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vexaiton · 2 years

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생 축. (m) | ONE SHOT | Min Yoongi, 10.4k

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Summary: It's Yoongi’s birthday, gifts are given and love is exchanged (vice versa).

Warning/Tags: RATED M (18+) for language; smut (fem-reader; fingering; penetrative sex; multiple orgasms; handjob; but don’t be fooled, this is the softest smut ever); fluff; ugh, have I mentioned that this is so so soft? (I’m sorry); I got carried away, but I have heart-eyes for Min Yoongi, so here is a 10K+ fic articulating that; mentions of the pandemic; kisses in the shower; building furniture together? Yeah; more kisses; Min Holly cameo; references plucked from We Get By just because lmaoo; idol!AU - established relationship.

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Um, wow, it was never supposed to get this long and I have no justification for it other than the fact that I love Yoongi sm???!!!!

(That should really be enough, I think).

Anyway, to recall the words of Jeon Jungkook *said with much enthusiasm and affection into a mic, in front a vast crowd, preferably*-

“Min Suga! Jjang-Jjang-Man-Boong-Boong - Happy SUGA day!”

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Sometime in 2016

“Ah, it’s freezing outside.”

It’s weeks before and Yoongi says this in a huff. It makes you lift your attention from what you were doing, examining him as he sheds his layers. The overcoat is laid neatly on the arm of the couch, his hoodie slightly rumpled at the sleeves from where it was pushed up. The tips of his ears are red. You knew by now that he hates the cold. It takes little to gleam parts of himself that are telling. Like how he would wait and wait before huffing out his complaints, only for them to come out in an adorable mumble and a scrunch of a nose. Or how he lopes rather than walks sometimes. Or the fact that he’s loud in the way he was quiet.

Shuffling across the living space, he comes to your side, draping his arm around your shoulder. The tips of his fingers are cold, soon to be warmed up due to being in close proximity with you.

“Did you have a good day?”

You smile, fitting yourself against him, “yeah. I did.”

He stares at your work, the perennial glow of your laptop screen. It’s a world entirely different from his own but he can identify with the hectic nature of it, the long hours, and sometimes the inevitability of bringing your work home. Your eyes meet and because you’re both shy in your nature, it straddles the line of awkwardness. Still new to each other, to this, you’re delicate in the way you handle being in a relationship.

“You can - stay over, if you want.”

His offer comes out staggered, a soft lisp draping over the vowels. Up close, Yoongi is red all over: the tip of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, his ears. It’s the first time he has a place of his own, no more sharing spaces with the others, which means that you can stay over at his. Sure, it’s small, situated in a narrow building that’s in the noiser part of the city. But it’s a home. That isn’t something akin to the parts he usually shares - like the ones he allows the public or even the members to see, different from parts of his soul he pours into the lyrics he composes. This apartment - his space - it’s meaningful. Remembering that makes you warm all over, especially when you see that your slippers are next to his by the door, or that the spare toothbrush holder in the adjoining bathroom is yours.

Later, you watch him have a meal since he came back late. He eats slowly, humming on occasion to signal his satisfaction. All the while, he holds your hand above the table while you type with the other. It’s not an unfamiliar sight as his thumb rubs your skin out of habit.

You’re cutting my productivity time, Yoongi.

It’s a gentle tease given that you’re chest blooms with something warm each time he overlaps his touch on yours. At that, he smiles, chewing on the food while his cheeks go pink.

Afterwards, as the dishes were drying in the rack, you excuse yourself to shower. On the bed are some of his shirts folded neatly atop each other. You smile, choosing one to wear.

You find him in front of the TV, paying attention to a replay of a basketball game. He mumbles something about the point guard missing a pass, you see that there’s a glass of whisky on the coffee table. The couch is never used much, you camp out on the floor as a force of habit. Settled next to him, the lights from the TV show that his face is clean but so red from the whiskey.

“You shouldn’t drink that everyday,” you chide, leaning into his warmth. He relents for a moment, setting down the sweaty glass. His fingerprints render the surface transparent, the droplets pooling on the coaster.

“It’s alright if you drink it in small amounts.”

You take a sip yourself, grimacing at the bitterness that touches your tongue, burning your throat. Yoongi laughs, pinching your cheek, “it’s not for everyone.”

It’s not like your stubborn all the time, but something in the playfulness of his tone spurs you to down the entire contents of the crystalline tumbler. And, immediately humbled by the searing burn, your eyes snap shut, your entire body flinching as you coughed. Yoongi rubs your back, laughing.

“Don-t, - agh - don’t laugh,” you ordered, wiping the tears from the corner of your eyes hastily, “ah, it’s so strong, how do you even drink that with a straight face.”

“Hold on,” he replied, letting his hand linger on the small of your back before standing up. Next to the TV stand is a small cart, it’s a movable bar of sorts inhabited by bottles of alcohol with labels you don’t even know of. Returning, he holds a glass with a darker liquid, your stomach turns at the idea of consuming it. Yoongi must’ve caught the apprehension in your face and smiles, “this isn’t the same thing, promise.”

Wary, you take a careful sip, your eyebrows raising at the sweet aftertaste. It’s syrupy, the burn isn’t as intense, but maybe it’s because Yoongi added some ice cubes to pare it down.

“You prefer sweeter things. That’s from a region called the Highlands in Scotland. That one only needs to be aged by three years, usually.”

Trying another sip, you find yourself adjusting to it, “what about you?”

“Ardberg. It’s smokier. Takes ten years to age.”

He slides his glass to yours in a meek toast. The game on the TV reaches its climax, the crowd roars as the team meant to win does. You watch Yoongi watching the highlights, the slope of his profile, the youthful glow of his skin. He’s always been attractive, but there’s something about him talking about the things he knows about. It’s like you can’t help it, to look at him with unabashed interest. He feels the weight of your stare.

“What?”

You shake your head, “nothing.”

It turns out that having whiskey makes you go all sleepy, unlike your previous experience with other alcohols where you get jittery. The TV stays on for a little longer, you cycle between the news, re-runs of Infinity Challenge and New Journey to the West. At some point, you both made it onto the couch, half-folded onto each other, feeling full. Yoongi’s hand cradles your head at times, his fingers finding themselves into the strands, the gentlest of touches spurring more warmth. It’s nice like this, to be together, doing nothing in particular but feeling satisfied.

“Should we go to bed?” He asked, and you nod. It’s past midnight, creeping into the territory of 2AM.

In his room with the walnut bed frame and dark furniture, the curtains are drawn and Seoul blinks continuously in the distance. The Han is illuminated by the moon, otherwise, it’s a bleak serpent that cuts through the city in a seemingly infinite trail.

“Never realised your view is high enough to see the city like this,” you mumbled, the words coming out slurred at the end. You blink, a little startled that you turned out to be a lightweight. Yoongi pulls the covers up and over your shoulder before you turn to him, snuggling closer. He hums his answer, placing the back of his hands on your cheek, “your face is warm.”

“It’s from all that whiskey you gave me.”

“I told you to sip, not take it like a shot,” he chuckles, smoothing your hair down. You smile because you liked hearing him laugh, you liked it even more when he fussed over you. His affection was cute, which he never tends to show, at least in private like this. It makes you more salubrious.

“I’ll get something else when I come back from our trip.”

The thought dampens things a little. Right. Your boyfriend wasn’t as ordinary as he claims to be. He’s got a schedule that involved numerous trips away, whether it was for award shows, concerts, or reality TV abroad. You knew that you wouldn’t be together to celebrate his birthday this year but summer was also likely taken. You don’t get him to yourself often and you kind of wished that it wasn’t like this most times.

“When are you going?”

Yoongi traces the line of your jaw, his eyes are almost pitch black. The bed creaks as he asserts himself onto you, it’s closer than normal, it’s nice.

“May.”

There’s a knot in your chest. But it untangles as soon as he wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you underneath his chin so that your nose grazes his neck. Yoongi smells like mint, his heartbeat is steady as your fingers curl on his shirt. It’s really nice like this, swaddled in grey sheets that smell like him, your bodies fitting nicely.

“It won’t be too bad,” he murmurs, “we’ll call.”

Yes. You always call. Then, you catch yourself, blaming the whiskey. Inebriation made you sulky.

“I know.”

For a while, you both say nothing. You feel Yoongi’s hold go lax, realising that he’s fallen asleep. You think that you’d want it to be like this for as long as possible, as much as time allowed for. You follow suit not long after, falling into the scent of mint and the soft sighs he exhales.

“These are really warm, you made a good choice, choosing my ones.”

You look up, finding the kind eyes of the elderly woman manning the stall. It’s an open market, it’s busy, and the air is too cold for what is meant to be early Spring.

“Yes, I’m glad that I found this one,” you replied, as her soft hands folded it under some baking paper. You don’t know why you were suddenly shy, as if she had the means to know who it was for.

“There are others, more colourful ones if you like. I’ll give you a discount if you buy two.”

Shaking your head, you hand her the notes and a little extra.

“This one’s the right one, thank you.”

Yoongi’s hair is a shock of mint at age of twenty-three.

He’s grinning so hard at the brown parchment that you find yourself embarrassed, barely getting the words out you’d rehearsed on the subway over.

“I - I thought you could use it for when you’re cold. I mean, you said that you guys are filming abroad in Europe and I heard it’s still cold even if you go in the summer months, so -”

You don’t get to finish your sentence since he’s taking you in his arms, kissing your temple.

“Happy Birthday,” you murmured, although you’re a couple of days late. You hadn’t seen him due to the back to back commitments. He’s as apologetic as you are, as if everything was in your control. His kisses travel down, they’re light and ghost-like. He’s so near that he becomes a blur of mint green before you closing your eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tenderly kissing you, catching the tilt of your head by resting his hand on the nape of your neck. He inches forward, you go back, and it’s like this, slow and easy, your noses grazing at times. Your hands grasp at his shirt through his bomber, feel the way his heart is as erratic as yours. Backing up on the table, his hands support himself, planting his palms on the oak surface.

“Hurry back,” you said breathlessly, hands all over him, pulling him in. You hear him chuckle, breaking the kiss only to nip at your lower lip, saying your name softly while curling his finger to angle your chin up. His cheeks are red, an odd yet adorable complement to his hair.

“I haven’t even left yet.”

You press your lips on his again, “I know.”

And their trip does happen in May. He sends you pictures of magnificent landscapes from Norway, the sweeping sceneries in Sweden, the interior of a train he went on. Selca’s of him in a green parka wearing the gift you got him. This time, his hair was darker, a chestnut brown that appears honeyed under the sunlight. You call when it’s morning in Seoul and night wherever he finds himself, his eyes are tired and his grin is wide. You say that you miss each other but it’s never really that long before you’re together again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and the next thing is said quietly because he’s not alone -

“I love you.”

It was your turn to smile, “I love you too.”

Sometime in 2017

The Wings Tour started a few days ago and you’re nestled in Yoongi’s bed. His hair is as natural as it could get, the darkened strands falling over his eyes as he blinks sleepily.

“Planning to have it darker,” he says, in this low-timbre, scratchy in the way he forms his vowels. Gingerly, you swipe at the lengthier locks, his eyes are shut but you knew he was restless. He often was in the middle of these things.

“Like inky black?”

“Mhm.”

You notice that he’s partial to wearing hoops but you couldn’t help but think that it would suit him even more if he had another pair. The conversation wanes and you’re drawn to it too, feeling the pull of sleep. Then, you say something, more of a reminder for yourself -

“It’s your birthday soon.”

Yoongi stirs, curving his body, getting comfortable, “already?”

“Hm.”

There’s a new lamp in the corner of his room, setting warm hues along the wall. His sheets are navy, they’re slightly worn, pilled at the corners. Tomorrow, you’ll wake before him, a thing you’re used to now, kissing him under the covers as the sun creeps over the city line. This feeling opens up to content, it’s strangely unbearable. But Yoongi doesn’t sleep yet, his hand trails down, down from your back, onto your hip, his leg coming between yours, eliciting a gasp.

“Yoongi,” you whispered, not really relenting yourself. It’s a different hum that makes it past his lips this time, your bodies suddenly pressing against each other with renewed urgency. You nip at his bottom lip, welcoming the pleasant relief that surges through you when holds you impossibly close.

“I’m leaving soon,” he says, pulling the sounds you’ve been harbouring at the back of your throat out, resulting in breathy sighs.

“I know,” you replied, now on your back as he kisses along your neck, dark brown hair tickling your skin. The rustle of the fabric almost echoes in the room, it makes you shy despite you both being alone. He’s with you again, hungry kisses on your lips, your arms looping over his neck, body arching up while his hand skates on your back. Your nails dig into his skin, he hisses, sucking at your bottom lip suddenly, the temperature escalating to a threshold that prompts you to throw the covers off.

“Ah, fuck,” you moaned, his fingers wandering, wandering till they press on your core over the seam of your shorts. It’s a harmless friction, the pressure is just enough that your hips follow his touch. Your arm goes over his neck, your other hand trailing down his front, palming him through the flimsy fabric of his sweatpants. He inhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, the bed groaning as your movements become frantic.

The phone rings - probably his. You both freeze, your lungs contracting and expanding in such a rate that your breaths come out shaky. He pulls away from you, kissing your forehead softly. He walks to the table, picking up without looking at who’s calling.

It doesn’t matter anyway, you knew that it was a nightly reminder of his schedule commencing early tomorrow. Technically, it is tomorrow according to the glare of red on the clock nearby. His manager knew him well, and, like the others, he is nagged then nudged accordingly. Yoongi repeats the information, something about a fan sign at 9AM. He watches you, chewing at his bottom lip as he fiddles with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. The mood dips, sleep encroaches on you both, the better option as he has a full day ahead.

So you sleep together, sleep in the form of slumber, holding hands in the dark. It’s a kind of intimacy that takes hold, no matter the time or place. It’s like knowing what Yoongi smells like, those layers of scent never lost on you, like knowing how his breathing descends into a slower cadence when he’s about to fall asleep.

But he doesn’t forget, he never does -

I love you.

And you say it back, those three words, recalling how the first instance was when you both said it at the same time, dissolving in peals of laugher after. It was awkward yet charming, like a second confession of sorts. He hums, his heart so calm and yours trying to keep pace. You nuzzle your nose, your mouth still tasting like his, not ready to succumb yet, not till you say -

“Sleep well.”

Yoongi, ahn -

Your breath spreads against the skin of his collarbone, hot and staggered. Your back arches, hips tipping down while his fingers fuck you in a steady rhythm, prolonging your first orgasm. Every nerve sparks so much that your legs stiffen. He’s leaving for Chile tonight. The tour is well on its way. The airport will be filled camera lenses, his face will be hidden behind a mask and his hair will be tucked under the beanie you gifted him last year.

It’s his birthday and his hair is obsidian. Tonight, he wears the silver hoops you gifted him during dinner. They graze your skin as you hold him close, the cold metal stinging a bit. It’s too warm, perilous in the way you squirm under his ministrations.

Yoongi kisses you, his tongue sliding smooth on your own, the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens then unfurls, he’s too good at this - making you feel good. Your hips move sloppily, the wet noises are obscene, even in the dimness of the room. Your legs are splayed wide, his muscles are firm when set against yours, your moans are continuous, curses following suit, fuck, ah, overwhelmed in the fullest sense of the word.

“Good?” He asks, curling his fingers just so, tearing a sharp gasp from you, shuddering.

“Y-yes, hgnh,” you whimpered, tucking inwards, hips slowing in rotation as the pleasure enters a cycle of bliss and pain, pain because somehow, your body can’t seem to keep up. “I like it,” you sighed, biting down on your bottom lip, one hand fisting the sheets, the other clinging onto his back, slippery from sweat, slippery from how you were earlier, desperately rocking into release. He groans as you clench around his fingers, wetness trickling out, the peak rising and rising, “I’m gonna cum again,” you gasped, rutting your hips, feeling him plunge knuckle-deep, “w-want to, again.”

“You can. Go ahead, cum for me,” he said, a hint of smugness in his voice, his fingers never slowing, slender digits coated in your slick arousal. They curl slightly, rubbing in a torturous rhythm, over and over and over, and your hips stutter as you came, waves of wetness providing a messy squelch, but he doesn’t stop.

“Y-yoongi, fuck - ah, ah,” you gasped, shaking from it all, heart beating a mile a minute as you try to compose yourself.

“Please, I can’t,” you said breathlessly, legs trying to shut as he goes in, rubbing that spot that sends you flinching. “P-please.”

He stops, slowing down to pull away completely. He grips your thigh, keeping you open, his fingers sticky along your skin. The smell of sex clouds the air, sweat drying on certain parts, he kisses you in apology, you taste salt, and you taste him too.

“No, it’s just - it wasn’t bad,” you said, trying to catch your breath, a bit dizzy, “I like it, I like it too much, when were together, when -” and because you couldn’t express it, you pull him down, kissing him messily, sighing into his mouth as he grinds. He’s hard again and you miss the feel of him inside you.

“Fuck me,” you begged, feeling the resurgence of heat. Yoongi nods, his tongue briefly resting on the corner of his mouth, pale skin gone pink, his chest drawing deep breaths. And maybe it’s because you’re nervous that he’s leaving again and it’s soaking your chest with feelings that overwhelm. You’re trembling by the time he rolls another condom on, his knees dipping the mattress as he positions himself.

You gasp as you feel him pushing in, the tip stretching you a little more, he groans, mouth hovering over yours, “ah fuck, I think I won’t last a minute.” That makes you laugh and he shakes, “don’t - ah, don’t.” He retreats his hips, yet he’s almost collapsing over you.

“No, no,” you said quickly, pressing on his lower back, urging him, “it’s good,” you said, pleasure-drunk words delivered on his neck. He lets out a controlled breath, fanning your hair as he went, inching in slowly, kissing you, moaning as you were as he bottomed out. And when he moves, your hand flies to the headboard for purchase, palm curling awkwardly on the slim bars, panting as his fingertips graze over your nipples, caressing, pinching, then caressing again.

“Yoongi, fuck,” you moaned, reckless, your voice goes all breathy. Your cheek is pressed against his as he pistons his hips, slow at first, then picking up the pace, going all the way inside you until your breath mists on the metal of his earrings. He kisses you all over, still in control, his tongue making everything hot and wet. His hand clutches yours, fingers digging on your knuckles, your legs hitch up, your head falling back to sight of his skin going from pink to a deeper red.

“Ah, fuck -”

He leans forward, his movements steady, it’s so good even when slowed, and it’s warm all over. He mouths along your jaw, breathy groans travelling right down to your core. Your fingers grip him hard, “Yoongi, ah” the build up reaches an all time high, the effort of containing the pleasure seemingly too much.

“C-close,” you choked out, the friction becoming harder, pushing you to the edge, and Yoongi nods, gently pulling you to him, moving faster, harder.

“Angh, shit,” you gasped, your back arching as you came, causing you to cling onto him, thighs shaking as he rolls his hips, gasping into your mouth as you tighten around him, so wet and messy in between you that he groans, biting your bottom lip. You moaned as he grinds his hips, filling you to the hilt, making you both jolt as your inner walls clamp around him tightly, moaning against the crook of his neck as he came too. His hips still, his lips, slick with saliva, tasting like you, like sex. You’ve always been sensitive and it’s easier after the first time to get to this point, but it’s really in the way Yoongi holds you, how he knows how to make you feel good, where to touch or to kiss.

You both go limp, soon a panting, sweaty tangle of limbs. The sensations become less acute, resulting in pulses - the press of his mouth on your neck, the sound of your name is a soft murmur in his voice. Your fingers play with the shorter strands of hair on the back of his neck, you feel him smile on your skin as your hearts slow down.

With your bodies faded from the activity, you don’t realise that you had both drifted off until the blare of his alarm pierces the stillness in the air. A light sleeper amid his schedules, Yoongi reaches for his phone, kissing a spot between your shoulder blades in. Morning has yet to show itself, the clock nearby reading 3AM. He apologises for waking you up but you don’t mind. He’ll be going away and you’d hate for him to not wake you.

Thankfully, he knows that too, halting his apologies and holding you by your wrist.

“Shower?”

You nod, noticing how the hoops he’s wearing now come in a pair.

“I knew it,” you said. He turns around on the way into the bathroom.

“What?”

“They suit you.”

He gauges that you’re looking at his ears. He grins, his eyes puffy from sleep but he looks as well-rested as he can, despite his hair sticking up (cutely, though). He touches the smaller hoop, wide enough to let his finger poke through.

“They do.”

Sometime in 2020

There’s a table where you have dinner on in Yoongi’s apartment. It’s bigger now where he’s moved, more rooms, a larger kitchen with ample storage. He’s had the bed custom made, the frame is still a trusty walnut dyed in a cooler shade of brown. He’s working on his mixtape, aptly titled ‘D-2.’

His headphones are unplugged and you’re doing your own thing while you’re close together like this. On occasion, he would play something, running his tongue over his bottom lip in concentration. It’s mostly going over the rap in certain songs, which leads you to count his measures, the way he made choices regarding his inflections, intonation, and accent. Daechwita booms through the speakers attached to his laptop. You knew because it’s the song that would drop with a music video and he sent you clips of the behind the scenes. You teased him about his long blonde hair, you look just like a King, Jeonha. He dismissed you with an embarrassed wave of his hand.

He catches your gaze, blinking rapidly. It’s the first time you’re hearing it fully. The words come out aggressive, sometimes the syllables are spat out, the sentences scrambled yet flowing together in a rhythm. It’s the kind of song that gets your pulse going.

“It’s a bit, uh…”

“I like it,” you supplied, "and the beat doesn’t change, right?”

He nods, rubbing his nose with his knuckle.

“You noticed.”

I always do.

Finding your way on his lap, you take out a small box from the pocket of the hoodie that your wearing, presenting it to him. He leans back, his eyebrows raising in response.

“What’s this?”

You shrugged, “open it.”

He does, albeit with one hand as he holds you close with the other. The lid lifts and reveals a red string bracelet laid on the spongy bed. He says your name, ending in a chuckle.

“Ah, what’s this.”

You don’t know why, even after all these years, you still get shy whenever you get him gifts. After all, what do you get someone who seemingly has it all?

“I know it’s a couple of days early,” you said, trying to justify it. There won’t actually be a lot time on the day of his birthday. He tries to put it on, laughing at little when the hook doesn’t thread through the opening. You help him, fastening it to his liking.

“Happy Birthday,” you murmured, kissing the top of his head, then his temple, then his cheeks, until he’s laughing as a gentle protest. Always the one more readily affectionate between the pair of you, he tends to do that when you get like this.

You liked to hear him laugh, he’s been so stressed with everything going on lately. It’s harder with the cancellations, the concerts, the tour they’ve rehearsed tirelessly for. His embrace tightens around you, his hair smells like mint and he’s soft underneath his hoodie. Leaning back, you see that his skin is dewy and flushed.

“Thank you.”

You kiss the tip of his nose.

“No problem, Jeonha.”

He bursts into laughter, his eyes squeezing shut, carving smile lines at the sides, “stop it.”

Yoongi finds you under the sheets, face close to your phone, a hermit in a cave. You both smile; he’s back early today. The shirt he’s wearing is nothing short of massive, cloaking him in a soft, cream cotton. The bed dips as he sits down, you notice that his hair is drying, the tips sticking together. He must have showered at work.

“How was your day?”

Putting away your phone, you reach to hug him, to which he relents, his body deflating onto yours. These days, you were fortunate enough to function during normal hours. They’ve adapted to a different norm, but staying in one place has allowed for less stringent commitments.

“Good. Worked on something coming out later this month, went to the gym for a while.”

You sweep your hands over his back, feeling the muscles underneath, “you’re warm.” Your fingertips find his trimmed hair, the ends are sharply shorn, “really warm.”

“It’s nothing, at least it’s not like after a concert,” he said, resting his chin against your shoulder, his hands on your sides, barely exerting pressure. You remember him describing it to you, what it was like to walk up, hearing the thunderous cheers that shake the stage.

There’s nothing like it. As if your soul is sucked out of your body, your senses all on edge.

Yoongi’s fingers press on your skin, they travel along your lower back, holding, squeezing. Lately, he’s been stoic about it all, it’s fairly early and you’re thinking back. Those who get the opportunity to hear the screams of sixty-thousand all at once are for a privileged few. It wipes out the trepidation of basically being an athlete on stage and the gruelling pressure to remain in top form for three hours. And to hear your own words sang back to you - that’s the ambrosia accompanying the cacophonous cheers.

At first, he didn’t even realise that he was stressed because performing was a release for him. But when the concerts were cancelled, he felt like he was losing his job. It all happened at once, where every anxious gaze were on the screens, watching helplessly as carefully laid plans fell apart in a blink. You both read books, watched movies, investing in the mundane, holding his hand through it in order to trick his mind that he was okay and that he was feeling better.

That’s why it’s no small feat to endure what he was going through, the others too.

The crowd has shrunk into screens, delayed (in spite of fibre optic connection), and at times, fabricated.

“You okay?”

You follow this up with a well-intentioned scratch on the back of his head. He hums, pulling back. You’re met with his lips on yours. It takes a few seconds to process it, to react, to respond. His warmth seeps through you, his dark brown eyes can’t hide the blown out pupils, but it’s pretty in the way Yoongi can be. Years couldn’t dampen that way you’re irrevocably smitten for him, ceaselessly attracted to his every facet, those glossy lips, pink most times, and red sometimes.

It doesn’t take much, a few inches maybe, your noses brushing before your tilt your head, feeling the whisper of his breath, the tender graze of his lips. It feels like an age, it’s so slow but tangible, so real. He tastes sweet, the slide of his tongue is hot, you sigh, arching into him, his mouth kissing the corner of yours, then your chin, your jaw, your heights being more compatible sat down. Your breath grows shallow, the sensation overtaking like a heady cloud, he leans, cheek pressed against yours, silver hoops barely indenting, the metal sears a little. And he knows that there’s a spot right below your ear, he plants a soft kiss, sucking suddenly and you inhale sharply, head tilting back in willing submission.

“Clothes,” he rasped, fingers finding the hem of your shirt while yours tug at his collar, all too ready to drag it over his head. In the low light, you part, Yoongi grows timid. He often does when there isn’t that much of a need to fling the layers in haste, when there’s room for romance. Oddly, this leads to missteps, fumbling. With his shirt off, you follow, shivering at the gust of air.

“Need to work out more,” he said, ruffling his hair. It’s dark brown this time, he wanted to let his scalp rest from all the bleach. You liked his hair in any colour but this was your favourite, it reminded you of when you first met, tripping over your words, falling steadily for the boy with dark hair and dark eyes.

“I like your body.”

And you mean it because it’s true. Whether that’s in bed or seeing him change to leave for something, or how he sometimes stays in his underwear, distracted by something on his phone right after the shower. You like its contradiction, the softness of it when you’re an admirer, the strength of his muscles in his arms when you hold him, the way his stomach hints at definition, the dark happy trail going straight down, his lithe legs, hands that have slender fingers and prominent veins.

“Ah, you’re only saying that,” he complains, going red because he was easily flustered. His accent slips out, aided by his voice dropping into a timbre, the satoori manipulating the syllables in a way that you liked.

You help him unbuckle his belt, loosening his slacks, peeling these layers away, fingers finding skin, heat spreading instantaneously. It’s difficult to not get restless this time, not when you’re this close. And maybe it takes a little more effort for him to shimmy out of his slacks, the way they drag down his legs for a bit before pooling on the floor. Down to his briefs, you slip out of your shorts, clothes landing in a pile, out of sight.

His hands secure themselves on your hips, and you’re breathing him in, hands exploring as much as you can, the landscape of his body is yours, smooth and firm and warm. You jolt as his mouth peppers kisses along your neck, down to your collarbones, soft lips find your nipple, the slight bite of his teeth just enough for it to stay good.

“Yoongi,” you breathed, your back hitting the bed, the frame shaking only slightly as your position adjusts. Your fingers dip into the hem of his underwear, pulling to expose further. He lets you, careful with his attention, humming against your skin, dark hair sweeping that it tickles.

“I just -” he says, worked up, his mouth on your neck, the sounds you’re making seem too loud in the room, the walls no longer a muted sanctuary, “it’s not that I’m -”

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered, feeling the way his hand slots onto yours, making you smile. He’s not stressed, you think. It’s different. He says your name, his hand gripping yours, the red bracelet feels rough, contrasting with his delicate skin. It’s startling, the way your hands look together, his fingertips with their rounded edges and blunt nails. Those bony fingers and broad palms, they make your insides flip. He’s not wearing that many rings this time, you kiss his knuckles, skate your lips over the silver ring he likes to wear.

He presses you onto the bed, shrugging off the last of the layers, you stroke him languidly, he balks, gasping slightly as you squeezed. Your bodies are like furnaces, you work to a rhythm that befits how you know him, low moans make it from his mouth onto yours, he kisses you clumsily, the clash of teeth, the press of his lips, these sensations overtake.

“I’ve been - I haven’t been good,” he starts, you shake your head, “I’m not good with words,” he confesses.

You kiss him with fervour because you can, because you need to while bringing him to the edge. For a while, it’s just your laboured breathing, he’s hard and leaking, it drips onto you, it’s sticky, messy. His hips act on their own, his tongue sliding against yours with a kind of desperation that couldn’t be replicated. You taste him, his mouth all too willing to indulge you, his fingers pinching your nipples, but his grip moves to fist the sheets as you coax him to the peak, he shudders, that breathy ah sounding so good.

“Fuck, - ah,” he pants, as you hum in satisfaction, tightening your grip, circling your thumb on the slit. “You, ah, drive me crazy,” he says, kissing you to punctuate this confession. Your heart lurches, it’s exhilarating, like a free-fall.

Any other time, you would have teased him, maybe laughed a little, remarked some witty comeback that would turn his cheeks vermillion. But you kiss him, missing him in this achingly human way. He comes over you for a bit, your chests pressed together, ignoring the way it’s sticky in between, he’s nervous, you can tell because he’s nuzzling that spot below your ear. The embrace is needed, his arms, strong and firm, his heartbeat is rabbity, he exhales.

“I don’t tell you enough but,” he starts, chopping his sentences, syllables going hollow from his nerves, “I miss you, I love,” he lifts his head, kissing you again, “I love you.” You grin into the kiss, chuckling soon after.

“Yoongi-sshi, you’re quite the sap today,” you tease, pulling back to see the tip of his nose go red, he looks so soft, his hair askew, his eyes darting along your features, perhaps a little lovestruck. He rolls his eyes, you appease him, kissing his chin, scratching the place between his shoulder blades, he laughs, it’s hoarse, like how it is when he’s amused. But it melts into a gasp as you widen your legs, your heels pushing against his lower back, down until you feel him there, hard again. It’s a slow grind, his moans are louder with his face turned to your neck. But you say it back.

“You too,” you said, it’s whispered, finding yourself shy.

He pulls away so he could reach for a condom by the nightstand, your shadows shift along the wall, he puts it on and you watch pink seep onto his chest. He gently spreads your thighs, raising one to kiss the side of your knee, your breath hitches, “Yoongi.”

You feel him push in, your hips stuttering as you adjust. The tremble of your body is a tell-tale sign that you won’t really last that long, not when he’s kissing you at the same time, trapping heat, the taste of you and him together, the saltiness of sex, the briny scent of sweat, the way your skin is scalding. You moaned as he fills you to the hilt, he does too, but it’s a deeper growl, throaty as he gasps in your mouth, his fingers twining with yours, the bracelet the only thing on his wrist, impressing onto your skin. It becomes slow, intimate, it’s enough for it to be quiet, suffocating in a good way. You grab at him, clutching at the hard muscles of his back, eyes closed, feeling, tasting.

“G-good, feels good,” you murmured, barely coherent, your words muffled on his neck as his hips rock forward. Your brain gets a little bit unfiltered, he kisses you all over, down your chin, along your jawline, his hips pulling and pushing, constant movement that emits wet sounds, the smack of flesh, it’s too loud, but the feelings in between drown them out. He knows that when you jolt, it’s because he’s brushed a part where it’s good.

The bed groans, the headboard judders, your gasps meet his grunts, the deep rose on his cheeks, the blown out pupils, he’s devastating to look at. There’s a prominent slash on his bottom lip, likely from how hard he was biting down. He looks different, it’s version of him meant for you - only you. The way his hair is back to being damp, some strands sticking to his temples, others clamping together to be pushed back, the dewy sheen on his nose, the clean scent from his skin. You love him like that; it’s almost too much.

“What’s wrong?” He breathes, slowing as he notices you go starry eyed.

“N-nothing,” you stammered, clenching involuntarily, he places his hand on the side of your face, his thumb swiping your cheekbone, it’s tender but it burns. He doesn’t say anything more, pulling you close, foreheads pressed together, his hips resuming that push and pull, you kiss, your hearts fluttering, fingers adopting a bruising grip. It aches in a good way, you moan against his mouth as you came, body shaking from the way it consumes, wet between your legs, inner muscles pulsing. You grip him carelessly, urging him to keep going without using words. You’re lightheaded, whimpering as he complies, plunging forcefully, he murmurs something - something soothing that your moans come out stuttered.

Heat curls inside you, it’s overbearing, your bodies free-falling despite being tangled like this, the sheets are pulled from the bed, skin scraping on the wrinkles, folds, then ridges. His bracelet, a bright red, matches the way he’s gets tainted in rose.

“Y-yoongi,” you said weakly, and he holds you, until he’s careless in the way he moves, thrusting to chase that peak, you shudder, legs folded, trying to tuck them into you more. Ah, fuck, if you do that - he groans, succumbing to his instincts, his hand slotting at the back of your knee, your high gets prolonged and you can’t help but cry out, spasming around him as he came, sensitive everywhere, your breaths are loud. They echo as your ears ring, cheeks pressed together, your limbs flinching as he slows.

After some time, you’re side by side, staring at each other in the dim interior. He holds your hand or you hold his, it doesn’t really matter. In the quiet, there is no resistance, just the pleasure drunk haze you cocoon yourselves in, easily lured by sleep. He leans forward, kissing your neck, his tongue flicking out to taste.

“I kind of like this,” you said, pushing his hair back.

“Like what?”

You shrugged, not quite knowing what you meant either, so you say -

“This.”

Yoongi chuckles, knowing where you’re coming from. The bracelet on his wrist is thin but it’s a contrast to his paleness, complementing the silver that adorn him wherever he goes. He kisses the back of your hand.

“Me too.”

March 2022

Yoongi [09:09PM]

How was it? :)

You [09:11PM]

I clapped so hard that my hands went numb ha

Yoongi[09:12PM]

You [09:14PM]

It was good, don't worry :D

I can't believe you shouted NG - we tried our best with the wave you know T_T

Yoongi [09:16PM]

It technically was though >:]

Are you safely out of the venue? I can send someone to take you home

You [09:21PM]

It's okay :) I'm already on the subway

Someone brought the balloons back from the concert XD

There are two purple balloons pressed to the ceiling, comical in the way they are half deflated, pushed up with the sheer will of two ARMYs who are reviewing the pictures they took.

Yoongi[09:23PM]

Wah ~ the huge purple balloons? keke

You [09:25PM]

Yup! Kekeke

Yoongi[09:28PM]

You wore enough layers, right?

You [09:29PM]

Took your scarf with me :)

As the subway carriage dragged itself along the track, you hide your face under the black wool, adjusting the folds over your mask. It's warm and you knew that it smells like Yoongi. A sweet scent that sticks to the back of your mind.

Yoongi[09:31PM]

You should have taken my beanie too

You [09:32 PM]

I'm finee :) I'm warm enough

Yoongi[09:35PM]

I'm almost home.

I'll wait for you before I take a bath.

Also, do you like this?

[picture message attached]

You almost drop your phone on the account of him sending you a post-concert selca. His hair is pushed back and his eyes are bright - happy. There’s something about the way the rose flush kisses his skin after a show, the way the light settles on the planes of his cheekbones or nose. It’s pink, always pink, his hair plastered wet, sticking to his nape, gorgeous, almost sultry. He makes pink splotches so pretty on his skin, the way the eyeshadow dusts his eyelids, his nose rimmed with shades of red.

He's handsome.

(He always is.)

You [09:36 PM]

You almost made me drop my phone -_-

Yoongi[09:37PM]

Keke

Guess I’m good at what I do then :)

Glad you liked it ^—^

You laugh to yourself as your stop nears. You could hear the excited chatter of fellow concert goers and ARMYs happening all around, some are dressed in the bright purple of Jimin's ‘With You' hoodie, others wearing Bt21 headbands. It won’t be too long until you’re back home with him and that thought warms you more than any layer of clothing you could have added to ward off the cold.

The bathroom smells sweet, like vanilla. The lights are adjusted so that they appear muted, the scent thickening to the point where your head swims lightly. Not too many bubbles form on the surface, just enough to cover Yoongi decently. His bottom half soaks while the steam rises in tendrils, touching the ends of his hair curly. The water is hot enough to tinge his nose pink, his fingertips taking on a familiar red as he holds the sides so that he doesn’t sink. His upper half is mostly dry since he’s meant to sweat. There are some lukewarm drinks on the recessed ledge meant for shampoos.

Usually, Yoongi would soak in the bath for thirty minutes after the concert, shower, then head to bed. He complains that he gets tired easily these days, mumbling them out in a huff. And you understand, since concerts were an exercise and a half. The rehearsals that came before were equally taxing; you couldn’t do what they did in an hour let alone three.

But you’re sat on a small stool right by the tub, hands intertwined with his. He has a day off tomorrow before the next show, a breather of sorts.

“Does it still hurt?” He asks, breaking the quiet vacuum offered by the bathroom. His voice is weirdly echoey against the walls. You look at your hand in his.

“Feels a bit static.”

He kisses your wrist, the water drips over the edge of the tub onto the tiled floor.

“At least your voice isn’t hoarse,” he said, reaching for the cup. You beat him to it, handing it swiftly. After, he hisses, muttering about the water being painfully warm. Leaning his head on the curve of the tub, his mouth gapes slightly, resting the cup on the ledge.

“We normally have wine,” he says eventually.

You nod, running your thumb along the red bracelet that he put on while rummaging for a change of clothes earlier. The same one you got him for his birthday two years ago. It’s strange to think that you were both able to break your solitude, how the years created this perfect symbiosis. Initially, you were both reserved towards each other. The years did all the work, you think. It’s eroded certain things for kinder things to grow - loving things. Now, you do what lovers do. Normally, you did have wine, your legs kind of sticking together underwater, your calves against his thighs.

You’ve known him long enough that there really shouldn’t be anything new left to know. But you still get lost, you still find something, a stray freckle by the inside of his knee, the softness of his hair when freshly dried, how his clothes fit him just right despite being resolutely oversized. The way his hands are calloused from playing the guitar or that his edges aren’t really edges because Yoongi is really soft underneath it all.

“I couldn’t read half the comments during my live, should I get LASIK?”

He sighs, sliding down on the tub, his belly button disappearing into the line of water. He looks good like that, a bit frayed, spent. His hair, now lengthier, a sweeping arc on his forehead, curled deliberately when performing, lays undone. His skin is a bit raw from the soak, you squeeze his hand, meeting him in the eye.

“I like it when you wear glasses.”

It’s not a protest but a suggestion. Yoongi wears these ultra-light frames, it’s scholarly so you call him Professor Min whenever he walks by. He laughs it off, though, like he’s doing now.

“Do you really like them on me?”

He’s opened his eyes, looking at you. Without hesitating, you nod, “I enjoy calling you Professor.”

He flicks some water in your direction, you gasp, doing the same.

“It really suits you!”

You smile at the way he curls his lips, lifting them to form this half-smirk, “fine. I’ll keep them for you.”

“We’re meant to be quick -”

“Then we shouldn’t have sat down.”

Yoongi adjusts the water pressure, lathering your hair as he does. It had been easier to stay close to the floor, on small stools. The hot stream of water is rather tempting, coupled with the presence of the person you wanted to see most of the time, if not all.

As he runs his fingers along your scalp, scraping the bubbles down, you consider yourself pretty fortunate in life. You shared this ambition with Yoongi, this relentless pursuit in your chosen niche, hoping that one day, it will all matter.

That if you kept pushing - that if you worked hard enough, you’d get to where you need to be.

But then, you never thought that you’d meet someone like Yoongi, let alone have him occupy your heart. But it’s not quite that, not in the superficial way that romantics refer to, because it’s deeper, tangible. He’s a certain buzz in your skin, his grin seared into your mind, the soft kisses he presses on the side of your face, the scent of mint permeating your clothes.

You didn’t mean to, not really.

Yet here you are, a lot more in love than planned.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he said, rinsing your hair.

“Hm,” you managed, leaning your back on his chest. “Let me scrub you, otherwise I’ll really spend the night here.”

He laughs before moving. Even if he claims that he runs out energy easily, he’s always the one taking care, doing all the things needed to be done before falling asleep with his phone in hand.

“It’s meant to rain tomorrow - take care on the stage,” you find yourself saying, he leans on your hand for a moment as you lather his hair.

“Ah, really? The staff might have a hard time.”

He closes his eyes as the water washes the soapy suds away.

“I like your hair like this,” you said, tucking it behind his ear, the silver hoops clink lightly. He smiles before pressing his forehead on your shoulder.

“Might keep it then,” he said after a while.

You take care of him this time, holding him close, till you end up nose to nose. There’s less to rinse off, the water makes your skin tacky.

“Yoongi -”

“Just want to kiss you, can I?”

The shower runs in a steady pelt, you’re flustered, like he is. You don’t answer because it’s not something he should need to ask. You touch your nose with his, it feels awkward, only for a second until he tugs you close, closer. Your legs adjust, it’s intimate, all too familiar. His breath is warm against you, his hand hovering on the side of your face, on the nape of your neck, his touch brings out a sigh. It’s gentle, as Yoongi always is. Timidly, your hand reaches for his free one, sliding fingers along the spaces, curling your fingertips over his knuckles. You taste the mild peppermint from the tea he had earlier, yours eyes fluttering close. His tongue licks into your mouth, encouraging a gasp from your lips, the kiss is wet and slow and intoxicating. Your hands hold his sides now, fingers on the tense muscles of his back, not quite close enough to placate the desire that lances through you. Yoongi’s always been a good kisser, attentive to your reactions, his lips are soft, his tongue feels too good, far too good that you’re dizzy in seconds.

“Ah,” he sighs, wincing suddenly.

You remembered that you were both cramped on tiny stools. The water cascades along the wall, your skin is pebbled with goosebumps, he shivers a little when you nip at his bottom lip.

“Yoongi,” you said, brushing your lips together, you say his name against his mouth like that.

“It’s late. You need to sleep, you’re tired.”

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Yoongi…”

Another kiss, lingering on the corner of your mouth.

“Okay.”

“What’s that?”

Daylight breaks through the slits in the blinds, Yoongi wanders in, white long sleeve shirt wrinkled, black slacks, hems dragging on the floor. His hair sticks up cutely at the back, a cow-lick that bounces as he traverses the space.

“A bookshelf,” you replied, face warm because he was meant to wake up to it already built, “your birthday present.”

It arrived a little late this year. You were in Gangnam right after the snow cleared. Nearly lost between the aisles, you perused them with no goal in particular, simply to restock the reed diffusers and get new pillows, maybe a new towel while you’re at it. A store clerk maintained a safe distance, her smile small, Do you need any help? You think about it, about the growing collection of books that Yoongi has piled into uneasy towers, threatening to collapse at any second. Do you have any furniture, like bookshelves?

Luckily, you had the first delivery slot, right as the sun drips orange outside and Yoongi slumbers peacefully in the darkened room. The porters came, you chatted for a while, observing that there are more parts coming in than expected. They reassured you that all that was needed was a screwdriver and another person for assembly. Sliding the parts out of the boxes, you worked diligently so that Holly wasn’t startled from where he slept. You stumbled on your hoodie once, hitting your knee against the corner of the coffee table. It wasn’t too arduous after.

“A bookshelf?”

Crouching behind you, he slides his hands through, hugging you close, his arms resting over your crossed legs loosely.

“Yoongi, wait, I’m sweaty -”

But he brushes your hair away, exposing the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. His chin tucks your shoulder, he’s warm in the way he is right after he wakes up.

“When was this brought in?”

You sighed, setting down the allen key, “it was meant to be brought in before the ninth.”

Holly pads into the living room, his soft brown curls like spun gold in the light. He watches the pair of you, tilting his head, his dark eyes probably tired of witnessing your DIY endeavours for the better part of the morning. Yoongi scratches that spot by Holly’s tummy, encouraged as he twists on his back, his belly concealed faintly by a fine smattering of fur. You coo at him, grazing your nail under his chin, till he squirms away from an overload of attention from you both.

“Have you been doing this since this morning?”

You shrug, “it’s meant to be built by two people but I wanted to surprise you.”

“I know,” he said, followed by a small chuckle, “but I like building furniture.”

It was your turn to laugh, kissing the side of his neck, liking the way he gives access, his head falling to the side as you press your lips, slow and soft.

“I’ll make us something to eat,” he offers, in between kissing you, “give you some energy if you really want it to build it by yourself.”

You bite his bottom lip, “it’s just the middle shelf left.”

“Okay,” he replied, kissing you again, “I’ll be back to help.”

He does end up helping you out, and just like that, you’re being taken cared of again. With the shelves slotted nicely, the books appear, side by side, in no particular order. Slim paperbacks, heftier volumes, non-fiction hard bounds, dog-eared copies from his youth. Some books are yours, aged yellow from being kept by the window sill in the bedroom. The stories you’ve consumed in the past two years finally have a home. Yoongi brushes his knuckle along your cheek, his way of saying Thank you.

“It looks nice,” he remarks.

“It helps you see how much you’ve read,” you replied, smiling because he kisses your cheek, “and you also said that you wanted to read more, so…”

“I said that?”

“Months ago.”

Yoongi had been a voracious reader, unafraid to annotate passages of text, things that he wanted as reminders, thoughts, muttering how if he had more time, he could be better and read more. When things slowed, he did, and the books became mini towers dotted around the apartment. Holly collided his snout against a stack at some point, spurring you into action.

“Then you said you might need a bookshelf.”

It’s like this. How when Yoongi says things, you absorb them, drinking his words to easily, accustomed to the taste of him. And, after all these years, the shape of your heart looks awfully like him most times. You tug at the hem of his sleeve, swaying his arm. He says your name fondly, mumbled in that silky timbre.

“You spoil me, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes, running your finger along the spines of the books immediately in front.

“You know, I have the biggest crush on you.”

You tilt your head to see his lips breaking out into a smile, “yah, our anniversary is coming up soon.”

“I know but that doesn’t take away from that the fact that I still have a huge crush on you, is that okay?”

Another laugh, his shy eyes blinking rapidly while his tongue ran over his lip, “I was the one who confessed, though.”

“I gave you a hard time, I liked you from the start.”

He gapes at that, “I confessed at the bus stop in the rain.”

You shrugged, “it was very romantic, very you.”

He shakes his head, launching his fingers, jabbing at your sides, “yah, I was scared out of my mind that you didn’t feel the same!”

You jump away, laughing loudly, “don’t - stop! Don’t you dare!” You warned, trying (and failing) to keep your distance, but your backed onto the couch. Yoongi laughs with you, ruthless even when playful. You don’t mind, it’s a lost battle where you’re breathless, giggling as he inevitably cages you, resulting in a wet kiss on the crook of your neck.

“I forgot how ticklish you were,” he said, peppering kiss along your jawline. And there it is, that latent arousal sneaking up on you. 1PM, still in the clothes you slept in, Yoongi barefaced, gorgeous in the natural light. He kisses and kisses, fingers finding skin too easily.

“Are you leaving later?” You asked, almost succeeding in dragging his shirt off if not for his impatience. Your limbs clash, you both yelp as your elbows collide, the bones hitting in a funny way. But it ends in laughter, messy kisses, and your foreheads pressed together. Your bodies sink onto he leather of the couch, your legs hitching up and over his hips.

“No,” he answers, pulling back, “nothing on today.”

He says this alarmingly quickly, eager like you, lips finding each others in soft, sighing kisses. At a point, you lean back, studying his face. In the very beginning, the tone was decidedly awkward. Before, there wasn’t any time, he was always away, always elsewhere. It made you question whether it could work. Then, the months stretched into years until the truth showed itself without prompt.

Was it always there?

He catches you staring and some part of you thinks he knows what you’re thinking too because he leans forward. The decision falls on the positive. In some way or another, whether you acknowledged it or not, it wasn’t something you could stop anyway.

Yoongi kisses that space below your ear, you sigh, entirely satisfied over a small gesture.

“Bed?”

“We need to eat, you need to eat,” you mumbled, distracted by his caresses, taking little to tumble into this happiness laced pleasure.

“Rather eat something else,” he said, drawing a laugh out of you.

“Wow, you’re an animal.”

He shrugs, flustered for all but three seconds before tilting your chin up, “What? I’m being honest.”

“Yeah?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his neck. He nods, all to easily, you think. His eyes, whether loving, teasing, or even when they get shy and stray, they’re always on you. It makes you giddy.

“I guess that I do deserve your honesty,” you concede, kissing him back.

He sighs, as if to scold, “you do. And more.”

You cling onto him more, “I know. You make it hard for me to forget.”

And because you’re as bad at each other in a sense that you could never say no, you smile into the kiss, moaning softly when he gets closer, adding weight and pressure. You tumble, yielding to him as he does to you and it’s easy, so easy.

Later, in the stillness of the evening, you’ll fall asleep satiated, hands twined until one or the other stirs. And when morning comes, you see that the wall in the living room is finally occupied by the bookshelf you built together, see him play with Holly, then cook you something before he leaves.

You think that there’s nothing better than that.

There’s nothing better than exchanging eager kisses with someone you love on a worn, leather couch as the sun filters through. Or how there’s nothing like the feel of his hand over yours. Or the fact that it’s still nice, as nice as the beginning, made even nicer with the years behind you and the prospect of the ones ahead.

And when he comes back, tired but happy, you’ll have that glass of wine while soaking in the bath, reminiscing about memories that seemed to occur just yesterday. Then, he’ll ask you about the future, as often does these days. Of course, he’ll grow shy, go all pink then red, but it’s alright because you’re secure and have that connection together, so the promises come effortlessly.

It’s been that way for a while.

And he’ll say -

“I love you.”

It’s half mumbled in the darkness, his voice hoarse from giving it his all, sniffing from being caught in the rain in the latter half, his cheeks are warm but not hot. You smile, seeking his hand under the covers.

“I love you too.”

masterlist (I) | masterlist (II)

#bts recs #yoongi #SO GOOD WTF

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