin) and the thought of living the rest of his life with you and no prospect of Jimin makes him want to scream.

Yoongi chokes back a sob and Jimin leans back to cup his face, using his thumbs to wipe at Yoongi’s cheeks. Yoongi had not even noticed that he’d been crying this whole time.

“If I could love, I would have liked to love you, Yoongi,” Jimin says.

It is cruel. It is merciful.

Yoongi does not think it is remotely true though perhaps Jimin doesn’t want to leave him with nothing. Perhaps this is the best Jimin can do.

“I’m glad Taehyung loves you,” Yoongi says, shocking himself even as he realizes it is true. “You deserve love, Jimin-ah,” he continues, “and I hope even if you don’t love him, that you can feel it deep in your bones. I’m glad he already told you and didn’t hide it like I did. You should be loved. You should know that you’re loved.”

Jimin huffs. “I never knew you were such a sentimental sap.” He aims for light and teasing except somehow, he misses the mark. Instead, Jimin sounds full of wonder and confusion.

“I guess that’s your effect on people.”

Yoongi wants to curl up and die. How can such ridiculous words flow from his mouth with all sincerity and no irony whatsoever?

Jimin lifts his hand and places a finger lightly on Yoongi’s lower lip. Yoongi resists the overwhelming urge to flick out his tongue and taste Jimin one last time. As if reading his mind, Jimin slowly cants forward and places a soft kiss over his own finger and Yoongi sighs at the slight contact on his mouth. Before he knows it, Jimin has slipped his finger away and deepened the kiss and Yoongi, greedy fool that he is, drinks Jimin in one last time.

All too soon, Jimin pulls away, his eyes glassy and hazy with want. Yoongi swallows and desperately wishes he could swallow Jimin and keep him for himself.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” Jimin whispers and then heads to the kitchen.

Yoongi is alone.

Yoongi moves as if in a stupor for the next few days. You don’t say anything and though he thinks he keeps his feelings tightly wrapped, thinks none of his devastation leaks down your psychic connection, there is one moment after he’s awakened from a particularly heartbreaking dream where he thinks he feels comfort and consolation pulse down to him. He immediately falls back asleep (though now that he thinks about it, that seems odd) and Yoongi later tucks that memory away to examine when he’s in a better headspace.

He struggles to get out of bed and he vaguely recalls you taking on all his in-person meetings and going into town on his behalf. It’s something you only do when he is too sick to meet safely with people, and because he is rarely sick thanks to your brews, you’ve rarely had to do so.

Yoongi is not sick now, but still, you go.

His meals magically appear (literally) and tisanes are pressed to his lips when he wakes, boneless and dried out from all his tears. And then on the fifth day, he wakes up right after sunrise, runs a steaming hot shower, and then plods downstairs to make you breakfast.

When you show up about ten minutes later, eyes half open and hair in a messy pile on your head, you pause in confusion. Your sleeping shirt is wrinkled and your flannel pajama pants are slouchy and clearly too long. (In fact, he suspects those are actually his missing ones. They look familiar.) You grunt something that resembles a garbled “morning,” plonk down at the nook and promptly cradle your head in your arms, closing your eyes as if you’re in pain.

Considering how much you hate mornings, Yoongi suspects that might actually be the case.

When he slides a plate of french toast, sausage links, and cut fresh fruit in front of you, you finally stir and show some signs of life. You prop your face up with a reluctant palm and your cheek is adorably squished. You groan and make grabby hands in his direction and Yoongi finds himself amused for the first time in days.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got your coffee,” he says agreeably and carefully sets a mug of your chosen poison (no sugar, a splash of oat milk) in your impatient hands.

He brings his own plate of food over along with his iced Americano (it doesn’t matter how cold the weather is, he always has his coffee cold and black) and sits in his regular seat across from you. It’s a bit jarring to have you with him in the morning, but he finds that he does not mind.

Yoongi has missed you.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he begins to say but is unable to continue when you grunt and grumble what he guesses is “Let’s never speak of this again,” and so he does not finish.

He smiles and eats in companionable silence with you.

When he gets up to clear the dishes, you wave him away with marginally more energy and remind him of the meeting he has with the Garcias in town. You hate the Garcias. (You find them way too pushy and entitled, but Yoongi just thinks they’re enthusiastic and invested. The truth is likely somewhere in between.)

He goes upstairs to his room, changes the sheets and then changes into his “town” uniform of thick lined jeans, heattech shirt, and a black and gray flannel shirt. He snorts when he realizes the ungodly amount of flannel he owns and then shrugs because it’s winter. Of course he has to wear flannel. He smiles when he pulls on a pair of socks and hears you in his mind griping about how he should wear socks first then pants.

His heart is still sore, but he remembers that he chose his life and when he’s not moping over Jimin, he actually likes it.

Yoongi fishes around for his favorite beanie and startles when he realizes you knit it for him years ago. If he looks carefully, he can see the warmth and dry spells you neatly stitched into the charcoal gray hat. Though you do not accompany him into town, you cover him all the same.

When he comes home late that night, covered bowls of galbi jjim, steamed rice, and various banchan are laid out on the kitchen table, spelled to stay at the right temperatures for him. He putters around and finds you in your workroom, bent over the heavy wooden work table, peering at some bit of machinery under a warm, yellow lamp.

“I know you already ate, but do you want to join me for dinner?” he asks from the doorway.

You blink owlishly when you look up, the magnifying loupes on your spectacles ballooning your eyes to cartooned proportions. Yoongi suddenly feels a rush of affection for you. He wonders why he had thought the two of you strained, but then he remembers and his smile falters.

Your eyes narrow and you remove your glasses quickly, settling them on your table, heedless of all the assorted gears and gadgets scattered on the surface. “Just gimme a sec to wash up,” you say, and Yoongi heads back to the kitchen to wait.

When you show up a few minutes later, you seem to debate whether or not to ask how he is doing. Yoongi knows you are curious, but he also knows that he can’t handle that sort of intimacy right now. You seem to read the sentiment on his face and ask instead how the meeting with the Garcias went and the tight knot in Yoongi’s stomach settles.

He tells you about how the Garcias want to close off one of the main streets and form a short promenade on weekend nights.

He eats the galbi jjim and slurps up the soup.

He is warm.

When he shuffles downstairs the next morning, you are already there, glasses sitting crooked on your nose and doggedly trying not to yawn (but failing) as you make jook. Yoongi ambles to the family room, grabs his laptop, and brings it to the kitchen table, taking care of the more urgent emails before he puts it away and sets the table.

When he gets home later that evening, you have two servings of grilled cheese and tomato soup at the table.

He goes to your workroom and invites you to dinner.

It goes like this for days until it is no longer out of the ordinary, until it is now the new way of things. Yoongi recalls how the two of you had spent the early years like this until it slowly hadn’t been. He muses you two must have been slowly but surely drifting away like this new routine is slowly but surely coming together. You’d likely slept in one morning and then, one morning became two and then became all of them. He’d likely come home late for dinner one night and then two nights, and then it was many of his nights.

It has worked fine until now. It likely still would have been fine had it continued (except Yoongi is glad that it has not).

Yoongi likes how the two of you have always been attuned, circling and touching each other at the edges of your daily living. Except now, now the two of you are recalibrating your schedules, attuning them to each other in the new normal.

He knows not everything is magically fixed. He knows that one day soon, you two should address what happened all those months ago, but he also knows that it is unlikely to happen. Whatever it was that had you so upset and emotional all those months prior seems to no longer be an issue.

He is not sure why his subconscious whispers for him to pay attention, but he once again shelves it for another day.

His subconscious still whispers too much at night. His dreams are still sad and he still wakes up with tears tracking down his face. He still falls back asleep with a strange sense of comfort that reaches through walls and the edge of consciousness.

“Y/N, do you enjoy our consummations?” asks Yoongi one day as the two of you are cleaning up after dinner. It’s been at least half a year since Jimin’s left and he doesn’t know what has come over him.

That is not quite true. Yoongi knows.

Yoongi hasn’t had a truly good orgasm in almost a year and he’s going to go crazy.

It’s not for lack of trying. He knows he cleans up well, that men and women alike go sort of crazy when he pulls his long locks into a half ponytail. He knows that despite his soft and snuggly insides, he projects a sort of savagery that he doesn’t dispel when he is on the prowl. He leans heavy into his inner asshole and it’s like a beacon, drawing all sorts of options to him.

Except, well, it’s been thoroughly unsatisfactory.

Yoongi is desperate.

“What?” you query from your spot at the farmhouse sink. You are up to your elbows in suds and your spectacles are once again askew.

Yoongi wipes down the kitchen table and repeats himself. “Do you enjoy our consummations?”

“I mean, I guess?” you reply, quirking your head at him.

“If you don’t know, that means you do not.”

“I don’t not enjoy them,” you say after a few more moments of thought. “I’m not sure why that matters though. Unless there is new research that shows enjoyment makes for better harvests?”

Of course you would consider the harvest first and not your own pleasure. Yoongi isn’t sure if he’s proud of how responsible you are or aggravated that you don’t seem to care much for your own physical gratification. He briefly wonders if you perhaps have never had an orgasm and thus, it doesn’t matter because you don’t know what you’re missing. Then he rebukes himself. He knows sexuality is a spectrum and not everyone derives pleasure from the act. As long as he doesn’t hurt you during your quarterly consummations, he should be satisfied.

Except he finds that he is not. It seems criminal that you do not particularly enjoy having sex with him (though if he is honest, he doesn’t particularly enjoy having sex with you, either).

“No, there’s no research,” he acknowledges.

Yoongi wants to lie, but there are no new studies he can cite (at least none that he knows of). He’s not even sure if consummations are anything other than a holdover from the old ways. He is not convinced they make any difference to the harvest, but he is not bold enough to risk his town’s food supply on a hunch.

He decides to let the matter lie and gathers the broom to sweep the floor.

“Do — do you find our consummations enjoyable?” you ask hesitantly.

You seem concerned, and Yoongi feels somewhat ashamed for causing you to question your performance. He also cannot bring himself to lie. He is flummoxed.

“I find it enjoyable enough to complete the ritual,” he says.

You rinse off the remaining dishes and Yoongi thinks that’s the end of that. Your brow furrows. “That’s not quite the same as finding it pleasurable though, is it?”

Yoongi returns the broom to the mudroom attached to the kitchen. “No,” he says when he re-enters the kitchen. “No, it’s not.”

You shake water off the teal dishwashing gloves and slip them off, folding them over the lip of the sink. He watches as you wash your hands and dry them on the checkered dish towel. You shift to lean against the wooden counter as if you need to brace yourself.

“Is — is pleasure during the ritual so very important to you?”

Your face is carefully blank, and Yoongi realizes that you are hurt though he is not sure why. After all, he is not hurt by your lack of pleasure.

“It’s not a criticism,” he says quickly, but your face remains withdrawn. “Your performance is within our ritual parameters. I have no complaints.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “Yes, I can see that.” You seem to shrink inside your peach colored sweatshirt and knee-length lounge pants and Yoongi’s heart contracts.

“I’ve hurt you,” he says. You do not react to his statement and Yoongi is unprepared for just how sorry he feels. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to.”

You turn your face so he can only rely on the way your back is ramrod straight to give you away. “You haven’t,” you say, except Yoongi knows you are lying.

You are quiet and Yoongi doesn’t know what to say and so he, too, remains quiet.

“Are you not receiving sufficient physical pleasure in your supplemental activities?” you finally ask, still not quite facing him. “Is this why you suddenly ask about my pleasure after almost fifteen years? Surely if it were that important to you, you would have mentioned it sooner?”

Yoongi is chastened.

“I’ve tried,” he says defeatedly, knowing he is caught. “But it’s — I can’t — I hate it.” He hangs his head and slumps into the kitchen nook. He resists the urge to sink his head into his awaiting palms. Instead, he swallows his pride and regards you with his dignity in tatters. “Do you think we could — that is, would you be willing to — maybe if I made it good for you —”

You flinch imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, Yoongi,” you say, cutting him off.

He is marginally grateful you do not allow him to finish his request. It is humiliating. He is not a man with so little self-control, but he’s also never had such difficulty slaking his needs.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep our consummations as is,” you disclose. “You receive adequate satisfaction as is required, and I am satisfied when the ritual is performed correctly in accordance to our duties.”

You make to move closer to him but change your mind.

“I’m not Jimin, Yoongi,” you add, a tremor in your voice. “I can’t be Jimin even if I knew how.”

This time, it is Yoongi who flinches.

“You think I don’t know that?” he unintentionally snarls. It’s been so many months and yet, still, he is heartsore and heartsick. Your presence has helped, but you are right. You are no Jimin. Jimin is the blaze of a wildfire, an inferno that turns him into kindling. You are the muted warmth of a candle, a comfort in the dark. “You think I’m not trying to get over him?”

You sigh and cross the room to join him at the table. “It’s all my fault,” you confess faintly. “If I had not reached for more than was my allotment in life — if I had not coveted — if I had only been content with the status quo, this would have never happened.”

Your words tickle a memory but Yoongi can’t quite seem to place it.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

He takes a strange sort of satisfaction at seeing you visibly quail at his demand for clarification.

“Jimin was — is — the love of my life,” he states evenly though he wants to wail. He lets anger and frustration sink their hooks into him. “I deserve to know what you mean.”

You regard him, eyes veiled even as you meet his own. “Hasn’t this last year or so between us been nice?” you ask feebly. “I mean, other than the thing with Jimin.”

“You mean other than my heart breaking?” cries Yoongi. Confusion and hurt swirl in his chest, and the pressure makes his lungs feel too tight.

You remove your glasses and fiddle with them instead of looking at him. You take a deep, steadying breath. “I was jealous,” you finally divulge, and it is the last thing Yoongi expects to hear.

“You were jealous?” he repeats.

“And insecure,” you say. You flick your wary eyes to him. “I always feel that way around Jimin.”

That niggling feeling that he’s forgetting something is back, but Yoongi can’t think and listen at the same time. “But you love Jimin.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

You pull the sleeves of your vermillion shirt down over your palms. It is not quite time for the harvest moon consummation, but there is already a slight chill on some nights and the kitchen window is open.

Yoongi gets up to shut the window. He leans against the sill instead of sitting back down.

“Why? What could you possibly have to feel insecure about? You’re an amazing witch,” he observes, genuinely puzzled.

You shiver despite the window being closed. “Because you love him.” Your voice comes out as a ragged whisper.

Yoongi cannot compute your words. He hears what you do not say, but his mind balks. “But we’re married.”

“Now you’re just being purposely obtuse. You know it’s not a choice I would make.” Your face is agony. “It is inconvenient at best. Ruinous at worst.”

“And so, what? I don’t love you like I love Jimin and you wanted to hurt me for it?” Yoongi is being unfair, but he seems to have temporarily lost control of his filter.

Your countenance shatters. “That’s not — I would never —” You pause.

He hates how you can rein your tongue now. Why could you not have done so that horrible, horrible day?

“It hurt, okay?” you spit out. “It was mortifying for me to hear you discussing my poorly hidden emotions about Jimin with Jimin and I lost it.” Your outburst fizzles out as quickly as it flares up. “I’m a person, too, okay?” you continue plaintively. “I have feelings and they’re messy and I didn’t want to hurt Jimin or you but it happened and I have to live with that.”

Yoongi feels sick. It’s as if you’ve suddenly snapped into focus, and the change in his emotional depth of field unseats him. You’ve tilted his world, and he can’t right himself quite just yet.

He rests his hands on the sill and grips them, the wood digging into his palms. The bite grounds him.

“I’m sorry I wrecked everything.” You sound and look miserable.

Yoongi is torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting you to suffer. He needs to get his shit together. “I think I need to process all of this and go to sleep. I need to help with the harvest again tomorrow,” he gruffs. “We can discuss it another time.” He pushes off the wooden sill and brushes imaginary lint off his heavy duty work pants (work pants you spelled with durability and stain resistance).

You nod, your face a grimace. “Ok,” you agree meekly.

It is your meekness that angers him the most.

Tomorrow comes, but despite you waking up early to eat breakfast with Yoongi as you are now accustomed to doing, he has already left. You tell yourself that he just wants to get a jump on the day’s work, but you don’t believe it.

You stare at the bowl of grits, the two eggs over medium and sausage crumbles Yoongi had added on top along with some wilted greens. You stare at your coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk). You mechanically eat and drink your breakfast. It is warm and hot and though it is filling, you taste nothing.

You go about your daily tasks and prepare a large batch of bath bombs for Yoongi to use and soak his weary muscles. You brew restorative potions and prepare salves for his bad shoulder.

That night, you wait up for him and fall asleep at the kitchen table. When you wake up the next morning, your back aching and head all cottony, you see last night’s beef and Guinness stew, wild mushroom tartlet, and Yoongi’s tonic untouched before you.

It is still warm.

On the morning of the harvest consummation, you drag yourself out of bed. The sun is already high in the sky and you would feel guilty, but there is no one to apologize to. There is no one waiting for you in the kitchen.

You only know that Yoongi will be home tonight because he has never been unable to fulfill his equinox and solstice duties.

You are busy with finalizing details for the upcoming harvest festival and tell yourself that once the busyness passes, you and Yoongi will return to normal. Not for the first time are you grateful that modern consummation rites do not require an audience of townspeople.

You would not be able to bear it.

By the time late evening rolls around, you have already gathered the offerings of grain, meat, fruit, and wine. You have purified your body in the ceremonial baths and have slathered all the sacred oils and emollients on your body. You have lined your eyes with kohl and slipped into the perfumed robes. You go to the back of your cottage near the holy copse of trees and light fires in the deep bronze bowls of the ceremonial fire pits.

You lay down a thick sheepskin on the grass in the center of the circle of braziers. On the ground by its side, you place a flask of clove oil, some small washcloths, and two bottles of water.

Yoongi is late.

You normally would not be worried except these past few weeks, you have barely seen him and when you did, he wouldn’t speak to you. It was worse than the cautious avoidance of last year. At least then he had been worried about you in addition to being angry.

This time, however. This time, it feels like hate. Or worse: indifference. It feels like neglect. It feels like dereliction of duty.

You wrack your brain for consummation protocols for instances of a lone witch representative. You know you and Yoongi have lucked out over your term, neither of you ever being too sick to perform. (You also know that you have somehow dodged pregnancy all these years and part of you is melancholy and part of you is relieved. You are not allowed to prevent conception during the rite. Its power stems from fertility, and so many councilmembers conceive during these quarterly congresses.)

You check your texts but Yoongi hasn’t sent you any.

The thought that he has abandoned you, has left his position to chase after Jimin, slides its way into your mind, oily and insidious. You don’t think that is the type of person Yoongi is, but you are admittedly not in the best frame of mind right now.

You order your brain to shut up and look up the consummation rituals for a solo witch, hoping desperately that it does not require you to find a partner. After some searching, you find that the main requirement in the ritual is an orgasm — and not even a male one (which makes sense when you think about it, otherwise, how did Chirawan and Saanvi manage all those years?).

You’d forgotten mostly because it’s incredibly difficult for you to climax, especially during penetrative sex. In fact, you’re not sure that you ever have. It is in great part why you don’t particularly care for sex and ultimately, why Yoongi’s orgasm has been your focus all these years. (And even then, you just assume Yoongi knows what to do and you are more of the receptacle than an active participant.)

When the reality of the situation hits you, you lowkey begin to panic. You rarely masturbate and even then, you don’t really see the point because you don’t come more often than you do. (And yes, you’ve tried all sorts of toys and watched all sorts of films. You’re just not wired that way. It normally doesn’t bother you.)

You glance at the time and it’s nearing the lunar culmination. It’s best practice to have the ritual complete as near as possible to when the moon reaches its apex position in the sky and you haven’t even thrown the offerings on the fire.

You run back into the cottage and up the stairs to your room. You rummage through your dresser drawer and finally find a tiny vibrator that you hope still has a remaining charge. You turn it on and the smooth machine quivers to life. You suppose it will have to do.

You go back outside and set the intimate massager on a washcloth. Then you take a few cleansing breaths and try to silence the worry coursing through your veins. It is only the psychic link that prevents you from complete panic. If Yoongi’d been harmed or injured — or worse yet, if he was no longer on this plane — you’d know. You’d feel it.

You offer the grain and throw it in the bowl over the designated fire pit. If Yoongi were here, he’d boost the fire and the grain would roast quickly. As he is not, you wait and when it is ready, you take a few grains in your mouth to eat and then leave the rest to burn.

Next, you place the meat on its designated fire pit and again, because Yoongi is not here to manipulate the fire and heat, you have to wait for the meat to cook naturally. When the steak is at about medium rare, you carefully slice a piece and slip it into your mouth. Again, you leave the rest to burn.

You slice a perfectly ripe pear and close your eyes as you consume it, letting its sandy sweetness wash over your tongue. You place the pear in another fire pit and watch the flames consume the fruit, the blaze flaring and sizzling when the juice evaporates.

Lastly, you pour a cup of pomegranate wine that you’d made from last year’s pomegranate crop. You down the whole thing and lick your lips. If Yoongi were here, he would sip the wine first, then take a mouthful and transfer it into yours. After you’d swallow, he would lick any wine that escaped down your chin or neck, and you would do the same for him. You surprise yourself by missing that part of the rite the most. You pour some of the wine into the fire, careful not to douse the flames. Then you pour the rest out onto the ground before the fire.

You look around your surroundings, hoping Yoongi has appeared since the start of the ceremony, but he has not. You walk to the sheepskin, remove the robe, laying it carefully on the grass. Your bare skin breaks out into goosebumps thanks to the chilly air. If Yoongi were here, he would physically warm the air so that neither of you would be cold, but alas, he is not, and so, you shiver.

Your belly churns with nerves, and you lie down on the sheepskin. You feel cold and exposed, and you hate it. You drizzle the clove oil on your fingers. It’s blessedly warm thanks to the spellwork you’d etched on the bottle. You tentatively stroke your belly and the insides of your thighs, working up the courage to touch your core.

Some time passes and you don’t feel any more relaxed or aroused. You are annoyed that you’d never thought to spell in more aphrodisiac-like properties into the oil, but you suppose Yoongi had never complained and you had never particularly seen the need for it.

You check the location of the moon in the sky above you and are dismayed to find that it has risen considerably. You need to get a move on, but you don’t feel any closer to a climax than you did when you’d started. In fact, it’s quite possible you are even less ready.

You reach for the vibrator and though it isn’t unpleasant, it’s not what you need to complete the ritual. The more you press, the more it starts to sting and hurt. You feel the edges of hysteria start and you turn the vibrator off, casting it aside in disgust.

You remind yourself that there is no actual deadline to your orgasm, that as long as someone climaxes, the ritual is complete.

You reach back into your memory for the calming exercises Saanvi had taught you all those years ago to prepare you for your initial consummation practices with Yoongi. You had been a virgin, having never cared to explore sex prior to your duties, and the prospect of your first time being with someone who you were just getting to know did not appeal at all.

You hear Saanvi’s soothing voice tell you to breathe, and so, you do. You inhale a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, and then let it go in a slow whoosh. You repeat the breathing exercise and again hear Saanvi telling you to notice the way your skin feels alive thanks to the cool air. You slowly run your fingers over your arms, your belly, and inner thighs, the light tickle teasing your senses alert.

The memory of Saanvi reminds you to sink into your sensations, to sit and receive versus chase. You lightly rub circles over your erect nipples, the cold already doing most of the work for you. You think of getting massages after a long day, of your muscles relaxing under Yoongi’s expert hands. Though those massages were strictly platonic, the pleasure of relieving tense muscles is still pleasure, and you grasp onto it.

You think of Yoongi’s hands, capable of great feats of elemental magic and yet so gentle, so nimble, so quick. Your thoughts inevitably slip to the rest of Yoongi. You remember his weight on you, how his black hair framed his kind face in artful waves when he fulfilled his duty and pumped into you. You remember the sounds of his and Jimin’s moans, the creaking of his bed and the smacking of lips and skin. You recall the echoes of his orgasm ripping through you, how you’d lain in your bed gasping and sweaty, burning with desire and need.

You reach for the vibrator again, but this time, instead of placing it directly on your clit, you first run the toy along your belly, your nipples, and your thighs. You add more clove oil and glide the vibrator along your folds, careful not to press too hard. You slowly drag the toy closer to your entrance and allow yourself to feel its vibrations deep in your body.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you begin to grind into the buzzing tool in your palm. You feel a tiny build up of discomfort in your gut, and you hope it is the stirrings of desire and not pain. You focus on the growing ache between your thighs and squirm, desperately wanting it to subside in a way that helps rather than hinders your plans.

The more you pay attention to your body’s pleasure, the more your pleasure builds. Your tentative touches become bolder, more assured, and your anticipation builds higher and more urgent. Eventually, you feel as if you are on the edge just waiting to tumble over, except no matter how hard you try, you can’t tip over.

You are so close, and just when you think you might weep from frustration, you feel a tantalizing breeze lick across your forehead, caress down your neck, swirl around your nipples, and then curl deliciously against your core like a breath.

Your eyes flash open and you see Yoongi kneeling on the edge of the sheepskin, sweaty and covered in grease. You open your mouth to protest when he admonishes, “Shhh, you’re doing so well, Y/N.” The gravel in his voice goes straight to your cunt, and you clench around emptiness.

“Yoongi,” you pant as you reach out to him, your hand clasping his thigh. “I can’t —”

“Let me help, Y/N,” he murmurs softly. “I can’t make the offering for us since I haven’t cleansed myself and we’re too close to the lunar peak, but I can help you. Will you let me help you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes.”

Yoongi shifts so that he is sat directly behind where your head lies. He pours clove oil on his hands and before you know it, his rough fingers massage your temples, ears, and neck.

You melt.

He leans down and you smell sweat and engine oil. He kisses down your hairline and then your jawline and his hair tickles your face. Your vibrator is still working steadily near your core and his hands move down your body to massage the area above your breasts and then your actual breasts.

You arch up to proffer him more of you, and Yoongi takes.

He plants kisses down the curve of your belly and his shirt hangs low from the hem, allowing you to look up and see the flat rounds of his nipples and the dusting of dark hair trailing from his belly button into the heavy material of his work pants. When he travels further down your body and stops at your sex, your nose is level with the thick bulge in his pants.

Your mouth aches but you do not move. He has not given you permission to touch him, and so you close your eyes.

The memory of it all falls out of your brain anyway when Yoongi breathes a low breath over where your vibrator is buzzing and you cannot hold in a tremble. His hands slide under your ass and grab, bringing your cunt closer to his face. He mouths wet kisses over your fingers, your labia, and your toy and you cannot bear all the sensation washing over you.

“May I?” he mumbles into the heart of you and when you gasp your consent, he takes the vibrator from your hand and slowly dips it into your center. You arch again and his wet heat closes over your clit.

He is so warm and hot and wet. The busy throbbing of the toy works you open and you have a sudden craving for something thick and long. Your desire coils in your belly and the grunts and whines he pulls from you would be embarrassing except you are so full of feeling, you cannot think enough to be self-conscious.

Yoongi flutters his tongue over the center of your desire a few times before he sucks and slurps so loudly, so juicily, so steadily, that you finally, finally break. He eats you out through the tsunami of endorphins until you push him away, unable to handle any more stimulation.

He plants another kiss on the inside of your knee and rolls to the side. Your immediate instinct is to cover yourself and hide, but before you can, Yoongi wets and warms a washcloth. He gently wipes your thighs and abdomen before he hands it to you to finish cleaning yourself off.

“I’m sorry, I was late, Y/N,” he says hoarsely.

He grabs himself a washcloth and wipes you off his mouth and face.

You sit up and reach for your robe, wrapping it around you. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t want to be my husband anymore. That this was your way of telling me you were stepping down from your position on the council.”

You hear him suck in a breath. “Even if I were still upset, I would never do that to you,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you doubt my commitment to you and this position. I know I’ve been distant lately,” he says. “At first, it was because I needed space, but then, the harvest and all the extra work our people needed me to help with used up all my energy.”

You pull your robe even tighter and the air around you warms even more. You want to tell Yoongi that it’s okay, that he can release some of his magic because he must be exhausted, but you are wrung out. You allow him to take care of you in this small way. You allow him to make up for his withdrawnness these past few weeks.

“Today’s been the worst day,” he explains even as he’s gotten up and starts clearing the burnt remains in the fire pits. “They needed me to stay late and harvest with magic when one of the combines broke down. Of course, by the time I realized how late it was, I discovered I’d left my phone at home! And then the truck got a bad flat on the way back and somehow, I also got stuck in a ditch and had to first push the blasted thing out.”

You listen, interjecting your small grunts and hums to acknowledge his words. You lean into the familiar rise and falls of his low drawl and somewhere in there, you make a mental note to figure out how to spell his tires without the spellwork fading due to regular wear and tear.

He eventually stops talking and when he does, he gently escorts you back into the cottage, up the stairs, and tucks you into your bed. Alone.

“I promise I’m committed to you, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I get where you were coming from, and I know it must have been so difficult. I’m sorry I couldn’t support you better.”

You can’t decide whether you feel relief or compounded mortification and don’t reply.

Yoongi slips out your door and closes it with a soft click.

It is finally silent, and your mind catches on to what you have done. What you had allowed Yoongi to do to you.

You only know that every consummation in the future will be a mockery. How can you go through the motions of them, lying there bored and focused on the solemnity of the event until Yoongi spills into you when you now know how it could be?

You feel betrayed by your body, this same form you’ve embodied and had never been able to coax into a climax remotely close to what Yoongi did tonight.

You feel robbed.

You are a husk. A hollowed out facsimile of who you used to be.

You pull your covers over your head, curl into yourself, and cry.

Yoongi staggers to the bathroom and efficiently strips himself. He stares at the hard-on he’s had since the moment he stumbled upon you splayed out in the clearing, close to coming but not able to get there on your own. He gets under the stinging hot water and slides a palm around his length as he closes his eyes. All he can think of is how you tasted, the slight sting of the clove oil on his tongue. He strokes himself to the memory of your softness under him, of your wanton mewls, and the echo of your climax reverberating down your psychic link.

Yoongi comes in thick, white ropes. The water sluices his release down the drain, the only evidence of his orgasm residing in his muddled, pheromone-high brain.

When Yoongi heads to his truck the next morning after a hurried breakfast, he finds you squatting by his spare tire. You are writing in a very tiny, careful script with a fine-point Sharpie pen.

“I’m just going to replace the tire when I get into town,” he says, amused.

Without skipping a beat, you say, “Then this will take you into town safely. You know spare tires are spindly and worthless little things.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, “just so.” His heart aches in a queer sort of way as he watches you finish up the spell, stand up, and dust off your bottom.

“All set,” you say.

He grumbles his thanks and hops in the cab, settles his bag on the passenger side of the bench, and drives off. He does not understand why he keeps glancing back in the rear view mirror until you finally make your way inside.

The days pass quickly. Yoongi’s life is an endless cycle of sleeping, eating, and working. His body is spent and so is his magic. He makes marginally more effort to get home early or text you updates throughout the day, but mostly, his mind is consumed with the physical work of harvesting and storing crops.

When the harvest festival finally comes and goes, Yoongi sleeps for a week straight.

Again, he has bleary memories of food and drink magically appearing by his bedside and the emptied dishes magically disappearing when he’s done. He knows the magic is you.

Even in the haze of sleep and rest, his depleted brain tries very hard to make him realize that the quiet ways you care for him should have made your love for him obvious from the start. In his rare moments of lucidity, he wonders if the way he cares for you is also love — and if it is, if it’s the same sort.

“Are you getting up today or do you need one more day of being completely unconscious?” you ask from Yoongi’s doorway.

“Why?” he croaks as he barely lifts his head from his pillow, “do you need me to open a jar for you or something?”

“As if I need your help for things,” you scoff and then immediately color.

“Hmmmm,” he hums thoughtfully. He thumps his face back on the bed. His mind flashes to that night, of your slick body spread underneath the moonlight, of your desperate need and his offer to help.

You seem acutely embarrassed. “That doesn’t count,” you sputter.

“Cute,” he replies, gently teasing.

Yoongi doesn’t know why he goads you except that your scowl is all the reason he needs.

You tug at the frayed edge of your old sweater, which now that he thinks about it, seems awfully familiar. He thinks it’s one of his that went missing last fall.

“Is that my sweater?” he asks.

“What?” you stammer. “No! This is mine!”

Yoongi sits up, his blankets a mess around him. He squints and peers closer. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s my sweater. I’ve been looking for it.”

You peek down and lift your arms to examine the sweater more closely. “Oh, I suppose it might have belonged to you at one point.” You shift cagily. “Weird.”

“What else of my clothing do you want to steal?” He grins lazily. “Don’t think that I don’t know you also have my favorite pair of flannel pajama pants.”

This time, your expression is absolutely one of guilt.

Yoongi has a flash of mischief. He stretches and doesn’t miss the way your eyes drink him in. Then he pulls off his sleep shirt and throws it at you. “This one’s for free,” he says as he gets out of bed and stalks toward you.

He’s not even a little bit ashamed when you bolt down the hall to your room and slam the door.

Yoongi’s cackles follow you into your room even as you are desperately trying to banish the images of his bare chest, his strength rippling under his skin. He isn’t buff or hugely muscular by any means, but he is broad and strong and solid.

He is safe. He is secure.

He is a menace.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s mocking you for loving him and needing his help that night, except that seems completely out of character. Instead, you choose to believe that it is his way of signaling to you that your feelings are okay.

Yoongi may not return them, but he’s comfortable with it — and he wants you to be comfortable with it, too.

You sniff his shirt. It is still warm from his body and smells of sweat, earth, and whatever is ineffably Yoongi.

He is a gift.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Y/N,” Yoongi says as he clomps down the stairs.

You look up from your book. You are sprawled over the couch in the family room, trying to grab the sunny spot before it disappears and you have to turn on a light.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” you ask as you arrange yourself in a less dissolute position.

Yoongi sits down next to you on the sage green sofa. “For teasing you, I guess. About, you know,” he falters.

Apparently he can pester you but he can’t talk about it straight on. Interesting. You decide that you can be an adult about it. Especially if it will make him squirm more than you expected.

“About being in love with you or about you giving me an assist during the harvest moon consummation?” You tamp down your own need to squirm. You don’t enjoy talking about this in the open, but perhaps if you act as if it’s no big deal, Yoongi won’t bring it up anymore.

Yoongi unexpectedly lowers his face into his palms like he is shy all of a sudden. “Um, the ‘in love’ bit,” he replies. “The other night was to help you fulfill our duties. It was my fault for being so late anyway. Truthfully, you were covering for me.”

“That is true,” you say as if you’re considering his point (and you are). “But you were also fulfilling your obligations,” you add charitably.

“Look, I know I reacted poorly at first,” Yoongi expresses, “but at the time, it was all mixed up with Jimin in my mind.”

To your surprise, Yoongi’s words no longer feel accusatory. You don’t know if that is growth on his part or yours. Maybe both.

“And now?”

Yoongi flashes a bashful smile — a heady contrast to his smirky, cocky confidence from before. “Now, well, now I think it’s sweet.” He pushes up the sleeves of his black long sleeve tee and you can’t help but admire his corded forearms. “I keep thinking how I would have wanted Jimin to react to my loving him, and I think even if he didn’t love me back, I would’ve wanted him to be a good sport about it.”

“Yes, that’s what we would all hope for, our beloved being a good sport,” you intone dryly.

Yoongi shoots you a pointed look. “Well, obviously, we want them to love us back, but we can’t control how people feel.”

You hear the dual apology and warning in his words. “Do you still love him?”

“Sometimes, I think I do.” Yoongi shifts in his seat. “And sometimes, I think I love a memory and not the reality of him. We don’t talk as much as we used to, and I know marriage with Taehyung has changed him.”

“He’s different, but he’s still our Jimin,” you say, trying to comfort Yoongi. “Maybe the core of who you love is still there, but he just manifests differently.”

Yoongi leans forward slightly and then crinkles his brow. “I suppose you’re right.” He stands and his sleeves fall past his wrists. You try not to watch as he combs his fingers through his hair. “At any rate, I know how precious loving someone can be. And telling them you love them is entrusting them with a part of your heart.”

You quirk your head. He is perplexing. “I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, Yoongi,” you admit.

Yoongi rakes his fingers through his hair again, a little frustrated and, you think, also a little sheepishly. “I just mean that it means something to me, that you love me. That you trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks heat. You want to look away even as you’re not sure if you can.

“I’ll try to be worthy of your love is all,” he mutters, “to not betray your trust.”

“That — that’s actually really sweet of you.”

He muffles a curse. “Jesus, I’m not a monster, Y/N,” he grumbles and then asks, “what are you in the mood for for dinner?” as if that’s the end of that. At your shrug, he merely mentions he’ll think of something, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

You try to resume your reading, but the sun has moved and you know you should get up to turn on a light. Instead, you shift to the window and look out, wondering what Yoongi thought of when he used to sit here waiting for Jimin.

Yoongi has been incepted.

That’s the only explanation he can think of even though he knows his favorite movie is merely a work of fiction. Even if such a thing were possible via magic, it would go against so many ethical tenets about autonomy and agency that there is no way the Witches’ Council would ever approve of such a thing.

Nevertheless, he cannot think of another reason why he is suddenly obsessed with you. At first, he thinks it’s because he’s never had someone love him (shocking as that is — the world is full of people with exceedingly bad taste). Then, he thinks it’s because he’s just trying to figure out how to be mindful of your feelings with his actions (he has a lot to make up for). And now, well, now he thinks it’s because you’re adorable.

He’s not sure why he never noticed. Yoongi attributes it to the unfortunate byproduct of living and working together for so long. He has taken you for granted and stopped seeing you as you are. He wonders what else about your work and personal relationship he’s taken for granted (your choice to cede ritual completion to him, for instance).

He wonders if love can manifest differently, feel differently, inhabit his body differently depending on the person he loves. He does not know. He has only ever loved Jimin, but maybe, maybe he has loved you, too. Maybe it was too quiet and soft for him to notice, like the light of a distant star in the sky next to the full moon.

He decides that it’s time to see if a distant star can become his sun.

“Hey, Y/N,” Yoongi says at dinner about a week before the winter solstice. “I want to try something new for the upcoming consummation.”

You look up from the gaeng ped gai faktong you’ve been shoveling into your mouth. After the day you’ve had, the hearty Thai red curry with chicken and pumpkin is perfect and comforting.

“What? Why?” as you continue eating.

If you’re honest, nothing is more boring than the quarterly consummation duties and other than your out of character breakdown right after the last one, you have given very little thought to it. (Mostly because you’ve been busy, and why brood over what you can’t have?)

Yoongi eats a spoonful of curry and rice and wiggles in happiness. “The last time made me realize that we need contingencies in place in case one of us is indisposed again.”

You level him a look. “Stop being oblique, Yoongi,” you say. You set down your spoon. “We both know that if I’m not available, you won’t have an issue.”

“Ok, fine,” Yoongi sighs. “You’re right. I most likely won’t.” He also sets his spoon down and props his chin on his palm. His fingers tap his cheek. “I just didn’t want you to feel singled out because even though it seems as if it’s your problem, it’s not. It’s our joint concern.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see how it can be anything other than my problem. I’m the one who has difficulty achieving orgasm.”

You are proud of yourself for how matter-of-fact you sound about this, but inside, you want to scream. You know Yoongi is not trying to humiliate you, and technically, this falls within the bounds of work-related performance. He is right to plan for the future in this manner. You just wish it doesn’t make you feel somewhat worthless when it generally doesn’t bother you at all.

“Well, we’ve always gone about it in a rather clinical sort of way,” Yoongi says reasonably. “I can’t imagine that to be very conducive to getting off.”

“You always seem to manage,” you grumble.

Yoongi winks at you. “I do have a rather vivid imagination,” he rejoins, “but it would be a lot easier even for me if we went about it differently.”

You feel awful. “I didn’t realize it was so terrible for you.”

Your husband reaches out and grabs your hand. “Y/N,” he intones gently, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It really isn’t your fault. Your body is your body and it responds the way it responds. I think most people wouldn’t enjoy our consummations much — and if they did, they would most certainly be the male.”

He squeezes your hand in comfort.

“Besides,” he continues, “how come you aren’t upset at me for not making the experience more pleasurable for you? Why are you only focusing on what you perceive as your body’s failure when it is equally mine for not helping?”

You are at a loss for words. “I — I don’t know,” you finally say. “I guess I never really gave it much thought. And since I’ve never particularly wanted to have consummations with other people, I figured it was me.”

“Well, you clearly are capable of being the one to complete the ritual. I think we just need to practice.”

Yoongi states this so nonchalantly that you almost agree. And then, you recall him begging to sleep with you because he’d had a string of unsatisfactory relations.

“Wait, this isn’t because your sexual activities have yielded less than favorable outcomes is it?” you probe.

Hurt flashes across Yoongi’s face. “Y/N, you told me you didn’t want to do that, and I respect your boundaries. I don’t need to trick you to sleep with me.” He withdraws his hand and yours now feels too empty. “I meant that we could try new approaches during our quarterly consummations.”

“Oh,” you reply. You don’t know why you are slightly disappointed, but you don’t stop to overanalyze it. “I suppose that would be alright, although we’ll have to do our best with the timing.”

“There is no restriction on how many orgasms we have, just that it’s better to culminate near the apex of the moon,” Yoongi reasons. “We’ll figure it out.”

You think Yoongi is a touch too optimistic, but you don’t mention it. He changes the subject to the winter festival you’re in the midst of planning (there really are too many festivals but you suppose celebrating and gratefulness are good for town morale), and you fall back into the rhythm of discussing less consummation-related aspects of your work.

Later, as the night winds down and you are both heading upstairs to your respective rooms, he says, “Oh, one more thing.”

“Hmmm?” you hum, mind only on taking a shower and then collapsing into bed. “What’s that?”

“We may want to consider letting our guards around our psychic link drop during the consummation,” he says. “I’ve read that it may help.”

Your mind harkens back to the times Yoongi has lost control — even for mere seconds — and how it left your body roaring with desire. You swallow. “Oh, sure,” you say, even though you feel vulnerable just thinking about it. “I guess we can do that.”

As if he can read your thoughts, he appends, “But only if you are comfortable doing so, Y/N.” He pauses by your door as you head into your room. “It can just be me opening the link, too, or neither of us.”

“How will you opening your link help me if you’re not really getting anything out of it?” you ask as you mindlessly fix your bed covers.

“Oh, trust me,” he chuckles from your doorway, and you can’t help but be drawn to him. “I’ll get plenty out of it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Giving you pleasure will give me pleasure,” he says, laughter still laced in his tone. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You mumble a “good night” and get ready to shower. Your skin tingles and feels hot, as does your heart. No matter that you are apprehensive, you cannot bring yourself to regret.

When the day of winter consummation finally arrives, you wake up feeling out of sorts. Your tummy will not settle and you keep running to the bathroom to pee or poop. You are glad that Yoongi is out most of the morning and won’t return until the early afternoon for a late lunch.

You occupy yourself with administrative duties for the town and when that no longer effectively distracts you, you lock yourself in the workroom and decide to clean and calibrate all your spell-making tools. When that is done, you inventory your pantries to make sure you’re all stocked for both cooking and potion brewing.

And so, your day passes until your alarm sounds around 5pm. You swing by the kitchen to eat a light supper with Yoongi, and then, before you know it, it’s time to prepare.

“You ready, Y/N?” Yoongi asks after you’ve finished clearing and washing the dishes.

You swallow and nod. “Yeah.”

Yoongi smiles softly at you. “At any point you feel uncomfortable, we can stop. I can just finish the rite on my own like we discussed.”

“I know.” You shudder in a deep breath and then let it loose slowly. “I trust you.”

“This means a lot to me, you know,” he murmurs. He reaches a hand out to you, palm up, and you put your hand in his. “I’ve drawn the bath. Come.”

You follow him into the bathroom and though you’ve done the bathing and anointing by yourself for the last fifteen or so years, you are nervous. You are grateful that despite the cottage being small, the bathroom can comfortably accommodate you both. There is a double sink vanity with ample counter space by the door, a tiny shower stall with clear glass panels, a toilet in the corner, and a giant cast iron clawfoot tub taking pride of place.

Yoongi has already filled the old tub with hot water and the scents of sandalwood, geranium, and ylang ylang fill your nostrils. Your special robes are folded on a wooden stool nearby and freshly washed towels are stacked on another.

You are about to remove your clothing when Yoongi stops you and merely says, “Please. Let me.”

He enters your space and lightly brushes your hair from your forehead. He taps your chin so that you meet his gaze. He runs his fingers down then up your arms and back down your torso before hooking them under the hem of your favorite sweatshirt. He smirks when he realizes that this, too, used to be his.

(Very well, you may have a problem with stealing — though you prefer to see it as reappropriating. Yoongi has a shopping problem, and you are merely helping him keep his closet clutter-free.)

Yoongi begins to lift your sweatshirt and you raise your arms to assist him. What you don’t realize is that he has also pulled off the long sleeve tee you have on underneath it as well. You don’t know why the reality of you standing in a bra and leggings in front of your husband has you off-kilter.

“You okay?” he checks, and you assure him that you are fine.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” you insist.

“That’s true,” he replies, “but I don’t know that I’ve truly looked. You deserve someone to take you in with intention.”

You roll your eyes at the cheesiness of his line, but you also allow his words to seep into your heart just a tiny bit. (You would chastise yourself, except you tell yourself this is for your actual job.)

Yoongi leans slightly against the sinks and pulls you in closer between his legs. He reaches behind you, efficiently unhooking your bra. The straps slide down your arms and they tickle your skin as he pulls it down and places it on top of your discarded garments.

“Wait,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers hover at your waist. “I want to see you, too.”

Yoongi’s mouth crooks in pleased confidence and spreads his arms, bracing them on the counter behind him. “Have at it then.”

You smooth your hand up his stomach and chest and begin to unbutton his yellow and black checkered flannel shirt. When you’re done, he shrugs out of the sleeves and tosses his shirt on top of your clothes. Yoongi’s white heattech undershirt hugs his torso tightly, the contours of his pecs and stomach filling it out nicely while you can just see a hint of the dark brown of his nipples through the material. You unceremoniously tug his undershirt up and pull it over his head.

“Oh,” you breathe even though this, too, is not the first time you’ve seen your husband naked. You cannot resist running your fingers lightly down the trail of fine, black hair down to the low-slung waistband of his joggers.

Yoongi draws in a sharp breath.

Your eyes flit to his. You have never seen his eyes quite so black or gaze so focused. You wonder if this is how he used to look at Jimin. You decide to ask.

“Is this how you used to look at Jimin?”

Yoongi places his large hands around your waist and strokes at your skin idly. “Oh, Y/N, I’m just getting started,” he rasps, both not answering and answering your question at the same time. “May I?” he asks as his fingers start dragging down your leggings.

“Please,” you reply evenly. (It takes great effort, but you manage.)

He first rolls your leggings and panties down your thighs and then kneels so he can finish taking them off. When he slips them off along with your socks (he really is very efficient at skipping steps), his face is level with your mound. His eyes flick first to your sex and then to your gaze. His tongue slips out and then slips back in. His lower lip is shiny with spit.

He slinks back up into a standing position and is about to pull his own joggers off when he instead quirks a brow at you. “Your turn,” he says, like a challenge.

The nerve.

You follow his example and drag down his joggers and black boxer briefs as you sink to your knees. You also pull them off along with his socks and when you dare to look up, you are confronted with his cock right at your face. He’s still mostly soft, but you suppose there is plenty of time before the ritual. You do not take it personally. You know you are nowhere near the main event yet.

You stand back up and make more room between you two so you can take in Yoongi in all his naked glory. His shoulders are broad, his arms are strong, his stomach is flat, and his legs are lean. Yoongi is also drinking you in, his gaze heavy and hot as it trails from your head down to your toes and back up again.

“Come,” he says again, grabbing your hand.

He lifts a leg and climbs into the tub. He settles in and steam rises from the water. He lifts both his hands and runs them through his long, dark locks. They leave his hair damp, and your belly stirs.

“Come on, Y/N,” he repeats, “the water is just right.”

You think this is a bit overdone, but you join him in the giant basin anyway. Your instinct is to sit on the opposite end and face him, but you soon realize that there isn’t a way to do that comfortably. You settle for using him as an armchair, unused to such closeness in such a tight confine.

Yoongi grabs a bathing sponge and squeezes warm water down the back of your neck. You feel your skin prinkle into goosebumps and resist the urge to shiver. He takes the cake of ceremonial soap and lathers the sponge then begins to gently and firmly rub the skin of your shoulders, arms, neck, and back.

You feel the skin of his chest and belly against your back as he leans forward and continues to slather soapy circles at your decolletage, on your stomach and around your breasts, lightly abrading your nipples. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. Though you don’t hear him laugh, you can feel the light shake in his body and the smug content he allows to travel through your connection.

“Is this alright?” he asks, and you know he is not asking about the physical touch but the psychic one.

“It is,” you reply, the warmth of the bath and the heat radiating from Yoongi’s body putting you at ease.

His mouth is by your ear and pleasure slinks down your spine. “Good,” he murmurs. He adds more soap and then lowers his hands below the water line, softly scrubbing your thighs and only lightly brushing your sex.

You are shocked at the sudden thrill that shoots through your gut from that tiny contact alone.

“Shhhh,” Yoongi shushes, his wet mouth still at your neck, so close to your ear. The sensation is delicious and you draw up your legs to allow him easier access.

You get so lost in the sensations of him washing you that you lose track of time. The fact that Yoongi can keep the water at the same temperature with his magic contributes to that floating feeling. When he holds your hands in his to help wash himself, you are practically boneless. You are certain you’re not doing anything for Yoongi except the curling warmth of arousal pulsing down from Yoongi’s link tells you otherwise.

All too soon (or is it too long), Yoongi nudges you to stand up. The cool air hits your body and your skin awakens after being lulled to sleep. He holds out a fluffy gray towel, pats you dry, and then does the same for himself.

“Sit,” he says, indicating the wooden stool the towels were resting on and fetches the clary sage infused anointing oil.

You feel him drip the oil on your back and shoulders and are surprised when he massages it into your skin rather than just spreading it with his hands. When he is done, he stands naked in front of you, reverently drizzling the oil on your chest. You note that he is no longer quite so soft. You watch as his hands, so strong and veiny, caress your breasts, thumb your nipples, and smooth over your abdomen. You watch as he finishes applying the oil to your thighs, legs, and feet, and you realize that the curl of arousal in your gut is no longer just his.

Yoongi hands you the ginseng infused anointing oil to you and you try your best to mimic what he did earlier for you. His skin is smooth and hot under your palms. You wonder why you had never thought to touch him before during your consummations and think you can get used to this new way of doing things. His arms and legs are hard with muscle and you find yourself stunned that you find even the dark hair on his legs attractive.

When you’re done, you both don your robes and go downstairs to carry the previously set aside grain, meat, fruit, wine, and other ceremonial paraphernalia. You feel as if in a dream except even in your dreams, you have never imagined such a sensual evening.

Yoongi clears a path in the light snow to the ceremonial area. From the look of it, he had gone out earlier in the day to clean and arrange the fire pits in a circle. Yoongi flicks his hands and a low fire alights in the bronze bowls. He pauses at the edge of the circle and turns to you.

“Do you want the ground to be damp dirt or snow?” he asks. “I can make the dirt less wet, but it will take some time.”

You know from experience that though snow is easier for him now, the wetness will seep into the sheepskins much faster than the slightly wet earth. (You could spell the sheepskins, but tradition dictates that they are not. Something about being closer to nature or whatever nonsense.) “Dirt, please.”

“As you wish,” Yoongi says and turns back to the circle.

He focuses and with a few compact and purposeful gestures reminiscent of martial arts (though martial arts were initially derived from elemental witches), the snow in the center of the ring is cleared. You think he even removes some of the moisture from the top layer of earth, but it’s only a little bit.

He was always an overachiever.

You lay down multiple sheepskins and thick blankets. Even though Yoongi will likely warm some of the air around you, you try to make life a little bit easier for him if you can. You set down the washcloths, the warmed oil, the water, and Yoongi readies the offerings.

“Ready?” he asks, and you reply, “Yes.”

Yoongi offers the grain and then throws it into its designated fire pit. He warms the grain quickly and when it’s done roasting, he gathers a few grains in his hand and instead of eating it himself, he brings it to your lips.

“Open,” he suggests. In the low light of the fire, his eyes seem completely black.

You open and his fingers touch your lips as you eat the grain from his hand. He looks at you expectantly so you follow his lead, gather some grains and lift your hand to feed him. His lips part and when he mouths the offering from your fingertips, his lips are wet and you remember them on your cunt.

When he throws the rest of the grain on the brazier to be consumed, you are warm not only because of the flames.

The offering of the meat goes in much the same way. Yoongi sears the meat in the bronze bowl, slices the steak and feeds you by hand. When you return the offering to him, his tongue slips out to lick your fingers. You are so surprised, you almost drop the meat onto the ground. The self-satisfied grin he flashes you stokes the tiny fire that he’s lit in your depths. You will yourself not to look away.

You bring out the persimmons and though you personally prefer them when they’re crisp, Yoongi has chosen ones that are so ripe, the skin almost falls off. You presume he does so because they’re decadent and incredibly sweet. This time, you offer him a slice of persimmon first, the juice running down your fingers and wrist. You expect him to lick your fingers again, but you do not expect him to start licking from your wrist. He sucks the fleshy fruit from your fingers and a shot of desire flares from your cunt to your belly. Though you have not shared your link to him, Yoongi looks as if he knows.

He feeds you your portion and you are not nearly as shameless, but you want to be. You toss the rest of the persimmon into the fire and when Yoongi twirls his fingers to burn the offering faster, you think of his fingers inside you and you long for this part of the ceremony to be over.

Yoongi pours a chalice of ice wine and sips it, licking his lips. After he takes another mouthful, he pulls you in close and kisses you with an open mouth, pushing the wine into your mouth with his tongue. The fact that he thrusts his tongue into your awaiting mouth and doesn’t stop forces you to swallow around him. The guttural moan he makes combined with the flood of pleasure he sends down his connection to you drags a reciprocal moan from you.

Your senses are alight and though you know the air is cold, your body burns.

Yoongi pours some of the ice wine in the fire pit and then empties the bottle into the earth. When he is done, he reaches for your hand once again.

“Come, Y/N,” he says, his eyes intense, and for the first time, you are excited for what comes next.

He leads you to the pile of sheepskins and blankets and quirks his head as if asking permission to remove your robe. You assent and he does so, removing his own as well. You feel the air warm around you (but not before the first frisson of the winter air kisses your skin). He lowers you carefully onto the coverings. Through your shared connection, you feel his desire for you and though you also feel desire — feel it envelop you in its grip — you also feel wonder.

“Still okay with this?” he asks, his body and lips hovering over yours.

You reach for his face and cup his jaw in your hand. “I am,” you say.

You don’t know if you pull him towards you or if he lowers himself of his own accord, but the next thing you know, he is kissing you full on the mouth. His lips taste like sweet ice wine. You can’t recall the last time you were kissed let alone this hungrily. He nips, he soothes, he sucks and at his insistence, you open. He licks into your mouth, his tongue exploring the hidden hollows of your mouth. You think you could kiss him forever.

You feel one of his rough hands palm and knead your breasts, his thumb flicking your nipple lazily. He kisses up your jawline and licks into your ear, nibbles on your earlobe, and breathes hot and heavy at the curve of your neck.

“So sweet, Y/N,” he mouths, “you taste so sweet. Could taste you forever.”

Your first instinct is to retort that it’s the ice wine he’s tasting, except when he moves his hand to your neck — not to choke or hurt you — but to hold you still, to splay your throat beneath him, your brain can’t form words.

Yoongi prowls down your body, his mouth devouring your throat, your collarbones, your decolletage. Wherever you have skin, his mouth and tongue licks and kisses, leaving a trail of hot saliva that cools immediately. When he surrounds your breast with that same mouth and tongue, you arch more fully into him. He suckles you and when the ravening hunger comes down the link, you can’t believe it’s for you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp. You want. You grasp his head between your hands and press him lower, the memory of him suctioning on your heated core spurring you on.

You feel his amusement both through your connection and from the light shaking huffs of his body as he continues kissing down your torso, finally advancing to the heart of your need.

Just before he reaches your sex, Yoongi looks up. His eyes are so blown. “Is this where you wanted me?” he rasps. He flicks his tongue on your clit and your hips jerk. “Is this what you wanted?” He blows lightly over your heat and you almost cry.

“Yes,” you beg, “yes, Yoongi, yes.”

“You sure?”

You see him pull his mouth into a smug little half smile and suddenly, you are wild for him. You don’t know what comes over you, but you grab his hair and steer his face into your center. “Please,” you plead. “Please, Yoongi, please.”

You can tell by the quirk of his eyebrows that Yoongi is amused, but you don’t care. You let loose your guards, allowing your desperation to pulse through your being and into his. This time when Yoongi smiles, it is pure joy, stripped of swagger and stunting.

“As you command,” he croons and proceeds to swipe the flat of his tongue up over your slit.

Yoongi spreads you with his hands and eats you like the sweetest of peaches, like the ripest of papayas. His grunts and groans vibrate against your entrance and when he tongues you, all hot and slippery between your folds, you fist the blankets beneath you. He feasts and you writhe, eager and willing.

He delves his quick and clever tongue deep into you and noses your tight cluster of nerves until finally, your blood boils and you burst, Yoongi’s name tearing from your lips.

“Fuck,” Yoongi moans as he slurps up your release. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the harvest moon,” he says as he kisses back up your body.

You know better than to trust his words. You know he’s been on a mission to seduce you and wring pleasure from your body. “You don’t have to say that, Yoongi,” you say. “You’ve already gotten an orgasm from me — although the moon isn’t high enough yet. I suppose we started too early.”

“When have I ever said things just to say it, Y/N?” Yoongi peppers soft kisses along your face. “I said I’ve been thinking about how your pussy tastes for months, and I meant it.” His fingers smooth down your brows and the slope of your nose. He kisses you again and you taste yourself on him, slightly sharp but mostly neutral with a hint of metal.

“And now that you’ve had it again?” you can’t help but ask.

Yoongi sucks on your lower lip and spears his tongue into your mouth again. “Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m going to go crazy waiting until the next consummation.”

You giggle. “Surely it doesn’t always feel like that?”

Yoongi hums as he nuzzles and fondles your breasts. You can’t quite believe he’s still touching you, but you suppose he still has yet to find his release. There is still the ritual to complete and the moon is starting to close in on its highest position.

“Not always,” he replies, busying himself as if he wants to map all the hills and valleys of your body. “Sometimes it’s better. Sometimes, less so.” He nips the curve of your waist and you cry out in surprise. “That’s the fun of it. It’s different every time.”

“Is that why our consummations aren’t fun for you? They’re the same every time?”

Yoongi sits up and you mourn the loss of his physical attentions. He hands you a bottle of water, and you prop yourself up to drink it more easily.

“They weren’t fun because they felt so sterile,” Yoongi explains. “It was just another duty to perform, like filling out a form or attending a council meeting.”

“It sounds so antiseptic when you say that.”

“Isn’t it how we usually go about it?” he asks, his voice warm against your skin.

“What just happened doesn’t feel antiseptic,” you say with wonder. “It felt alive.” You swallow. “I felt alive.”

Yoongi smiles a true smile, gummy and adoring, and you feel such love and affection come through your link. You are momentarily nonplussed when you notice the love, but you think perhaps it’s the platonic sort.

“I think that’s how the ritual is supposed to feel,” he muses. “I used to think it was nothing but a tradition — that it’s just symbolic. But now, I hope I’m wrong. I hope that feeling of being alive transmutes the ritual into a deeper magic.”

Again, you feel that pulse of love travel down the link from Yoongi to you. You’re not sure if Yoongi realizes his guard is still down, except he’s a meticulous sort. He definitely knew what he was doing when he opened his connection to you. He is not the type to forget such an asset.

You decide to be brave and send out a pulse of your own. You are rewarded with another smile from Yoongi, all fond and tender at the edges.

“What changed?” you ask, knowing that Yoongi will know what you mean.

You suddenly feel shy and a retroactive solidarity with Yoongi about how bashful he’d seemed regarding your feelings for him. You realize he was right: someone loving you is a precious, fragile thing. You don’t know if you are worthy. You don’t know if you can satisfy him — and you really, really want to.

“I thought love was like a wildfire, hot and consuming everything in its path. Instead, it’s socks that stay warm and dry in the winter and my mother’s kimchi jjigae on the stove.”

You push him lightly on the shoulder. “Did you just compare our love to your socks?” You chuckle at his expense even though you know exactly what he means.

“I did,” he admits. “It’s not very romantic, is it?” Yoongi shakes his head ruefully. “Your love covers me wherever I go, Y/N. You’re the interstices of my life, like your spellwork and wards, protecting me and easing my life. Hidden until something breaks to expose its inner workings.”

Yoongi lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms. You go so easily.

“Our love is quiet. You and I are quiet,” he says, “and for the longest time, I couldn’t see it because I thought love was only loud. I thought it should disrupt my life — that love would shine so bright, I had to shield my eyes from the glare.”

You lean your head against his chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. Yoongi is wrong. His love is so loud. It beats so strong, you can hear nothing else.

You suppose you can both be right.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies. “I finally recognized it as a mirror of my own.”

“You can just say it, you know,” you grumble. “It doesn’t have to be all warm breakfasts and subtle gestures.”

He turns to face you. “I love you, Y/N,” Yoongi says, not quite looking you in the eye. He’s staring at a spot just to the left of your gaze, but you’ll forgive him. (It gives you something to tease him about later.)

You brush his black hair back from his forehead and kiss him. “It’s getting near the time for optimal ritual completion.”

Yoongi laughs. “If you want me to see if I can try for a second orgasm from you, just tell me.”

“That’s — that’s not what I meant!” you cry indignantly. “I’m not greedy.”

He shifts you so that you are now more on top of him than not. He pulls you towards him and kisses you. “Maybe you should be.”

Yoongi reaches for the clove oil and pours some on his hand and then yours. He brings your hand to his length, still so hard from before. You find it amazing that he has been unflagging this whole time.

“Maybe you should take me and take from me,” he husks, his voice straining as you inexpertly handle him.

His large hand guides your own and he shows you how tightly he wants you wrapped around him. Yoongi’s breathing gets harder even as his member does the same. Even as he’s guiding you, he doesn’t stop kissing you, his lips molding yours to his, as if you are his very food and breath.

You accidentally graze his balls as you’re stroking him and he jerks. “Shit” he hisses, “do that again.”

You fondle his balls again as he continues pumping into his own hand. Though all he is doing is kissing you, the feedback you’re getting from his side of the link is also stoking your own desires. And then, you realize you are getting wet again. It is as Yoongi said: pleasing him also pleases you.

“You up for riding me?” he entreats.

You straddle him and line him to your entrance in lieu of answering. Though you haven’t tried this position before, you find that your body knows what to do. You sink down on him slowly, not wanting to hurt him. In doing so, you feel the bulbous head of his cock nudge into you, stretching and sliding one delicious inch after another.

You feel so full, like he is deep in your guts.

Yoongi’s face is scrunched in concentration, tiny beads of sweat forming at his hairline. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and for the first time, you realize how much power you have over him. All these years, you’d thought the rite was about him spilling his seed in you, like the farmer sowing the earth. When all this time, it was the earth actively receiving, cradling and nourishing what the farmer gave her.

“You all sorted?” he grits out through clenched teeth.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m sorted.”

“Thank fuck. Please, baby, I need you to move.”

And so you move. You hear the slick squelch of your bodies melding along with Yoongi’s pants and low curses. He has one hand on your waist guiding you and the other kneading your breast and twisting your nipple. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and every now and then, you hear him mutter, “like that” or “take it” as he thrusts up into you.

You think you’ve got the hang of it but you’re nowhere near an orgasm like you had been earlier. Some of your anxiety must leak through your connection because Yoongi moves his hand from your waist to where the two of you are joined. Slowly, his thumb presses low circles in conjunction with his other hand flicking your nipple.

“Look at me, baby,” he grunts. “Let me in.”

You open up your connection fully and not only do you feel your own growing arousal from how he’s playing you, you feel the sensations of your cunt sliding over his cock, the ache in his balls, the coil in his gut. You feel how Yoongi is steadily losing his control, how much he loves you and longs to please you, how wild and delectable you are riding him.

The more you feel your coupling from his point of view, the more you relax and lose yourself in the process. You undulate your hips in an instinctual rhythm and soon, you are close.

“Yoongi,” you implore, “Yoongi, please.”

He shifts his angle just a bit under you and plants both his feet on the ground behind you and thrusts with all his might. You feel every bit of his cock sliding in and then out, in and then out, deeper and deeper up into your cunt. His thumb swirls your mess around your throbbing clit and you brace your hands on his chest.

You want to burst from your skin — not only from your own senses but from his, too. By now, thanks to your link, you are not sure where you end and he begins, and it doesn’t matter because one of you — no, both of you — are coming. You hear the flames in the surrounding braziers blaze higher and crackle, the sudden flare heating the air around you. It is the crash of waves against a cliff, an onslaught of winds in a storm, the silence of deep night and the pounding of your pulse.

You sob his name and yours is a prayer on his tongue.

Yoongi kisses you as if you are the only person in the world and you relish his insistent tongue, his disrespectful teeth, his decadent lips. He kisses you until you both calm down, the first rush of oxytocin dissipating in your blood.

“See?” Yoongi chuckles as you slump over him. He kisses your temples and your hair and smoothes his hands down your sweaty back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I think I’ve been my own worst enemy all these years. I don’t know how you were able to get that out of me so easily,” you say.

“Shhhh,” he mutters even as he captures your lips with his own once more. You’re beginning to think sex for Yoongi isn’t even about physical pleasure so much as it is about an intimate connection. “Even if it takes longer or isn’t easy, your enjoyment is worth the time it takes. You are worth exploring.”

“What if this is not a replicable feat?” you ask, worry rushing back in now that the afterglow is starting to recede.

Yoongi captures your gaze. “Then it’s not a replicable feat,” he says seriously, “and I’ll do whatever I can to make it as gratifying for you as possible even then. You’re not a machine, to perform at whatever whims our job necessitates.”

“All the same, we should still practice outside of our duties — like we used to,” you say slyly.

Your husband grins, crooked and a bit too cocky for your taste, but you suppose he wears it well. “As you say, Y/N. As you say.”

Yoongi wakes up, his back aching and eyes squinting at how high the sun is now in the sky. You clearly have let him sleep in even though you, too, are likely exhausted from the harvest festival. You’ve begun to delegate even more aspects of the festivals to your staff, though still take lead on the majority of details for now. You reason that just as the two of you began contingency planning for your consummation rituals, your citizens should also have protections in place for them.

This last year’s fall harvest was more bountiful than Yoongi ever recalls in Tranquil Valley’s recent history. He wonders if it is merely coincidence or if the two of you have actually activated a deeper magic with your ritual consummations. He supposes it doesn’t much matter. Harvest or not, he will still ensure the two of you intimately connect until you both retire (and even after).

Though neither of you are particularly demonstrative in your love for each other, there is something about a clearly stipulated and understood state of affairs that makes your love more concrete. More discrete. More replete.

He pulls on some joggers and heads to the kitchen. Yoongi smiles though you are long vanished to your workroom, it being closer to lunch than breakfast. Despite the lateness of the hour, his morning repast of gyeran-mari and various banchan is laid out and awaiting him in the nook. His Americano is cold with just the right amount of ice, and his breakfast is warm.

~~~~~~~~~~~

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

#min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x park jimin #witch au #one shot #slow burn

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thatlongspringnight · 6 months

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Listen I can’t read it tonight but rest assured I have a date with this MASTERPIECE tomorrow. I am vibrating in anticipation. I am so excited. Every bit of it I’ve had the pleasure to get a sneak peek of has been FANTASTIC