Work Header

The Dinner Party

Chapter Text

What is it about happy couples and dinner parties?

Are they required to invite all their friends, even the single ones, to their domestic den of cozy, mismatched furniture and framed photos?

You arrive late, having taken too long to decide whether or not to actually go. The flat is crowded. Namjoon and Seokjin’s friends lounge in the hallway, lean against the couch, and linger in the small kitchen.

The other partygoers chat in small groups. They all know each other. The low thumping music, the engaging conversation, the genuine laughter, it makes for a pleasant soundtrack. The party is nice. They’re nice. If you were remotely capable of social interaction, it would be fun. But, you aren’t.

Maybe you could leave. No, too rude. Maybe you could go outside and bum a smoke. Better.

You maneuver to the opposite end of the flat and open the back door. Only one person is out here. His back is turned and he leans against the bar-high wall enclosing the small landing. A cold breeze runs along your neck, feeling like an inept lover’s clumsy enticement. You shiver. A whiff of smoke reaches you and you realize that’s not a cigarette he's smoking. Thank god. This evening is definitely looking up.

But then it isn't.

Min Yoongi turns around, looking disdainful and wearing black skinny jeans, a black t-shirt and black leather jacket. His dark hair is artfully mussed, as if the wind were his personal stylist. A joint hangs off his lips.

You've met him before. Namjoon introduced you on one of those late nights when he stayed at the library until closing. Yoongi waited on the front steps for his friend, looking much like he does now, slightly annoyed and inscrutable.

"Mr. Min Yoongi," you say, sounding like a game show announcer. Fuck, what is wrong with you?

"Librarian girl."

You scramble to think of a way to recover this whole situation. You need to get him to share that joint.

"I’m not getting you high."

"—the fuck?" you say. This really isn't the best idea, but seriously, what the hell.

"I’m sorry." He exhales.

"No, you’re not."

"No," he says with a huff of laughter. "I’m not, but I need something to get through this whole" — he waves the hand holding the joint toward the window where you can see the others laughing and talking inside — "dinner party thing."

"Me too," you sigh. "Why not help me?"

"Because then I couldn’t finish this." He expertly holds the rapidly diminishing joint between his fingers. The embers burn bright in the wind.

"Please," you say, embarrassed by the whine in your voice, but continuing nonetheless. "I’m terrible at small talk."

"Getting high isn't going to help." He scoffs.

"I know, but if I'm high I won't feel weird about drinking alone, which is what I'm going to do anyway.

"Sorry, kid." He shrugs.

What is it with this guy? His whole I’m-going-to-stare-into-the-night-sky-and-contemplate-the-vastness-of-the-universe-thing really works for him. If the rumors are true, it really works for a lot of people on campus, but seriously, fuck him.

"We’re the same age, dude."

"Don’t call me dude." He turns around to continue his staring time.

"No problem, gramps." Your dramatic exit is thwarted when the back door gets stuck. Eventually, you yank it open.

Seokjin has finished cooking dinner. Most everyone is claiming seats in their now-formed groups. Every cup and bowl must have been pulled from the cupboards to create this charming mishmash of a dining table. It meanders from the kitchen and into the living room. You move to the front of the flat, nodding and smiling awkwardly as you brush past the other guests.

 You don't recognize anyone. You aren’t even friends with Namjoon, not really. You’re his assigned research librarian. He takes it seriously, though, unlike most professors who treat you like an indentured servant.

It was sweet of Namjoon to invite you. You had been in such a daze from the broad-shouldered man in the pink sweatshirt who had introduced himself as Namjoon’s boyfriend that you never considered turning him down. Instead, you were thinking maybe there was hope for you when Namjoon, who once got lost in the rare books room, could pull the most attractive man you've ever seen.

You take one of the last seats available, a squeaky folding chair wedged between the front window and the side of the hutch. There's an empty chair beside you, but you doubt anyone will take it. You’re going to be at this end of the table alone. Well, better to be the odd one out than to make painful small talk all night.

Things are looking up though, 'cause there’s an open bottle of wine in front of you and no one you have to share it with.

"Great," a voice mutters.

Min Yoongi sits down in the folding chair next to you.

You pour yourself a glass of wine.


Yoongi is high as fuck. Like, almost not fun high. Like he needs to close his eyes and stop the room from spinning high.

He really should have shared that joint.

He feels light-headed and untethered. Everything he is supposed to do – like, going to the studio and finishing his newest track – is waiting for him on the other side of whatever this is. For now, he just needs to be.

He needs a few other things, too. He needs a drink. He needs Seokjin’s food, and he needs a place to sit other than next to the librarian who doesn't like him, but he couldn't get out of this uncomfortable chair now if his life depended on it. He crosses his arms and leans back.

He doesn’t even know how he ended up at this party.

Except, he does, actually.

Seokjin had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t show up, and Namjoon had given him the puppy dog eyes. Yoongi was impressed he held out the two point five seconds that he did.

He felt bad about not getting the librarian high. Yoongi glances over at you. He recognized you as Namjoon's favorite research librarian which really means something. Namjoon has probably known a lot of librarians in his life. Yoongi isn’t usually so stingy, but it had been a bad day and a bad week, and he did need something to get through this night.

He feels worse about it now, though.

The only bottle of wine at this end of the table is held firmly in your hand. He isn’t going to be able to wedge himself back through the crowded hallway to get another one in his current state.

"Just half a glass-"

"Fuck off."

"Maybe you’re terrible at small talk because you swear at everyone."

"Maybe, but we’re stuck here for the next hour, and— oh shit."

"Some might find the swearing cute, but—

"I need a favor," you say, eyes going wide, hand griping the bottle so tight your knuckles are white. "Please."

Yoongi likes the look of desperation on your face, and he isn't above using it to get what he wants. He looks pointedly at the bottle. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Okay," you sigh, handing it over. "It's worth it."

Oh shit, Yoongi thinks, pouring himself a glass. "What have I agreed to?"

"See the guy sitting between the couch and the coffee table?"

"With the goatee?"

"We dated."

"—the fuck?" He looks over at you. He’s sure the disbelief is showing on his face. You're cute, and this guy looks like a moron. Yoongi might be high as fuck, but that makes no sense.

"He didn’t have a goatee." You clutch his arm. "I swear."

"Okay, I believe you.” That makes a little more sense, but not much. "So far this has nothing to do with me, not that I mind."

"He’s still sort of into me, so he might— yup, here he comes." You wave your hands in front of your face as if to fend off this moron.

Goatee guy has a smile that says 'fancy seeing you here,’ and he is awkwardly trying to stand, wedged as he is between the couch and the coffee table.

Yoongi sighs. "Are we dating?"

"Only for the next hour. He's not a stalker, just an idiot. He will think me going out with someone else means I'm not interested, instead of all those times I told him I wasn't interested."

Yoongi shakes his head. Thankfully, the moron gives up on trying to maneuver to this end of the table. Yoongi’s high and wants another drink and pretending to date you is not actually that bad a prospect. Fuck it, the swearing is cute. The big sweater, little dress thing works for you. "So, what happened?"

"Didn’t work out," you say, arranging the bowl in front of you, as if it wasn't perfectly placed already.

"Come on, you at least owe me a story."

"We only went out a couple times."

"So, it wasn’t the sex."

"Oh, it was definitely the sex." You exhale. "I keep thinking I will get lucky."

"Sounds like you did."

"I got laid," you say, "there’s a difference."

Yoongi laughs. He likes your answering smile.

"He’s one of those guys who can’t talk about anything. He was like ‘whatever, I get it' but he obviously didn't, you know?" You cross your legs tightly, as if to make yourself as small as possible. "I’m pretty sensitive. So, I told him 'I'm pretty sensitive' because, communication, right. But then this guy goes for my clit like his last fucking meal."

Yoongi almost spits out his wine.

"Oh God, this is why I'm bad at social interaction." You look up at the ceiling. You bounce your knee against the underside of the table, looking like you would bolt if there was any way you could get out of this corner. "I should’ve lied, right?"

There’s a red flush to your cheeks, but there is no reason you should be embarrassed just because this guy is an ass.

Yoongi puts a hand on your leg, holding you steady. You take a stuttering breath, but still can't quiet your nerves. He grips tighter, squeezing your thigh with more pressure than necessary to get your attention. Finally, your leg stills.

"Good girl," he says, words tumbling out before he can stop them. He tries not to be obvious as he watches your reaction.

The tension holding you tight, making you cramped and uncomfortable, loosens. Your eyes flutter closed, your breath steadies.

Well, that answers that question, he thinks, and it’s not a disappointment. He tries to quiet his own nerves and the images that invade his mind, rushed and unbidden. He’s been keeping them at bay for a long time. He needs to get ahold of himself before he does something that you might not like, that might make you recoil instead of relax.

He loosens his hand but doesn't move away.

You take a deep breath. "Forget I said—"

"You shouldn't be embarrassed."

"Oh, thanks." You look over at him, biting your lip. "Sorry, I don’t normally blurt out the details of my sex life."

Your lips are red from the wine. He likes that you said what you did, it’s honest. He prefers honesty over sophistication, anyway.

He squeezes your thigh. "Except for when you do."

You laugh. "Yeah, alright. I guess I do."

Your thigh is warm under his hand. Your sweater had been pushed up at some point, bunched around your hips. Your dress is slippery and silky. He can feel the pattern of your knit tights underneath. Before he can stop himself, he gathers the fabric of your dress, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.

He's high as fuck, but he's always thought you were cute, even on those late nights on the library steps when he's cold and he just wants to get to the studio and he’s tired of waiting for you and Namjoon finish debating whatever obscure topic you’re discussing.

You look down, staring at his hand on your thigh. You don’t shift or ask him to move. You’ve got a small smile on your face, hidden as if you are worried what might happen if it’s found.

Well, he didn't get you high, but he can do this. "Then let’s make sure he knows we’re together, yeah?"


As the dinner party goes on, Yoongi squeezes and touches your leg, casual-like, like this is normal, like this has happened before. He nudges his thigh next to yours when he moves his hand away, as if to remind you he won't leave you alone.

You relax as the candles get lower, the conversations more subdued. It feels like he’s drugged you with that raspy voice of his and his sarcastic comments. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, it shouldn’t make your breath catch or your body feel like it’s attuned to every subtle movement he makes. Gradually, it feels like you are the only two people in this room. As if this whole party was an excuse to sit next to Min Yoongi while he casually, seemingly unknowingly, unravels the tension you carry with you, not realizing how heavy it is until he removes it.

Honestly, it feels fucking fantastic. You’ve had orgasms less satisfying than the feeling of his fingers grazing the skin of your thigh.

When the idiot looks your way, Yoongi leans a little too close, whispering something in your ear. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating in your chest.

Yoongi seems not to notice what's happening to you. He seems perfectly normal, for a guy who's pretty fucking high and hates small talk.

He tells to you about the graduate project he's working on with Namjoon. He's a composer of all things. He looks at you stunned when you ask what his parents thought of his choice. He simply answers that he doesn’t know why their opinion matters. There's a hard edge to his voice, though. You wonder if it did matter at some point. You wonder if he found a way to move on from it, and you wonder if he will tell you his secret. You tell him about your thesis and the research you're doing for Namjoon. He listens. He even asks questions, not dumb ones. It's as heady as the hands that can't seem to stop their gentle exploration, fingers worrying at your skirt, rubbing at your tights. He even pours you some of the bribe wine.

Eventually, dinner’s over but no one has left the table. You don't want to move, what with the spell that’s been woven by his hand on your skin.

His hand moves possessively, dipping down between your thighs, fingers grazing your other leg. You squirm in your seat. You can't help it. It feels so fucking good to have him touch you like this.

His hand stills.


His fingers dig into your skin. He's got a grip, and it's hard not to think about what else his hands could do.

"What –" he starts, confusion on his face.

He’s probably just realized this is weird and the weirdest thing is you haven’t stopped him, and he’s going to think you are weird.

"Sorry, I know I’m weird—"

"No—what?" he stutters. His hand dips again, slipping between your legs, almost reaching the apex of your thighs. Oh god does he have any idea what he’s doing to you? "Are these thigh-highs?" His voice sounds incredulous. "Tights?"

He looks over at you with wide eyes.

How much did he smoke? 'Cause now you realize it’s more than you thought. (He really should've shared.)

He looks so cute though, smiling and running his hands up and down your thigh in disbelief.

You really hope he remembers this conversation tomorrow when he's sober, because he is going to be so embarrassed. "Yes, they’re tights."

"How do they stay up?"

You've never been so charmed in your life.

His hand reaches for your other leg as if to make sure there are indeed two, one on each leg. His grip is strong, as he pulls your legs together, fingers scrambling over your skin.

"Um, elastic." You try not to laugh. "They're really common."

Now he’s running a finger along the edge, dipping below the elastic and circling your thigh. How something so innocent can feel so obscene, you have no fucking idea.

"No garter?"

You shake your head, not trusting your voice. His fingers skim your skin, warm and light. Every movement feels like a chorus being played on your body. You look over at him, expecting that gummy smile of his again.

But instead, he’s narrowing his eyes at you like he’s about to con you out of your life savings. He doesn’t look away as he moves his hand higher, nudging aside your skirt, as if in disdain of the fabric for interfering with his plans.

He doesn’t shy away like you think he might, pretend it's a coincidence, pretend it's a weird accident, pretend he doesn't know the basics of human anatomy. Because he does, and you wonder if this whole time he knew what he was doing.

You feel light-headed. The sensations you've been trying to deny all night, out of a sense of propriety, out of a sense of this-cannot-be-happening are rapidly moving to the forefront. You’ve been lying to yourself, not very successfully, at how turned on you are. You've ignored it all: your slippery, wet panties, your aching, swollen sex.

Fuck, you feel like the most ridiculous slut. The world’s easiest woman, ladies and gentlemen, just a hand on her thigh and she’s yours. God, what if he thinks you’re pathetic? What if he didn’t intend this?

Your mouth forms a surprised oh as he moves his hand to cup your pussy, the palm of his hand resting on top, fingers pressing against your covered slit with an unwavering, gentle pressure.

Well, it seems like he intended that.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything surprising. It's like he's saying, I come in peace, fair clit. I’m not going to attack you.

You take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Does he think it's weird you haven't stopped him? Because you don’t want to. From the corner of your eye, you can see him bite his lip.

"[Y/N]," someone calls.

You jerk your head up, reverie broken. Oh god, it's the idiot.

"[Y/N]" the idiot says again, smiling at you.

 Now? This is happening now?

Yoongi for his part, couldn't care less. The interruption hasn't stopped the way his fingers move in a steady rhythm. He grinds down his palm experimentally.

You briefly shut your eyes. Yoongi chuckles.

"How have you been, [Y/N]?"

You don't respond, having trouble forming words. The idiot narrows his eyes. You can feel your cheeks heat. What must you look like? You take a sip of wine to give yourself a moment to think.

Yoongi doesn’t let you, though. "How have we been?" he asks, voice soft, whispering in your ear. You can see the consternation on the idiot's face. Yoongi moves even closer, breath fanning your skin. "Are we good?"

"So good," you stutter.

"I don't think he can hear you." Yoongi reprimands.

You clear your throat. "Really good," you say in a wavering voice.

The idiot glances between the two of you. Yoongi hasn't moved away, and you can still feel his breath on your neck. It must look like he's continuing to whisper something, when really what he’s doing is turning you into a pool of lust right here at the dinner table. Yoongi grinds down again. You stifle a moan, and you must show more than you intend. Understanding dawns on the idiot's face.

"We're great," Yoongi says. He turns away from you to face the idiot. "Thanks for asking."

The idiot scowls but finally fucking gets it, as he turns to speak to someone on the other side of him.

"That worked," you exhale.

"Did it?" Yoongi grins. "Or is it still working?" He taps your pussy with his fingers. Even those slight vibrations are enough to coax you, legs parting for him, as if he had commanded it.

"What if he knows you're, umm, with your hand and whatnot?" You ask anxiously, but not stopping the gentle rocking of your hips to increase the sensation.

"Whatnot?" Yoongi chuckles, but not in a mean way. "We’re fine, I'm pretty sure he doesn’t know what you look like when you cum."

You start laughing and that's almost enough to send you over the edge. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

Yoongi's turns his body toward you. It must be an awkward position for him, but he's protecting you from the rest of the room. He needn't have worried, no one is paying attention. Everyone is engaged in their own conversations.

Yoongi cocks his head at you, biting back a smile like he thinks you won’t notice how delighted he is.

He’s sweet, you think.

He grinds down again. You shiver and your body aches, every nerve ending primed for whatever he'll do next.

"Fuck, you really are sensitive, aren't you?"

"I know, sorry—"

"Don’t apologize," he says, his words a dismissive drawl, as if it were that easy to change a lifetime of I’m sorries.

He starts moving his fingers over your wet panties. Just a simple circular motion. Your clit is still protected, so you don’t have to worry about him jabbing you like someone else would. Finally, someone gets it, and it’s in public, and it's at a dinner party, and it’s Min Yoongi.

"What else do you like?"

Is this a conversation? Is he expecting you to form words?

"Could you cum riding a pillow?" You nod, a little too enthusiastically, but it's one of your favorites. "Fuck, I bet you look sweet."

Do you? You’ve no idea.

"You take your time, don't you, teasing yourself? Bet you look so good."

"Uhh, I've only been by myself." You whisper, as you try to steady your breath.

"Nuh-uh, I wanna watch. "

"Yeah?" you say, voice a little too high, a little too wavering. If you were remotely used to this sort of thing, you would pretend the thought of him watching you was a bore, absolutely nothing special, happened a million times before. But you're not remotely used to this, and the thought of him watching you is going to keep you warm on lonely nights for a long time. Probably in a few hours, actually.

"Of course," he drawls, tongue in his cheek. "Wouldn't like it if you did it without me, though, might have to punish you."

"Oh my god," you exhale, hands moving to grip your knees. You try to project an outward image of calm and sophistication. You assume it isn't working, but it’s the thought that count

He's not even close to stopping, his fingers continuing a steady, circular pattern. He leans closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You arch your neck, preening for him, giving him more access. You can feel his chuckle on your skin.

"What if I put you in my lap? What if I made you grind against me until you were all messy, could you cum for me like that?"

Oh fuck, that's a thought. Yoongi fully dressed, probably. You being all desperate and needy for him, hair a mess, panties ruined, lips red and bitten. How long could he maintain his cool indifference? How long before you could force him out of that mold he's so carefully built around himself? You really want to find out.

"Uh, I could do that," you say, as if this were a job interview. Really, it’s a miracle you ever get laid.

He pulls back. Your eyes track the movement and you wonder if he likes kissing, likes the slow tangle of tongues and the occasional nip of teeth, wonder if he likes to take his time. He licks his lips. "Bet you sound so pretty when you cum."

"Fuuucckkk," you breathe. You're not going to last. If he doesn't stop soon, you're going to cum, sitting in the corner of someone else's flat. God, you don’t even care, it feels so good. It’s like every guy before thought you were some complicated, intricate piece of machinery. When you are really a simple creature who just needs a boring, repetitive hand motion from Min fucking Yoongi to get you off. As easy as that.

"Yoongi," Namjoon calls.

You startle. Yoongi for his part doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away from your face, doesn't stop his ministrations under the table. It's as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He leans in closer, lips now caressing your ear. "What do you want, sweetheart?"

You part your lips; your body seems to only exist as an instrument for him to play. Oh god, you want so much to hear him say that again. You would never get tired of it. He sounds like he means it. He sounds like he would really give you whatever you ask for.

You're ready to beg or whine, whatever it takes to keep this going, when you open your eyes. The room comes into focus. The other guests, the dining table, the fact that you and Yoongi aren’t alone even though it seemed like you were for those few minutes.

Namjoon is looking at you strangely. You turn away. You're Namjoon’s librarian, for Christ's sake. You pull requests from the rare book room and process transfer forms. What are you doing?

"Please," Yoongi says, "tell me."

 He sounds like he really wants to know. You want to tell him so badly, but this isn't you. This is a story that happens to someone else. You don’t get these sorts of things. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"We probably shouldn’t."

"Why not?"

"It’s a dinner party. They won't invite us back."

"That’s a bad thing?"

Laughter bubbles up, unbidden. "Don’t make me laugh," you pant.

"Why not?"

"It makes it so much worse," you say.

"Dude, you want to hear his new track?" Yoongi's other friend calls. Hoseok, you think it is. It looks like you've attracted the attention of him and Namjoon.

"Don’t call me dude," Yoongi calls without turning his head to look back at his friends.

It would have been fun, you think. But you shift your body, sitting up straighter in the chair, squeezing your thighs together, letting him know this is over.

"You sure?" He asks. He sounds regretful and that’s enough to give you a thrill, a feeling of warmth even as your body is chilled when he moves away.

You nod.

He looks down, sliding his hand away.

It will be a nice memory, you think.

He gives you a terse smile before moving to the other side of the room.




Yoongi doesn’t normally put a hand under someone’s clothes at the dinner table, not unless they’re dating or he’s talked to them about it first. But you were so enticing, he couldn't help himself.

You were into it, he knew that. He knew from your sighs of satisfaction, from the way your eyes would go unfocused, from the way you shifted to move your body closer. He isn’t worried that he overstepped. You had let him know what you thought about him not smoking you out, no way you would have let him do that if you didn't want him to.

He was disappointed you didn’t want to keep going, though. He knows that much, as he walks over to meet Namjoon and Hoseok.

"Do you know they make thigh-high tights?"

(Tomorrow when Yoongi's sober and walking to the library, he will remember this conversation and curse. He must have sounded like such an idiot.)

His two friends look up at him in surprise. Maybe he should have complimented Joon on his new track first, but that guy's a genius, everything he touches is gold.

"Yes," Namjoon says.

Hoseok looks at Yoongi quizzically. "They’re pretty common."


"What," Namjoon asks, "are you doing with my research librarian?"

"Nothing." Yoongi looks up sharply. "She’s not yours."

"True, but I like her and she’s good at finding the books I need, so I want her to like me."

"Everyone likes you."

"True, but if you sleep with her and then there's drama she's not going to like me, because she knows you and I are friends."

Yoongi knows there's a lot of drama with him and relationships. There always has been. He doesn’t go looking for it, but most often it's there.

"She’s smart. I like the swearing and the big sweaters and the way she looks when she's working behind the research desk."

Hoseok raises an eyebrow at that. "You really like her?"

Yoongi hasn’t thought about it in those terms until Hoseok asks so plainly. Does he like you? He wants to push you just a little further to see how far you'll go. He wants you delirious and begging for him. He wants to know what you look like when you cum. So, he has wants, he knows that.

Yoongi looks over to where you're talking to another grad student. You're gesturing like you did when you described your thesis to him. You're explaining something really complicated and intricate, and it's charming.

Hoseok takes a deep breath. "You really like her."

"I think so." Yoongi says, unable to admit more.

"Well, you should know so before you do anything." Namjoon interjects. "You’ve fucked things up before."

Yoongi looks over at Hoseok. "Are you going to let him talk to me like this?"

"I'm the one they talk to when it doesn’t work.” Hoseok sighs. “So you should know so before you do anything."

Yoongi tries to focus on Joon’s music, but he can't. An hour later and the apartment is mostly empty. He sees you in the narrow entryway, pulling your coat from the rack.

It's been a long time since he wanted anyone new. Lately, he’s preferred unattached indifference. The little he did tonight with his hand slipping under your dress, fingers grazing your soft cotton was more enticing, more desirable than the overpriced lingerie and the carefully applied lipstick of his usual partners. He thinks he prefers the red of your chapped, bitten lips.

"Hey," he says, walking up to you in the dark entryway.

You look up, as if surprised he's talking to you. "Oh, hi."

He agrees with his friends, he should know so before doing anything, but how is he going to know if he doesn't try?

"Can I get your number?"

That's how this is usually done, isn't it? It's been so long since he's met someone outside of the club.

"No," you say, sadly, as if regretting he asked you at all.

 Did he completely mess this up? Already?

You sigh. "Please don't be polite."

"I'm not being polite."

You huff.

"Can we talk, just for a minute?"

You nod.



Yoongi holds your wrist, gently pulling you down the hallway as if you might want to run away.

You don’t want to. You'd probably follow him anywhere, but he shouldn’t make this into something it isn’t. You like him, you’ve realized. And you don’t want to – it's confusing and inconvenient. The problem is your desire was only stoked as you watched him, as furtively as possible, laughing and talking with his friends and getting into some kind of debate with Namjoon.

He pulls you into the small bathroom, shutting the door behind you both. It's dark. The only light coming from the streetlamps shining dully through the frosted glass of the window.

 You stand with your back to the door while he faces you. He looks like he wants to pace, but the small space won't allow it. He'll run into the tub or the counter. "Did I get this whole thing wrong? Did you not have fun?"

"I had a lot of fun."

"Good." He smiles a smile that says I knew I was right. "So why can't I get your number?"

"If you get my number, I'm going to want you to call, and let's face it, you probably won’t—"

"I want to call you, that's why I asked for your number."

"—but if you don’t get my number, then you can't call me, and I won't have to worry about it."

"That makes no sense. I can get your number from Joon or find you at the research desk until eleven tomorrow."

He knows your schedule?

"The point is," he says, clearing his throat, "I can find you, so what's the difference."

"It makes perfect sense," you say. "If I give you my number I will want you to call. I will keep thinking about what could happen if you had a little more time, maybe a little more privacy, but I was into that whole dinner table thing more than I will ever admit, okay. So, when you don't call, and it doesn't happen again, I will be sad, and I don't want to be sad 'cause you never made me cum, you know?"

It makes perfect sense in your head, but now in this small space, everything about him overwhelms you. His effortless elegance, his intense gaze.

"First of all, I don't want you to be sad." He takes your coat from your hands. "Second of all, I think I know what you're saying."

"You do?" you say, mesmerized as he sets your coat on the counter. He puts his hands on your thighs, dragging his fingertips over your dress, pushing up the fabric to reveal your tights.

"They are special," he mutters.

You squeeze your thighs together.

"Come on, I want to feel you." He looks you in the eye. "Please"

You relax your body, leaning back against the door.

His hands haven't moved, just tightened their grip. His thumbs rest lightly on the still covered apex of your thighs. He leans in closer, lips hovering above your ear.

"What do you want, sweetheart?"

Your breath catches. What do you want? You want more of him whispering like this. You want more of his hands and his questions, of him gently pushing you into something you've never done before, of his praise and his whole fucking deal.

The thing is, though, you don't know if you want it right here and now. The two of you are in a cramped bathroom in someone else's flat. You are anything but relaxed. You feel exposed and nervous, and your heart is beating a steady rhythm that makes you want to bolt out of there.

He kneels before you. Oh god, what is he doing? You can feel him exhale against the damp cotton of your panties.

"So pretty," he says.

You shiver from his tone. He's probably good at this. He's probably better than anyone you've ever been with. But even so you clench your hands into fists and glance up at the ceiling, trying to calm your heart.

His tongue wets his lips. "Yeah?"

"Uh," you waver, looking down at him. What are you going to say? How can you talk to him about this? How many people have wanted to be in this situation and turned him down? "I don't—"

"No?" he says, sounding confused.

 Fuck. You look around this small bathroom, Yoongi kneeling before you, trying not to fall over into the bathtub. You take a deep breath. It's not like this night can get any weirder.

"Look, I don't want to hear about how repressed I am or, like, confused about how good it can be. I'm sure you're great, but it hasn't been great lately and I'm not interested in finding out, uh, here now, you know, in this tiny bathroom at this dinner party." You cover your face with your hands. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't fucking apologize," he mutters.

Wow, you've really fucked this up, but you've ignored your intuition for too long. Even if that means not taking the opportunity in front of you, which is Min fucking Yoongi on his knees. He's probably way better than anyone you've ever been with, but this, you think, is the right thing to do. You aren't sure why, but you have to start listening to yourself sometime. You aren't going to wait anymore, not even for him.

"I know I'm weird—"

He holds your wrists gently and moves your hands away from your face. You let him, and you wonder how many regrets you are going to have about this night. They just keep adding up.

He lets go gently. He stands before you and runs a hand through his hair looking you up and down. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You like him so much in that moment for thinking you are worthy of such consideration, of finding the right words.

"If someone made you feel like what you want is wrong, I hope you know it isn't. If you don't like something, you get to say you don't like it." He puts his hands on his hips. "And, if you're into something, you get to be into it and no one gets to tell you it's wrong. Unless it involves, like, non-consenting partners or clowns."


"Clowns are a hard stop for me."

"Who wouldn’t they be a hard stop for?"

"I don’t know. Please give me your number."

You squeeze your eyes shut, why is this so hard? He's cute and he’s hot, a real deadly combination. Pretty much since the moment he sat down next to you all he’s wanted to do is get you off, and it's sweet, you think. He's sweet.

"Please look at me." He sounds a little lost.

You open your eyes.

"Here's the thing, I’m rude and I’m terrible at dinner parties and I won’t answer my phone when I'm in the studio, but I won’t lie. If I say I'm going to call you, I'm going to call you."

You believe him. You don’t know why, but you believe him. "How do you break up with someone?" You’re obviously getting ahead of yourself but fuck it.

He narrows his eyes but takes your question seriously. "I tell them it's not working for me and then we break up. I don't like drama."

Oh, he must have a lot of it to say that. It must follow him. Honestly, the only guys who say that are pretty full of drama themselves. Your life is drama free. Your life is pretty fucking boring, actually. He's probably worth a bit of drama now and again. Plus, he gave you that nice speech about consent and that's a turn-on in itself.

"Alright, you can have my number."

He hands over his phone, and you put in your number.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says, "I’m going to text you to make sure you get home okay and then I'm going to make a not very clever reference to the fact I almost got you off under the table of this dinner party and then tomorrow night I'm going to meet you at the library for your shift."

"You are?"

"Then I'm going to ask you out."

"Am I gonna go?"

"You tell me." His hands move up your leg, adjusting the thigh-highs with an efficient fluidity, like he just can't help himself. He smooths your skirt, covering you back up.

"I'll go."

"Good," he breathes, "I wanted you too." He helps you on with your coat. "You got a ride?"

"Should be here soon."

He buttons your coat for you. "Stay warm, yeah."

He leads you down the hallway. The flat is quiet, just the sound of Namjoon and Seokjin's low voices coming from the kitchen as they wash dishes.

He hasn’t kissed you. You kind of hoped he would, maybe he doesn't want to.

"I’ll kiss you tomorrow when I walk you home from the library after your shift."

"Why not now?" you ask, before realizing how absolutely ridiculous you are.

He turns around, looking at you with a lip-bitten smile as you follow him down the steps. "If I start, it's going to take a while, and your car's coming."

"Oh," you breathe.

It's cold outside. You stand beside him on the sidewalk. The night is so clear you can even make out a few pale stars beyond the city lights.

 Fuck, this ended up being a weird night. Just two not-really-friends standing around in the cold, one of you thinking you really need a warm bed and a vibrator, probably not even the vibrator. You rub your thighs together. You've been teased all night, it isn't going to take long. You almost regret not taking him up on the offer. But no, you think, as he wraps a scarf around his neck looking up at the sky, you made the right choice.

"Whatta you gonna do when you get home?" He asks, words muffled by the scarf.

"Go to bed, I guess." You shove your hands in your pockets. Why does he care? Maybe this is normal I-almost-got-you-off-in-the-bathroom small talk. You don't know. It's a first for you. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to the studio." He takes a deep breath. "So, what are you gonna do before you fall asleep?"

What the hell is he talking about? You glance over at him.

He cocks his head at you, the cheeky fucker, tongue swiping his lip.

"I've been teased enough tonight, dude."

"Don’t call me dude."

"I'll take care of myself just fine."

"I know," he drawls, "but what are you going to think about?" He’s got a glint in his eye, and he looks so pleased with himself.

"Don't you mean, 'who'?"

He laughs. You can tell even he's surprised by it.

This is probably one of those times when you should lie but fuck it. You look up at him.

"I might not even make it home. I might have to take care of myself in the car. You know, hand under my skirt, legs spread, trying to be quiet so the driver doesn't hear."

He narrows his eyes at you.

"Maybe I'll hold off till I get home, shut the door behind me, and shove my panties down. They're ruined anyway. I can push up my dress and lean against the door. Probably won't even take the time to make sure the blinds are closed."

His jaw clenches. It’s super fucking satisfying.

"But," you say, shrugging. "I guess if I actually make it home and make it to the bed, then I might have to take my time, you know. Take everything off, get comfortable and remember what it felt like when you had your hand under my skirt, teasing me—"

"I wasn't teasing, sweetheart."

"—I'll suck on my fingers, getting them nice and wet, I'll hold off as long as I can, fingering myself, and I'll be a panting, slutty mess when I cum, probably have to muffle my moans."

"I want to hear you," he says, fists clenched by his sides.

"I would do what you asked," you say, as if it needed to be said out loud, as if it wasn't completely obvious.

"Yeah," he says, looking dazed.

"When I feel like it, I guess." You look up at him to gauge his reaction.

His shakes his head, facing breaking into a slow smile. It’s a smile that promises something and you can't wait to find out what it is. "Well, I did ask."

Your grin must be ridiculously large.

The car pulls up to the curb. Before you know what to say – best dinner party ever, I really like your hands, thanks for not being a jerk about the bathroom thing, – he's opened the door for you, helped you inside, and closed the door, leaving you warm but lonely in the back seat. The car starts to move.

"Wait, stop," you demand. The driver, grumbling and swearing, does as you ask. You roll down your window. "Hey," you shout.

Half a block away, Yoongi looks up at you, bemused smile on his face.

The car's starts moving again.

"I don’t know what to say." Your lips are numb from the cold, making it difficult to form words. "I had fun."

"Me too," he calls.

You look back at him until you can barely see him. Until he’s just figure in black at the end of the block, watching your car as it drives farther and farther away.


Unknown number: did you make it home okay


You: yes


Yoongi: imagine some witty reference to the table here


You: ok

Yoongi: fuck

Yoongi: alright

Yoongi: I wasn’t going to ask

Yoongi: but


You: but


Yoongi: I want to know

Yoongi: tell me


You: what do you want to know


Yoongi: sweetheart


You: yes


Yoongi: is this how youre gonna be


You: how im what


Yoongi: sweetheart


You: . . .

You: alright

You: I wasnt going to say

You: but

You: it seemed like a pillow night


Yoongi: . . .

Yoongi: i guess you remembered


You: . . .

You: I guess I did


Yoongi: see you at the library sweetheart


You: goodnight mr min yoongi


Yoongi: night librarian girl


Chapter Text

All day on Saturday you stop yourself from checking your phone. Kind of. Mostly.

Did you really text Min Yoongi last night about getting off riding a pillow, after you turned him down in the world’s smallest bathroom, even after he moved his hand under your dress, polite conversations all around you?

You did, and you kinda want to high-five yourself.

You look up from the research desk to check the clock, your reflection gazing back at you in the darkened window.


The library is quiet. Namjoon and Jin are working at Namjoon’s favorite table by the stacks. When they arrived tonight neither of them mentioned Yoongi or the dinner party, although Namjoon pushed his glasses up his nose and looked as if to ask you a question. Jin pulled him away.


Yoongi did say he was going to meet you before the end of your shift at eleven and ask you out. You did say you were going to say yes. That’s exciting. It’s not the most exciting thing though. The most exciting thing is going to be the kiss.

 What is the kiss going to be like?

 It replays in your mind, over and over again, the look on Yoongi's face when he said he was going to kiss you and it was going to take a while.

You’ve imagined it many ways in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he will be demanding and sort of ruthless, no that’s too telenovela. Maybe cold and intimidating, no that’s too 1940’s gangster. Maybe he will kiss you achingly slow and teasing – well, of course, he’s going to tease, that’s like his whole deal. The point is you’ve thought about it. A lot.

Ten forty-five.

You pretend to focus on your thesis, laptop perched in front of you. You say a silent prayer of thanks for whatever government grant pays you to sit at a reference desk from five until closing. After a few minutes pretending to work, you actually work. You get lost in editing until you are pulled out of your concentration by laughter.

Yoongi is standing with Namjoon and Jin by the window. His back is to you. Jin is laughing so hard he’s holding on to Namjoon’s shoulder for support. Yoongi is shaking his head, looking up at the ceiling, hands on his hips.

"Tights," Jin says, struggling to breathe.

You laugh loudly.

The group looks over at you. Yoongi is smiling, and you can’t help smiling back.


Graduate student housing is near campus, and Yoongi walks you home. But for the street lamps at irregular intervals along the path, the sky is pitch black. Snow swirls under the glowing lights. Your conversation is muffled and stuttered, wrapped as you both are in scarves and heavy coats. Your hands are stuffed deep in your pockets and your cheeks burn from the cold. It feels surreal – your normal life made magical – as you walk through falling snow with Min Yoongi. He talks about the composition he’s working on. You feel like any moment you will wander into Hogsmeade and stop off for a butterbeer.

Sooner than you would like, even though it is so cold you can feel your eyes tear, you reach the main door. You live in the cheapest, oldest building. It looks like some kind of brutalist experiment in apartment living. This must be the least romantic place in the city for a first kiss, you think.

Yoongi looks at you expectantly even as he stands in front of the key pad where you need to enter the building code.

"So," you say, pulling down your scarf. You’re standing in the sheltered entry. "You were gonna ask me a question."

"I was," he responds, leaning forward, his hands in the pockets of his navy pea coat.

You make an impatient gesture with your hands, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

He gives an exaggerated sigh but doesn’t hide his smile. "Would you like to go out with me?"


"Well, good, then I guess we’re–" he turns to go.

"Hold on," you say, reaching out to grip his arm. "Wasn’t there something else?"

He gazes at you, brows pulling in and a frown on his face.

Have you made a mistake, already? You haven’t even gone out with him yet.

Before Yoongi can answer, another resident walks up. The man pinches his face in obvious irritation at not being able access the key pad. Yoongi moves aside, and he pulls you with him. He moves toward the shelter of the alcove, away from the sliding glass door. He turns you until both of you face each other, each leaning a shoulder against the wall.

It’s as private a spot as you can have in the front of the building, you guess.

"Something else?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallow thickly. You can’t think when he’s this close, speaking low in your ear, smiling like a crossroads demon, questioning whether you should really make this bargain. He smells like coffee and cigarettes, but something else too, something uniquely him that conjures images of a hand on your thigh, your skirt pushed aside and the way he made you laugh even as he made you delirious with want.

"Uh, you mentioned . . ."

"Yes," he says drawing out the s.

Your heart beat races. The stress of the day, spent picturing this very moment, catches up with you, making you jumpy and tense.

"Oh," you say suddenly, shaky words stumbling out before you can stop them, "but it might take a while and someone might see."

He chuckles, stroking your cheek with his finger. "You wouldn’t mind, would you, if someone sees."

Oh damn, you probably wouldn’t, not when he’s within reach now, not when you are so close to getting what you want. He’s going to make you say it, though, isn’t he? That’s just like him, you think, even though you hardly know him at all, really. "Well, it was just . . . I thought . . ."

He brushes your hair out of your eyes. "What’s that, hmmm?"

He leans in. You can barely make out the features of his face. He’s so close your vision blurs.

"A kiss," you say as he hovers, warm breath making your lips tingle. A pool of need swirls deep inside you, and you lean forward.

His lips, soft and sweet, touch yours, feeling like velvet. Oh god, this is really happening. Last night wasn’t a dream.

"Nuh," he says, lips moving against yours, "uh."

Wait a minute.

He pulls back.

Why is he moving in the wrong direction? Your heart is pounding. You glance up at him quickly, eyes darting about. That smirk on his face is back and this time you don’t like it as much.

"What." You grip his lapel in your mittened fists. "The. Hell."

He rolls his tongue in his cheek. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

You take a deep breath, wishing your heart would stop racing and struggling to figure out what is going on.

"You wouldn’t smoke me out."

He coughs a laugh. "After that."

"We had dinner."

"After that."

"We did, uh, stuff."

"Yes, we did." He smiles. "And?"

"We talked in the . . . is this some sort of payback, cause I stopped—"

He looks genuinely horrified. "No, not at all. Not even a little."

"Why then?" You ask, whining but not caring. You let go of his coat. "You don’t want to kiss me?" He’s cruel to do it this way. You want to flounce off in a huff and tell him he’ll regret it, but you’ve never been a flouncer or a huffer. You have no idea how it’s done.

"I want to kiss you," he says, he cups your cheek in his hand. "I want do a lot of things."

"So why. . .?"

"Sweetheart, what did you do after you got home?"

You had been tired, exhausted even, when you got home. It felt like molten lead ran in your veins after the fizzy excitement of the night. The car ride, walking up to your apartment, getting ready for bed, everything passed in a sleepy haze. Except when you got into bed you couldn’t fall sleep without . . . and then you remembered what he had said . . . and then it felt like your body burned for him and you had to do it, had to imagine him watching you, had to make yourself come, his name pouring from your lips

"Oh," you say, gaze narrowed, "so, this is my punishment?"

"Yes." He sighs, as if deeply disappointed in your life choices.

You swallow thickly. Maybe there is some way you can salvage this. "But aren't you really punishing yourself?"

He cocks his head considering. "One of us has to stay strong."

"How about something else?" You pat his chest, smiling brightly. "I'm sure you could come up with another suitable punishment."

Fucckkk he mutters. He looks you in the eye, gaze heavy and full of promise. "I’ve thought of it, okay." He licks his lips. "I’ve thought of a lot of things, but you're probably not ready for them yet."

You're probably not, but . . . wait a minute. "You’ve thought of it? You've thought of me?"

"Of course I have, brat," he sighs, exaggerated as if this was so much trouble for him. "But I don’t think putting you over my knee and spanking you would teach you a lesson."

Oh god, your eyelids flutter closed and your upper body sways. Did you just swoon? Are you a 19th century heroine? You are so fucked for this guy. But it’s easy to imagine. Yoongi pushing up your skirt, pulling down your panties, his hand on your bare ass. Spanking is probably really high on the long list of things he’s good at. You squirm just thinking about it. God, he would really make you take it, wouldn’t he? You rub your thighs together. "It sounds fucking fantastic."

"Yeah?" he whispers, eyes dark.

"Yeah," you breathe.

He shakes his head slightly, seeming to come back to himself. "That’s why we aren't doing it, sweetheart."

There really is going to be no convincing him. "You're sure this isn't some pity tease."

"I don't play games."

This time you don't resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Not unless they lead where I want them to go." He smirks again, and this time you don't mind. He is a smug mother fucker, but he knows you'll play. You've made that clear. But nothing about this conversation is quenching the need pooling tight in your belly. You thought you were going to have swollen lips and groping hands and breathless kisses, and instead you are on your own again, going up to your lonely apartment. Well, you can take care of yourself–oh fuck balls.

"What about tonight?" you ask, "when I get upstairs."

He furrows his brow until he understands the question. His eyes widen. "Are you asking my permission to touch yourself?"

You nod. You are, and you wonder if you should feel bad about yourself.

"Kitten, you are sweet."

The pet name makes your chest ache, makes you want to cling to him and never let go, even if you can guess what is coming next.

He cocks his head, considering. "But no."

"Oh my god, seriously?" You were expecting this, but fuckkkkkkk.

"Yes, I'm serious."


He chuckles. "I’ll let you know."

Are you really doing this? Letting a guy you barely spoke to until a day ago dictate when you can touch yourself, let him tease you, let him know how gone you are for him in such a short amount of time. You're fine with this?

"You'll let me know, huh?" You look up at him.

He's gazing down at you, hand still playing with the strands of hair falling from under your knit hat, tangled in the wind. Whatever you are to him, you're guessing you're not much more than a mild diversion. But you aren't ready to stop. He'll probably get bored by next week and pretend not to know you when he sees you at the library. It's happened before, getting that vague I can't recall look. But you want to take advantage of this as long as it lasts, as long as it's fun and he makes your breath catch.

So, you are fine with this.

"I guess I'll be waiting until you let me know." You look up at him from under lashes, small sigh escaping.

He nods and kisses your cheek, chaste and fleeting, like you've just traveled back two hundred years. "Be good, yeah, get some sleep." He holds your hand even as you enter in the code with the other, moving stiffly. The cold seeps into after you lose proximity to his body. You shiver.

He squeezes your hand, and that other-worldy feeling doesn't go away. "I'll find you at work tomorrow."

The glass slides open and you enter. You don’t know how long he waits because you don’t look back.

The next day, Sunday, is your favorite day of the week. The only place you have to go is the laundromat until your graveyard shift at the Gas and Sip. You lose yourself in the whir of the washing machines and folding laundry. You work on your thesis. It’s easy, refreshing even, to get lost in the minutiae of everyday life – of dirty dishes and a well-made bed, of school work and paying bills, and for the first time in a day and a half you aren't consumed with thoughts of Min Yoongi. His hand gripping yours. His breath on your skin. His eyes on your body. That was a kind of dream. This is real, actual life. Laundry and school and work. It's a good reminder that whatever world you inhabit in those moments when you feel light-headed just being next to him, this is the true sum of your days.

It’s one in the morning. You're behind the cash register of the Gas and Sip sucking on a watermelon lollipop when you realize Min Yoongi can't find you, because he doesn’t know where you work on Sundays, because he doesn't know much about your life at all, when the ding of the door chimes and he walks in.


On Sundays, Min Yoongi sleeps. He doesn’t get out of bed. He naps like only a man who pushes himself more in six days a week than most people push themselves in a month can. He deserves his rest. He plans his whole week so he can be as lazy as he wants on Sunday. He doesn't have to talk to anyone or go anywhere, and he can sleep like the dead.

But today, on his one fucking Sunday a week, he can't sleep.

Every time he’s about to drift off he thinks about your sigh that first time he put his hand on your thigh. He thinks about that smirk on you face when you talked about touching yourself in the car on the way home on Friday. He thinks about you and that pillow. He thinks about the feeling of your breath on his skin, and how much he wanted to push you up against that cement wall, pin your hands above your head and kiss you until you were a whimpering, desperate mess.

He had wanted to kiss you. He had planned to kiss you. He had thought about it all day. But then he remembered that text, the sweet bratty text, and he wanted to punish you, you just a little, wanted to maintain some kind of control, wanted you to know he meant what he said about punishment. Besides, he thought that’s what you wanted to know anyway, to see if he meant it.

He spends Sunday in bed. He tosses and turns. He can't relax. It is starting to feel like torture. He doesn’t want to go to the club, he wants you. Even after a ridiculously unsatisfying session, hand gripping his length, coming into his hand like he's a goddamn teenager, he still can't sleep and now he has cum in his boxers. He just can't stop. He just can't stop thinking about that little smile on your face when he leaned in, the look of absolute shock on your face when he told you not to touch yourself, and then the sweet look of submission on your face when you agreed. You are the whole fucking package as far as he can tell, and he is having a hard time remembering that the first time he really spoke to you was less than two days ago.

The next thing he knows it’s 10:30 pm, he’s got two coffees in hand and he’s walking to the library. He is so screwed. The grad student behind the desk tells him you work at the Gas and Sip on Sundays. Not the one close to campus, but the one on the other side of town. The coffee is cold by the time he gets there.

"The coffee was hot when I started this journey."

You're behind the counter, looking cute, because of course you are. You glance down at your steaming cup of coffee next to the cash register.

"The gesture carried more meaning when I thought you weren’t surrounded by three walls of beverages."

"You found me." Your smile is so bright. You look delighted that came here.

Every emotion you have is written on your face, and he likes it so much. He doesn't have to wonder what you want, what you are thinking. There was a time when such honesty would have disgusted him. He would have equated it with immaturity, but he’s learned that hiding your feelings doesn’t always mean a capacity to deal. "How many jobs do you have?"

"Three. Well, four if you count this one which I only do on Sundays. Maybe four and a half, but donating plasma isn't a job, it's more like bonus beer money.

Yoongi is impressed and a little scared for you. He hasn’t had to do that in a few years, he hasn’t had to worry about food money or bus fare or tuition. He doesn’t miss it.

"How many jobs do you have?"

He doesn’t really have any, which is weird to admit to you.

"Uh, none."

"Are you a hitman? How can you afford those clothes? And all that equipment. Namjoon talks about your speakers, like a weird amount."

Well, he does have a weakness for certain things.

"I sold a song to a commercial."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I know, I sold out to the man." Yoongi almost hadn't done it, hadn't wanted to be a cog in the capitalist regime, as Namjoon called it, but he thought if how his parents sacrificed to send him to school and their small café needed repairs, and he wouldn't have to claw and scrape anymore. "They didn’t want to pay for a real opera aria, too expensive, too many rights to deal with, so they had me write one. It cost them less, but still paid well."

He flips the gate to counter with practiced ease and joins you behind the register. He doesn't miss these jobs.

"You wrote an opera?"

He sets down the coffee on the counter.

"Just an aria. It sounded like a real opera but was different enough not to cause copyright infringement. It's not, you know, fulfilling my life's dream but it pays well. Now they call me whenever they need something. It pays for school, and I can work on my own stuff."

You are perched on the stool, still looking dazed that he showed up. This might have been a mistake. What if you think he's weird?

"Worst job?" you ask.

"Delivering pizza." No contest.

"Seriously," you say. "I only lasted three weeks."

He doesn’t want to talk about this. He wants to kiss you. He wants to get back to that place where you were last night with you licking your lips and breathy. He liked that pouty look on your face when you were annoyed cause he didn't kiss you. He doesn't know how to get back there. There's fluorescent lights and terrible music and you're in the middle of the Gas and Sip.

"You wanna smoke?" You ask, leaning down to rummage in your backpack. "I’m not stingy like some people." You pull out a perfectly rolled joint.

"How long are you going to remind me about that?"

"Pretty much forever."

An hour later and the two of you are shoulder to shoulder in the chip aisle. Every time you take down a bag, he puts it back.

"You can't rearrange everything in rainbow order." He reminds you again. He's almost about to let you do it, the grin on your face was so big when you came up with the idea.

(The two of you had been standing in the dark side of the building, passing the joint back and forth. Each time your fingers grazed a kind of current was created between you. You wrapped your arms around your waist and leaned over. "I might have, uh," you stuttered, "yeah, I might have smoked too much." You did not look good. Yoongi took a step back. "Are you going to puke?" "No, but sometimes I get weird ideas.")

"But it would look so cool."

"True," he says. You've explained how much you need this job. He can't let you do it, as happy as it would make you. "But will your boss like it?"

"Oh, she'll hate it," you say with real zeal. "I'm really excited."

He looks over at you, your fingers grasping for another bag.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Ah, we can't . . . if you do the chips you have to do the drinks."

A huge grin forms on your face. This might have been a terrible ploy, cause it does not look like it's dissuading you from your plan.

"You're right. We better get started if we want to finish in time."

Your smile is infectious. Your lips are stained red from the watermelon suckers that you can't stop shoving in your mouth. Your eyes are bright, and he doesn't think he's seen you look this delighted. He can't believe of all places it's the chip aisle of the Gas and Sip on the far side of town. He realizes he knows absolutely nothing about your life. But he really fucking wants to, and he hasn't even kissed you yet.

Well, this might be the most least romantic place in the city, but he can fix the not having kissed you thing.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" you say. A horrified look passes your face. "Do I have food in my teeth?"

"No," he shakes his head, laughing.

"Don't laugh at me," you pout, turning away from him.

"I'm not laughing at you." He reaches out to hold your arm, pulling you back to him. He likes the way you say things. He liked it at the dinner party, when he expected to be stuck between happy couples all night, scowling and wondering when he's supposed to buy picture frames and kitchen utensils, cause he doesn't own either of those things. Instead, he got to sit next to you and drink wine and listen to your voice. You made him laugh, and you were kind of a jerk too, which does nothing to stop his attraction. It only sparks it. He really liked that soft moan you made, too, when he got it just right, the moment your eyes looked so dark, and he knew just how close you were. It felt like discovering a new instrument to play. He's tired of watching you leave. He let you go in the cab on Friday. Last night he let you disappear into your building. He doesn't want that to happen again.

He reaches out for your hand. You look a little lost for a moment. He pushes your hair out of your face. You seemed to like that last night. Your lips part in surprise. He holds your gaze, the only sound the hum of the lights and his own heartbeat, betraying him as it beats faster, speeding up with your every soft exhale. You squirm a bit but settle when he runs his hand against your cheek. The watermelon red is mesmerizing, and more than anything he wants to taste.

He slides his other hand over your hip. He feels you shiver under his touch and it’s delicious. The hem of your shirt rides up, and he smooths his thumb over your warm skin. You exhale and your eyelids flutter as he continues to rub a small circle over your hip. He pulls you closer to him, and you move willingly. He likes the way you reach out to cling to his sweater, wrapping it in your grip as if you are afraid to lose him. He presses his hips to yours, and you fit perfectly against him. You exhale as he moves his arm around your waist pressing into the small of your back.

He can't take his eyes from your lips, and he dips lower. You are sharing the same breath now. He presses his lips to the column of your throat. You whisper his name. He drags his lips against your skin. He hears your short intake of breath, even as he hums in enjoyment. He leaves small kisses on your neck, and then at the sensitive spot above your collar bone. He pushes aside the collar of your t-shirt wanting more of you bared to him. Every part of you should be his, he thinks, even as he knows it's too soon for that thought to come, unbidden as it is.

He can hear the short pants of your breath, the way your fingers clutch at his sweater, gripping then stroking, as if frustrated there is anything between you.

Please, you exhale.

He continues to nuzzle into your neck, loving the way the way you begin to writhe under him. He has a sudden image of you spread out beneath him, waiting for him, letting him take his time, even as if frustrates you, even as you beg for him to fuck you. You would be so good for him, he knows.

He slides a hand into your hair, gripping it tight in his fist. He pulls back. He revels in the way your eyelids flutter and your breath slows.

"What's that?" he whispers pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Please," you sob, chest heaving. "Don't make me wait."

He kisses your cheek now.

"What if I want to?" He doesn't, not really. His control is barely holding. He finally has you where he wants you, and he wants to kiss you until you're breathless. There are so many things he wants to do to you. He wants to pull you into the backroom. He wants to shove you up against the door so you forget every other idiot who has ever kissed you. He wants to bend you over the counter and spank you until your ass is red, until you are dripping for him. He has not forgotten what you said about spanking. Really, he doesn’t think he ever will.

He rubs a hand over your ass. You whimper his name. It sounds so good, so desperate and needy.

"Well, since you've been good." He kisses the corner of your mouth. You taste sweet, the watermelon taste so perfect for you.

"Please," you beg, but it's cut off by his lips.

Your lips are softer than he imagined. He nips at your lips, teasing, and you whimper. He kisses you slowly, languidly, playing with you, trying to draw more of those delightful sounds from you. You move against him, pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his body. He swallows your moans, as he presses himself against you. You move a hand to hold his neck, sliding your hand, feeling along his jaw. He hums in response. He pulls back to catch his breath, nudging your nose with his.

"More," is your simple, exhaled command and he thinks in that moment he would do anything you ask.

 He presses his tongue against the seam of your lips. You acquiesce with a smile he feels against his own. He plunges his tongue into your mouth, claiming. He sucks your bottom lip pulling it between his, and then unable to help himself, he bites gently. You grip his sweater tight, pulling him even closer.

The kiss turns frantic. Your hands run up his back, and he groans as he feels your fingers drag against him. For half a moment, he thinks to shove you into that chip rack, but he’s pretty sure he'll knock it over, and you'll both end up on the floor and not in a good way. He wants more, but all he has to work with is the Gas and Sip. He'll do his best.

He's not sure how long you stand there kissing under the fluorescent lights, cars whizzing by, lips moving against each other, hands running under clothes, just enough to tease and tempt, your soft moans edging him on.

He pulls back to catch his breath. He takes in your heaving chest, your chapped lips, the way you run your tongue over them.

"Does this–" you're trying to catch your breath. Your hands still grip his sweater.

He can't help leaning down to kiss your neck. Your t-shirt is stretched out and your hair is mussed. He really likes you.

"–mean my punishment is over?" you breathe.

He chuckles into your skin. He likes your priorities, he thinks, as he takes another taste.

"Because last night was – oohhh -- I'm not gonna lie -- uuhhhh -- fucking difficult.

"Yeah?" he asks. He pulls on the neck of your t-shirt, exposing more skin. He wants more details about your night but that's a touch too cruel. He likes to know you had as bad a time as he did though. He likes to think of you writhing in the sheets, desperate to come but holding off, willing to obey. He likes it a lot. He sucks gently on the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Yeah," you say, almost a moan.

He lingers. Lips grazing over your skin. He would love to see bruises blooming on your neck, your chest. He hopes you like that. He'll find out before he does anything, but goddamn. He kisses your collar bone.

"Yoongi," you whine, pulling back from him slowly moving your body away from his. Your swollen lips form a charming pout.

You make a good show of it, but he knows he could have you begging for him in minutes. Wouldn't even take that long.

"No, sweetheart, this means my punishment is over." He sighs in satisfaction and runs a thumb possessively over your bottom lip. "I finally got to kiss you, but—"

 "Wait a minute."

"— I said I'll let you know."

"Are you kidding me?" You glare at him, narrowing your eyes, fists planted on your hips.

Yoongi grins. He’s really excited for the spanking part.

Chapter Text


Min Yoongi is bored. It's after midnight. He's out of weed, and he's tired, and he's sitting in his studio trying to focus on this disco song. He rubs his eyes. He knows it's not a disco song, so much as it is a new roof on his parent's café. He really shouldn't be thinking about new stereo equipment or those limited-edition sneakers. Well, the roof will come first, and then he can decide what to do with the rest.

Yoongi's phone buzzes, he smiles. It's been a little over a week since the Gas N Sip. It's been two days since he last kissed you. It was 11:15 and you were worried about getting locked in the library.

"Spending the night in the library is like your dream," he murmured, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin where your neck curves to your shoulder. He sat on the research desk, as you stood between his legs, small whimpers escaping even as you bit your bottom lip to keep them quiet. "We can make out in the stacks, maybe go crazy and drink coffee in the rare books room."

"No," you panted, your cheeks flushed, your hands splayed on his chest. "We can't do that. I told you."

"But you'll make out in the stacks with me?" He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t know the answer.

"Of course," you said. The look of delight on your face turned to a charming scold. "But no coffee."

You kissed him again. Your plush lips soft against his and then he licked into your mouth, possessive and demanding, your body molding to his, showing him just how much you liked it. He doesn't remember talking after that, not until you dragged him to the elevator.

He glances at his laptop, the screen stares back, just as it has for the last two hours He's not getting anything done tonight, might as well talk to you.

"Ohhhhhh, heyyyyy," you stutter, "wow."

"Yup, it's me."

"Yeah," you scold. "I know that."

"Look, you called me."

"I didn't expect you to pick up."

He can hear the exasperation in your voice. He hates talking on the phone too, but you called him.

"You said you don't pick up when you're in the studio."

"How do you know where I am?"

"It's Wednesday," you huff, as if it was perfectly normal to know his schedule.

He shifts in his chair. "What do you need?"

Fuckkkkk you whine under your breath.

He can picture that look of frustration on your face. It's the same one he's come to know in the last week. Well, that makes sense. He grins.

"I was going to leave a message."

"You wanna call back?" He chuckles. He almost wishes he didn't pick up to hear what you would have said. He doesn't know if it would’ve been angry cursing or desperate pleading, he likes both.

"No, I think the mystery is gone." He can hear the resignation in your voice. "Hey, sorry I bothered you."

"You aren't bothering me."

You don't hang up. You're just breathing softly into the phone. He did pick up, after all. He did break his one rule he told you about. He wanted to talk to you, anyhow. He thinks about you at odd times now. Your coffee order and your too big sweaters and your tiny apartment that can barely fit one person. It felt like you two were huddled together in a space capsule when both of you were there, eating takeout, sitting next to each other on the kitchen counter. He isn't sure if he likes it, the way you're filling up all the empty spaces of his days that used to be filled with what, he can't remember, but he doesn’t seem to have any control over it.

He doesn't have to make it easy on you though. He leans back in his chair, legs splayed. "Why did you call, sweetheart?"


When Min Yoongi calls you sweetheart . . . it's maddening and wonderful at the same time. You let out a shaky breath and clench your fist, writhing in the tangled sheets of your bed. Even as your heart races, more than anything it's comforting

it's like sunshine hitting your face on a cold, winter day, and suddenly you remember that summer is a thing that exists. It roots you in the present. It's as reassuring as his hand on your thigh was that night at Namjoon's. You know it shouldn't make it feel as good as it does. It's too soon, and it's too overwhelming, but still, it makes you feel amazing.

It does nothing to calm your heart or cool your fevered body. You've been in bed, contemplating calling him for a while now. You skin is hot and so sensitive that even the soft cotton of your stretched-out sleep shirt is enough to make you squirm.

"I was gonna leave a message." You already told him that, but you need some time. You don't really want to tell him. It took most of your courage to call, there isn’t much left. Sweat is beading on your forehead. You should be cold in this drafty room, but you're still burning up.

"No stalling." He pauses. "This your night off. You had classes all day, and you usually go to bed early."

"It's okay for you to know my schedule," you grumble.

"Don’t change the subject."

You swallow, throat dry. "I can't, uh, sleep." You can't do a lot of things.

"Oh sweetheart, I don’t think sleep is the problem."

It’s easy to picture the smirk on his face. What does he want? Does he want you to beg? Is there some sort of secret handshake or special passcode? Whatever this is with him, you don't know how this game is played. All you know is how to be yourself and that really hasn't worked out so well. It seems even less likely to work out with him.

Maybe he has so many partners that he has some kind of app and your notification hasn't popped up. Like, Wednesday isn't your day to come. It's someone else's, and you are every other Thursday. Oh god, you are such a complete idiot. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself but probably sounding like you are struggling for air. He doesn't have a calendar app. His other partners are his business. You need to get off the phone before you start hyperventilating, and he never wants to talk to you again.

"Hey," he says, voice muffled as if cradling the phone closer to his face. "Is everything okay? Do you need something? I can come over—"

"No, don't do that." You sigh, sounding ridiculous even to yourself. "You'll just keep kissing me and kissing me and still won't let me come."

He chuckles. You can picture him, leaning back in his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face.

"I have a new Lelo, Yoongi." It's hidden in a box in your dresser, so you don't tempt yourself. "They had a sale, and I haven't even used it. It's pink and it's pretty."

"I'm sure it's not as pretty as you."

"Fuck offffff," you say, even as you clench your thighs at his sweet words. No one should be able to say that and sound like he means it.

He laughs softly. "You should be nice to me." He exhales, as if bored by this whole conversation. "I don't see the problem. It's late, and you should've been asleep hours ago."

"I was in bed hours ago, I can't sleep . . . please Yoongi." The sheets are tangled underneath you, the comforter is splayed on the floor, and your pillow is at the foot of the bed, about to fall off. It looks for all the world, as if you were satiated, as if all you needed now was a cigarette and a shoulder to fall asleep on. Instead, you've spent the night thrashing and cursing Yoongi because you could probably come untouched just thinking about his voice in your ear. "I'm dying. I'm like those paintings of a woman in white on a lounge who looks like she's about to expire."

He chuckles. "You'll live."

Oh god, he is the worst. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? You are dying. It’s been over a week since you’ve touched yourself. You’ve been tossing and turning in the sheets for hours. Your breasts are aching, your cotton panties damp with your arousal. You spent the night trying not to think about him and look where that got you. Well, you gave up trying to be sophisticated and aloof from the beginning. Desperate and horny is all you have. Might as well commit.

"Please, Yoongi," you beg. Maybe this is what he was waiting for, maybe he just wants to hear you ask, maybe he wants to make sure you really want it.

"Why did you call?" You can picture him easily, the serious look on his face, the way he might push your hair out of your eyes if he were there.  He isn't going to let you evade him. "Tell me."

You bite you bottom lip, enjoying the twinge of pain. "Wanna come, please . . . I’ll do anything."

He exhales, shaky and slow. "Anything?"

"Mmm-hmm." You lick your lips, wishing you could taste his. "Wanna be so good for you . . ."

"What--" He clears his throat. "What will you do?"

"Anything." You may have joked about it standing outside of Namjoon's, but it isn't any less true. You'll give him whatever he asks. "I'll do anything you want."

Yeah? he breathes through the phone.

"I trust you," you say, voice small.

"Fuck," he practically growls. "Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?"

You do trust him, even though it hasn't been long enough too, not really. Your trust has been misplaced in the past, but he's sweet and kind. Except for the not-being-able-to-get-off situation where you are currently trapped.

"Well," you drawl, even as you still can't catch your breath after that last exchange. "I do know I would like to come sometime this evening, if you're taking requests."

He breathes a laugh. "Are you touching yourself?"

"No," you scoff, slightly offended. "I’m being good."

"Well," he ponders. "Maybe . . ."

You sit up straighter in bed, feeling self-conscious about your messy room even though he can’t see it.

"Where are you?" he asks. "Exactly."

"Uh, in bed, sitting up, leaning against the wall." Your mattress is on the floor, as he knows, shoved into the corner. Your sheets are faded, worn thin and soft from too many washings. The one window in your narrow rectangular room of an apartment is behind you, ugly blinds closed, but still the streetlights come through the bent plastic, leaving a jagged pattern of light on the floor.

"You comfortable?"

"Sorta," you scoot down, propping your pillow behind your head. You're as comfortable as you can be given your situation, every shift of your body causes you to shiver. Your skin is so sensitized each whisper of his voice is like a caress.

"How about now?" he asks, and he sounds anxious. God, you wish he were here, but you will take whatever you can get, that much is obvious.

"Yeah," you lick your dry lips.

"Alright," he says, deliberately slow, as if he needed to calm himself down too. "What are wearing?"

"Old t-shirt, soft." Your voice shakes, as you drag your hand over the soft slide of your stomach, pushing up the fabric, wishing it was him touching you. You're desperate for his hands on your skin. You glance down your panties, knowing you don't get to do anything else, not yet. They're just plain ones, thin from too many washings and slightly pink from the time you washed them with your red sweatshirt. You hold your breath and chew your bottom lip. "Um, black silk panties."

Yoongi laughs sharp and bright, the jerk. He can barely speak, he's laughing so hard. "Send me a picture."

"I hate you."

"Hey," he says, as he tries to catch his breath. "I’m sure you look great."

"Thanks, dude."

"Don’t call me dude." He exhales. "Sweetheart, put your hand under your shirt."

You smile, finally getting somewhere. You push up your t-shirt and graze your breast, just a small handful, teasing over your nipples and tugging gently on the small barbell of your piercing. You've always been sensitive, but after the night spent thinking about him, your nipples are hard nubs, aching for his touch.

God, you think, he doesn't know. Is he gonna like them? He's an idiot if he doesn't. They're great. The image of Yoongi sucking and nipping on your peaked nipple, rolling it on his tongue makes you quiver. You let out an whimper.

"Fuck," he moans. "You are sensitive. I wanna take you apart."

You arch off the bed at his words. Well, come over then, you want to demand.

"I bet you have gorgeous tits." He sighs. "I mean they seem great so far."

"They are."

He chuckles, soft and breathy. "Close your eyes, yeah, pretend it’s me touching you,"

You whimper at the low timber of his voice, feeling like a caress.

"You like that?" He asks, still maintaining his I don't care voice which is going to just end you some day. "I’d go so slow, touch you all over, kiss your neck, mark you up so pretty, make sure everyone knows who you belong to--"

You moan at his words, it’s so, so easy to picture. "Please, want everyone to know I’m yours."

"Good girl."

You sob at his words. He always knows just what you need to hear. "Let me touch myself, please."

"Not yet," he warns.

Well, not always.

"Put two fingers in your mouth, suck on 'em, let me hear you."

Your yes is muffled as you suck on your fingers like it’s his cock, licking around the digits sucking in your cheeks, saliva dripping out of your mouth, shameless even though he can't see you.

He lets out a guttural moan. "Such a good girl for me." You whimper as you rub your thighs together, panties drenched with your arousal.  He’s breathing so heavy you can practically feel the warmth on your skin. "Tease your nipples, yeah, just rub okay?"

You do as he asks, and it almost fucking hurts you are so sensitive, so far gone. "Ohh god Yoongi, it’s so much, oohh fuck--" You arch off the bed, chewing on your bottom lip.

"You sound so pretty, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

You pinch hard, enjoying the sharp pain. "It's too much, fuck, please let me . . ."

"I’m gonna play with you, sweetheart." His voice is rough. "I’m gonna pin you down and tease you until you're such a pretty mess for me."

You're sobbing, you can feel tears forming at the corners of your eyes. He would like that, you think. He should be here. You pinch your other nipple, and you moan.

"Fuck, you sound so sweet, can you come like this?"

"Maybe," you take a breath. If its him you know you will, "I wanna – you hiccup, catch your breath - be good for you."

"You are sweetheart." You whimper shamelessly at his praise. It's all you need, really. "Slip your hand down your panties."

"Fucking finally," you whine. Your pussy is throbbing, and you tease yourself first, grinding down your palm onto your still clothed mound. It is going to take so little to get you off.

"Be good, pet." He warns, voice dangerous.

You moan at his reprimand, bucking up into your hand. "You like my filthy mouth."

"I’d like it better if your mouth was sucking my cock."

"Oh god, me too." You pant, as you bite your lip, hand still working over your covered slit. "I can’t stop thinking about tasting you, your hard cock in my warm, wet mouth."

"Yeah?" You hear his sharp intake of breath.

 "I wanna gag myself on your cock, want you to use me, yeah." You hear his long drawn out moan. "Can we do that, sometime, please?"

He huffs a laugh. "Now you’re polite?"

"If it works. Can I please-"

"Go on."

You moan as your fingers push aside your panties to your wet slit. "I’m so wet, Yoongi, fuck I’m dripping."

He groans. "God, I bet you look so fucking filthy, fuck."

You push down your panties, shoving them down to your thighs, unwilling to take the time to shuck them off. You run a finger over your wet slit, moaning at the sensation. It feels like it's been months, like you’re a soldier returning from war. Thank god you don't say that out loud.

You hear him move, sounding like he is shifting off his jacket. Is that a zipper?

"Are you gonna-" you break off as you rub over your hooded clit, bucking up your hips from even that small sensation. There is something so hot and so wonderful about him touching himself while he's talking to you like this. "You too?"

"Of course I am," he scoffs. You can hear him scuffling and shifting. "You think I'm gonna just sit here, when you sound like that."

"Like what?" You ask, voice as light as you can make it. You hear a drawer slam shut.

"Like you need to get fucked." He says, harshly, like he's angry he's not here fucking you into the mattress right now. Me too, buddy, me fucking too.

"I do need to get fucked." You slip a finger between your wet folds, it's good, but it's not enough. "Might even let you do it."

"Might?" He laughs, all breathy and delighted. You love that laugh. You hear the flick of a cap opening, and oh, he has lube in his office, just ready and all and why is that so hot? He hisses and he must finally have his cock in his hand. He must look so goddamn good. "Sweetheart, we both know after I fuck you, you're gonna forget anyone else has ever touched you."

Oh god, your pussy clenches around your fingers at his words. You drag them slowly in and out, needing more, needing his cock to fill you up, make you come.

"We'll see." You can't stop the laughter from your voice, cause you don't even believe your own words. You're worried he's going to actually do it, and then where will you be?

"Oh pet," he drawls. You shiver, and wish his voice didn't make you question reality. "Keep that up and you'll get a spanking."

"Yeah?" you don't stop the annoyance from flooding your voice. You even stop your ministrations on your aching clit. "You keep saying that, but you haven't--"

"Watch your mouth." He grits out.

You can't stop the moan that escapes from his tone.

"You like that?" He chuckles. "I'll spank you until your ass is red and still won't let you come."

"I’ll be good." You gasp, chest heaving.

His breath hitches. "You better."

"Please," you move your hand back to your wet pussy, your heavy, swollen clit. "Need to come . . . 'm close, wanna come Yoongi, 'm so fuckin close."

"Tell me what you want."

"Want you to fuck me, can't stop thinking about you fucking me, filling me up."

 His breath catches as he swallows a sob. "I'm gonna fuck that tight cunt of yours, make you take it until you're coming around my cock."

"Ohhh, fuckkk, 'm so close, –" your hips are bucking up into your hand off the bed as you imagine grinding against his cock. Your legs are splayed, pussy exposed as you lay on your sheets. You wish he was here to see what a filthy mess you are.

"You gonna come for me, kitten?" Yoongi is panting, and fuck, he must be close too.

"Please," you beg, delirious. Coils of pleasure low and sweet are thrumming through your body. You’re struggling to be good, struggling not to come. "Yoongi, please let me come."

"Let me hear you," he gasps. "Let me hear what you sound like when you're mine."

Pleasure overtakes you, white, hot heat running through your veins, body trembling. In the throes of your release, you cry out his name, body arching off the bed.

"Fuck,[Y/N], you sounds so good." You can hear his panting breaths and you wish you were there. Your longing for him makes you ache. You want to see what he looks like when he he's lost in pleasure. Small aftershocks rack your body, and you grind down on your pussy, causing more pleasure to move through your body.

"Yeah?" you breathe.

"You're mine, yeah?" He sounds as lost as you feel.

Your breath catches and your body trembles at his words. "I'm yours." You say, barely a whisper, as small, sweet tendrils of pleasure keep moving through your body

"Say it again," he demands.

"I'm yours, Yoongi, just yours."

He comes with a long drawn out moan. He sounds wrecked. Fuck, you wish you were there, wish could see him, let him use you, show him how much you belong to him, show him that you meant it, all of it. He has to know, right?

The two of you are quiet. Not sure what to say, you just listen to his breathing as it becomes slow and steady. Your body is still tingling as you come down from your high.

"Fuck," he mumbles in the phone, half laughing. "I’m a mess."

"Um, that was awesome," you say, yawning and stretching, starfished out on your bed, feet hanging off. You're surprised you can still talk. You're light-headed and your body is exhausted, loose-limbed and satiated. Well, you still need more, you need him to fuck you into next week, but this is a really good start. You are going to sleep so well tonight, you're already starting to drift off.

"Yeah?" he asks, breathless.

"Yeah." You pull the comforter from the floor and snuggle into your pillow. "It was like being fucked by a really hot stalker ghost who can't like, touch you or something." You yawn. "Ohhh, maybe he’s cursed to haunt your house, but he's nice and has an amazing voice. I’ve always wanted a ghost friend. Never thought about fucking one before, but, honestly, I might be fun."

"Um, what?"

Oh fucking fuck. You really just said that.

Yoongi starts laughing.

You usually hide your weirdness and stop yourself from saying shit like that out loud. The one time you do it, and it’s Min fucking Yoongi who is so cool and so unaffected he really could be a hitman. Sometimes you like to imagine he is, just because you are such a fucking weirdo.

Obviously, you do the only thing you can. You end the call and toss your phone across the room like it’s on fire.


Yoongi is laughing so hard, he's doubled over which is gross considering he just jacked himself off in this studio. He feels like a fucking teenager. It's just . . . you are such a delight. He knows you are probably curled in the fetal position, cursing. He wishes he was there to make fun of you in person. He would kiss you, too. He would coax you and tease you until you were begging for him. He knows you would take his cock so well, and then he would make sure to fuck you again, too, until you were too satiated for anything more because he meant what he said, he’s going to make sure you know how much he wants you, how much you belong to him.

Instead, he's going to have to figure out how to make you feel better from here. You’ll never answer the door if he goes over there. He grabs some tissues, cleans himself up, and starts calling.


Your phone keeps buzzing, and you know he isn't going to let you sleep until you answer. Reluctantly, you throw off the covers, uncurl yourself and leave the warm bed. Your feet burn from the cold floor as you swipe your phone from under the dresser where it slid.

Yoongi: pick up

Yoongi: please

Yoongi: i won't let you sleep until we talk

Yoongi: you know that


You: please leave me alone


Yoongi: i can't

Yoongi: I'm your stalker ghost.


This mother fucker, he’s never going to let you live this down.


You: just let me die of embarrassment


Yoongi: but then we'll both be ghosts

Yoongi: do ghosts have sex

Yoongi: damn

Yoongi: it would suck to be a ghost

Yoongi: no sex


You: please stop talking about ghost sex and let me sleep


The phone keeps buzzing.

Yoongi: answer sweetheart

You take a deep breath.

"I wasn't laughing at you," he says, before you have a chance to speak.

You want nothing more than to not have this conversation. Why can’t you be the version of yourself who says weird shit and doesn’t give a fuck? "It's okay, just forget it."

"I'm not gonna forget it." He pauses. "Maybe ever."

You don't know how to explain, and it is too late and you're too tired. "It's not a big deal, I just want to go to sleep."

"You know I like the weird shit you say, right?"

You stare up at the low ceiling of your apartment. "Say something you like about me that doesn't involve me admitting I would fuck a ghost."

He doesn’t hesitate.

"I like that you told me what you didn't want at Joon's. I like how hard you work. I like that I still don't understand your thesis but it is obviously really important to you, and I want to understand it. I like how smart you are and you don’t hide it.

Your chest feels tight as his words roll over you. It’s too much, all at once, to hear him talk about you that way. You swallow thickly. What can you say? Anything would be wholly inadequate given the way those sentiments make you feel. They are going to stay with you a long time, long after whatever this is ends. "Um, thanks."

You bang the phone on your forehead

"Don’t hurt yourself." You can hear his smile. "I also like the fact you want me to fuck you in the library."

Your body shivers at his tone, and you can hear the promise in it. Thank god, you’ve wanted to have sex in the library forever. Your last boyfriend looked at you in stunned horror when you mentioned it. Wait a minute. "I never said that."

"You don't have to."

You take a deep breath, willing your heart to calm. Yoongi correctly surmising your secret desire for library sex shouldn’t make you feel faint. Ever since that dinner party, it’s like you are living in an alternate timeline. None of this was ever supposed to happen. An alternate you is going show up and explain how you messed up her timeline. (God, you really are a nerd). None of this is complicated, though. It's really simple. You just like him, so, so much, too much.

"Will you stay on the phone until I fall asleep?" It’s too girlfriendy. It’s too early for this needy shit, but he’ll say yes.

"Only if I can talk about ghost sex."

"Not even a little." You snuggle under the quilt, wrapping it over your shoulders and around your legs. "Tell me what you're working on."

Yoongi starts complaining about some disco song, as you strain to stay awake. The sound of his voice, low and soft, warms you, protects you from the draft blowing through the cracks in the window frame and the chill seeping in through the walls. Sleep eventually pulls you under.


Chapter Text

Min Yoongi hasn't fucked you yet.

He probably hasn't fucked a lot of people since Namjoon's dinner party. But then again, maybe he has. He could be doing anything or anyone, when he's not in the studio or showing up where you least expect him.

One night he even found you in the rare books room. Restocking books by yourself had left you mind-numbingly bored, but he hadn't. He never does. He left you delirious from his kisses and pleading with him touch you. Well, he was annoyed. You had demanded he take out his drink.

You explained some of the books were irreplaceable. (Irreplaceable!)

Disinterested look on his face, Yoongi sipped his iced coffee. "They're in cases."

He wasn't wrong. Every book was either shelved on the other side of the room or under glass. He lifted a hand to rap on the cover.

"Don't knock on the glass," you admonished. "Coffee. Outside."

You pointed for good measure, and you didn't miss his muttered swear as he stomped out of the room. He returned without his coffee, pushed you up against the door, and kissed you in an unrushed fervor, molding his lips over yours and tasting you with languid strokes of his tongue.

"Someone will hear," you mumbled through a broken moan as he sucked on that sensitive spot on your neck. The door wasn't very thick, and there were a lot of students out there.

"Then be quiet," he said in a harsh whisper. "I've been told not to touch the glass, so this is where I have to put you."

You shiver at the memory. Following him on the crowded sidewalk, you try to keep up with his surprisingly brisk pace. Moving in and out of the dull light of the streetlamps, he looks even more ethereal than usual. He had shown up at your building late to take you out. You were already in pajamas. He wore black slacks and a black button down, so similar to the night you met, you practically had a flashback. It did nothing to hinder your secret hitman fantasy. You hastily threw on a heavy sweater, skirt and thigh high tights. You hadn't missed the way his eyes landed on them. He's in a good mood tonight. It's a good look on him.

So maybe not being fucked by Min Yoongi is not a selective group, but you want to leave and be part of the group of people he has fucked. Now that you have a chance, you really want to join. Your muddled thoughts ruminate on little else these days.

You walk out of the freezing cold night into the packed entryway of the restaurant. The waiting area is a narrow ramp. At the head stands a small podium, and Yoongi gives his name to the hostess. The restaurant is a smooshed rectangular space. It feels as if you stand at the crowded entrance to a train's dining car. A narrow bar stands along the left wall. It's packed with patrons huddled close together. The right side has small tables, each with only room for two people. Diners are packed closely together. The lights are muted, and small votive candles flicker at each of the tables. You feel like you're traveling somewhere new and adventurous.

Yoongi turns to face you, rubbing his hands together. "This place is the best. I always come here when I finish a project." He pulls you behind him, so the two of you can wait against the entryway wall for his name to be called.  He looks at you quizzically. "You okay?"

Could you explain what's wrong? Could you just say, why don't you fuck me? Is that an option? "Just cold."

"Come here," he wraps his arms around you, clasping his hands at your lower back. It's happening again, him acting like you're officially together or something. It's all the little things, bringing you coffee, holding your hand, knowing your schedule.

An empty feeling invades the pit of your stomach. Oh God, maybe you're the practice girl. Maybe he's trying out the notion of dating with you as subject number one. You shiver and try not to let it get to you. It's still fun, whatever it is.

He moves a hand under your wool sweater to the small of your back, as if to calm you. His calloused fingers press into your skin. Instead of soothing you, his touch awakens your body. You squirm under his hand, not from discomfort, but from the exact opposite. He doesn't stop. He knows you by now. He knows how much it excites you to be trapped between his hands and your desire. You look up to see a hint of a smile on his face.  

Are you as much an experiment for him, as he is for you? He is surprisingly monk-like, for all his reputation for debauchery. Everything you've done, every kiss, every grope, all of your clothes have been on. There have been a few more late night phones calls, but no actual orgasms with the other person in the room. He hasn't even seen you naked.

His hands roam, moving up from your waist, fingers massaging your skin.

He looks at you with a questioning gaze. "How do you do it?"


"I can't keep my hands off you." He says with a gummy smile.

Oh dear, you think, as his eyes sort of twinkle at you. There's one thing you never considered in all of this. You never considered your heart might be at risk. Watching him look so happy with his hands around you, as if you are the only thing that matters in his world, it seems a real possibility.

No, noooooo, no.

You can't do that. You need to leave your heart out of this. You can't fall for him, not really.

His hands graze below your breasts, thumbs running along the bottom edge of your bra. You grin at him, glad for the distraction from your troubling thoughts. Yoongi just needs to move a little closer. You ache with anticipation and arch your body in a silent request for him to touch your breasts.

His hands tighten their grip just below the swell of your breasts, thumbs running closer, closer. Please, you think please, please, please, you're gonna like them so much.

"You are so cute," he murmurs. "I just want to play with you."

You smile slow. "So when are you gonna fuck me?"

Yoongi, mouth open in surprise, finally glides his thumb over your peaked nipple and discovers the small barbell.


Yoongi's breath catches in his throat. He's pretty sure he's dying. He's literally dying. "What? How?"

You give a low moan when his thumb grazes over your nipple again.

"Is that a . . . how?" He swallows thickly.

You look so smug and so pleased with yourself. He loves that look on you. Last time he saw it you had won an argument with Namjoon, but this is a hell of a lot better.

"How long?" he asks, plucking ever so gently.

You quiver under his touch. "Almost two years," you say, licking your lips.

Fuck, he wants to ruin you.

Wait a minute. If it's been two years that means idiot goatee guy and whoever the hell else has seen them. They don't deserve to see what he knows are your sweet fucking tits.

He's mesmerized with the thought of tasting and licking your pretty nipples with these little barbells. He knows how much you would like it. He's cataloged every sigh and every whimper. He's memorized every time you beg for more and every time your fingers dig into his skin and every time you wrench his clothes. It's a language all your own. He can translate it now.

"You haven't answered my question, though." Your brow is scrunched in concentration. You don't pout or whine. You really want to know, he realizes. You really want to know why he hasn't fucked you yet.

The truth is he doesn't know. He doesn't usually hesitate to go after what he wants. It's how he's gotten as far as he has in his career and in school. He doesn't stop himself.

This is different, though. For some reason he's waiting. He wants to drag it out. He wants to see how long he can tease himself, wants to see you brought to the edge with lust and longing for him, just him. Do you not get it? It's all he thinks about.

"It's all I think about."

"Jesus, you don't need to lie." You roll your eyes. "I just asked." You move back a step. His hands slide down and come out from under your sweater.

You do that, he thinks. You're always ready to move away at a moment's notice, as if you're both actors and the director has just called 'cut'. He feels cold without his hands on you. He wants back.

"I'm not lying."

The hostess calls his name.  

Before he can think of what to say, he would rather keep the hostess waiting than have you think he doesn't want you, you move to the podium. Both of you make the proper pleasantries, smiling at the hostess, nodding to the waitress, taking the menus. You're seated across the small table from him, both of you crammed against the wall. Waiters jostle you as they move by. It's a lively, loud place, and it's his favorite restaurant. He doesn't usually take anyone here. He usually sits at the bar and enjoys a meal and a celebratory drink alone. The two of you go through the motions, ordering drinks, not really talking about anything important. He hasn't given you a real answer, and he's nervous. He doesn't know what to say. The waitress leaves after taking your dinner order.

"Look, I know you don't do drama." You look up the ceiling. "Sorry about before."

"Don't apologize. This isn't drama."

"Then what is it?" you ask, taking a drink.

He realizes now how the last few weeks must have looked to you. God, he's an idiot. "I just wanted to, I don't know, wait."

"I'm practice."


"Like, some sort of practice girl for the real girl you like."

"You are the real girl I like."

"You don't have to explain. Whatever this is, I like it. It's fun."

He's not good with words. It's why he hasn't done this in so long. It's why he likes the way you just say stuff. You've asked for very few explanations, really. He should be giving you more.

"I would show up at your work, but you don't have a job and all you do is hang out in your studio."

"You can come to my studio."

"Now, you're lying."

"You think I haven't thought of it?"

"What?" You take a sip of wine.

He leans across the table and lowers his voice. "You think I haven't thought about fucking you in my studio."

You choke on your drink. He would feel bad but he saw that shiver of delight course through your body at his casual mention of his basest fantasies.

"It's a small room, but you seem pretty flexible. There's a desk and a chair. We can make it work."

He basically describing interior design, but your face is already going hot.

"But now I have something else to think about." He raises an eyebrow and stares pointedly at your chest. "Really wish I could see them though."

Now it's your turn to look smug. You cross your arms in front of your chest.

"Maybe if you're good." You say, sounding very schoolmarm.

He laughs. It really is a pity he hasn't spanked you yet. He needs to reorganize his priorities.

"I do really, though, quite adamantly want to see your piercings." He swallows. "I want to see them so fucking much, and I didn't even know they existed until half an hour ago, and I'm sure that they are just perfect, and . . ." He clenches his fists, resting them on his knees. "I hate that others have seen them. I just really want to see them for myself."

He's starting to sound like a cartoon villain, but he can't help it.

"They are actually pretty great," you admit, leaning in close. "But here?"

How did you think of that before him? He really likes you.

He nods.

Will you, he wonders. He wouldn't be hurt if you don't, but he wants. He wants so fucking much for you to show him. He's had partners do as much before, he's done most everything he's ever wanted, but he knows you haven't— the way your breath catches, the way you chew your bottom lip and look down at the place setting as if it held the answer to question unknowable by the universe. Possessiveness grows within him. He wants all of you for him, but he doesn't want to scare you off. "If you don't want to, that's fine too. Really. It's cool, you know, whatever."

"You're stuttering," you say, looking up to meet his eye. "Holy shit, you really want to see my tits."

He couldn't have put it better himself. He nods, finishing his drink to give him something to do with his hands.


Min Yoongi wants to see your tits and you are thinking about showing him in this restaurant.

"Please," he says, all politeness.

No one, literally no one on the planet, has ever looked this excited at just the idea of you taking your shirt off, just the hint of a tit, the soupçon of a nipple.

You start laughing.

"Don't laugh at me," he pouts.

You told yourself you would keep going as long as this was fun. The last few weeks have been fun. You know him well enough now to know that he won't push you beyond where you want to go. He might lead, but he won't be hurt you if you don't follow. Besides, they really are great.

Your heart beats a steady staccato, as you muster the necessary courage. You wore a pretty bra, just in case. Nothing fancy, just a soft black triangle bra, some kind of flower embroidered on it. Your panties match, too. You hope he likes it, even though you scold yourself. You like it, that's all that should matter.

You run a finger under the edge of your scooped neck sweater. Are you really going to? Your fingers pause. You glance around the restaurant. No one is looking at you. The other patrons are crowded by the bar talking loudly or marooned at these little tables like you and Yoongi, leaning toward their companion, voices just loud enough to be heard over the din.

Your heart is beating so fast. You take in his appearance watching you. His eyes light up with anticipation, and he leans forward. There's no reason to stop now. You like it so much when he approves, when he knows just how proud you are of yourself.

 You keep going, finger grazing lower, pushing down the edge of your sweater to expose the simple scalloped top of your bra.

"Please," he whispers.

You push the mesh aside, unable to stop yourself from teasing your nipple, hand covering the piercing as you go, breath catching at the way it feels, the way you feel like you are completely in control.

You move your hand, curving to the side, as if giving him an offering. You give a small stroke to the side of your breast, fingers anxious and struggling not to cover yourself back up. You wish you could capture the look on his face.

"Fuck," Yoongi whispers.


It's better than he thought it would be. Perfect handful. Small nipple he wishes he could taste and suck. Perfect little barbell he wants between his lips.

He glances to your face. Your eyes are wide, even as you bite your bottom lip. Your chest is heaving. Your hands stroke the side of your breast, and a soft whimper escapes as he watches. He can't believe how brave you are.

He realizes somehow that you are waiting. You are fucking waiting for him to give you a signal to cover yourself up again. Oh fuck, he likes you so much. He gives you a nod.

You exhale and push your bra back so you're covered up again, not stopping yourself from brushing your thumb over the mesh and giving yourself a shiver. You hastily move your sweater to cover yourself.

"I really did that." You look up at the ceiling in disbelief.

"Yeah," he laughs. "You're sweet, you know."

Then the two of you are just sitting there, smiling at each other like fools.


The waitress brings your food. It's delicious. You savor every bite, enjoying the easy companionship borne of showing him your tits you guess. Who would have thought?

You listen to him talk about the class he's teaching next semester and he asks you more questions about your thesis. The night goes on and on and eventually winds down. The wine bottle is empty now, and you're done with dessert and Yoongi is drinking a whiskey. It's been lovely, but you don't want it to end. That's the problem. You keep telling yourself that you will take whatever you can get from him, but it's a lie.

"I want more." You say, startling yourself and the waitress who appeared to take your plates. Now you have to embarrassingly wave her off as she thinks you aren't done with your dinner.

"What?" Yoongi says, covering his smile with his hands held together as if in contemplation, thumbs under his chin.

"I'm not saying I want candlelit dinners or long walks in the park." You're unlikely to be the one who converts him, anyway, his reputation being what it is.

He reaches past the empty wine bottle on the table. He wears silver rings on his middle and ring fingers, and his hands look as if carved from stone. You want to memorize every ridge, every vein, want to find a way to show how they make you feel. If you were an artist you could draw them, but you're nothing like that. You're not good at making something where nothing existed before. You good at putting things in order and finding things for other people. You're a cataloger of other people's creations.

Yoongi rests his hand on your clenched fist. You must look like you're readying for a fight. He brings warmth with his touch, and for a moment you let yourself imagine this scene as if you're much older, as if you've been together for years, and you do this regularly, go out to dinner and talk about your day.

No, you remind yourself, that isn't what this is.

"What do you want?" He says in that low, rasping voice.

His hand gently squeezes yours, and his fingers seem to plead with you. You release your grip, laying your hand flat on the table, palm up. He strokes your palm slowly. Sparks ignite and cascade over your skin. He glides up your fingers until resting on your fingertips, taping them gently. You stare, mesmerized at the way he focuses on your hand as if it were the a new instrument to play. You feel laid bare and you resist the urge to pull back, even as the distress causes a pleasurable ache between your thighs.

"What do you want, sweetheart?"

"I want you."

You hear his exhale, as he threads his fingers through yours, pulling your hand closer. He doesn't look up from where his thumbs rub your palm. "Me too."

"You want you too?" It's always easier to sound like an idiot than deal with whatever he says that makes you heart flutter in your chest.

"I'm pretty good." He shrugs. "What can I say?" He's moved his hand to rub his thumb against your wrist with pressure that has your core gently throbbing. "Your place is closer."

"I live in a cement rectangle with a mattress on the floor. It would feel like prison sex."

He huffs a laugh. "My place then."

"I don't want to wait that long." You've never been to his place but it's far away from downtown. "Please."

Now he glances up at you. He has that look on his face. The one where he gives in to you. Before you can stop it, a lightness spreads through you, and you want to explode in warmth and joy. Does he do this with everyone? Or is it just you? You want it to be just you. No, you remind yourself, your heart doesn't belong here. She doesn't get to be a part of this. You gently nudge your heart outside.

"Sweetheart, we're at a restaurant."

You squirm in your seat, rubbing your legs together. He gradually tightens his pressure on your wrist and you bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan.

"I can't do anything, can I?" His exasperation doesn't sound feigned. "There are people watching. I can't put you in my lap, I can't taste you, I can't watch you come apart."

The images assault you. You've thought of all of that. You want to do all of that.

"I can't find out if you really can cum riding my thigh."

"I am like 110% certain I can. I just want to be sure we're on the same page about this."

"I can't bend you over the table."

"You keep talking about that, but you keep not having done it."

"I can't slide my hands under your skirt." He sighs. "And you're wearing those fucking tights again."

"You like my tights. There's no need to swear."

"You don't mind it though, do you?" He leans back in his chair. His hand grazes against your palm, but he finally gives up his exploration, dragging his hand back to reach his glass of whiskey. He takes a sip. "I really want to see you in them and nothing else."

"We can't do any of that here."

"No, we can't." He blinks at you. "Too bad, though, I think you would like to be watched."


"I think . . ." His gaze hardens. "You would like it if I fucked you and these people watched."

You heart hammers in your chest. "I never said—"

"You don't have to." He wets his lips. "I just think you would like it."

"We would get arrested." You can't believe you are thinking about the particulars. You should be thinking, no I don't want to, but you do want to, very much so. You squirm in your seat, trying for some relief. Your slick pussy is throbbing at just the mention of him wanting to be with you.

"Well, there's places we can do it and we won't get arrested. These fine people are just going to have to miss out."

"You would really want to do that?" You swallow, throat dry. "With me? Like, you and me together and people watching us?"


But then it hits you. "But you've done it before, I mean, in front of an audience."

He bites back a smile. "Not on a stage, but yes."

"So it's not a big deal."

"If it's a big deal to you, it would be a big deal to me."

"I've never had the opportunity or . . . or someone interested." That's the real difference. "No one saw me that way, as someone who would want it."

"I do."

"Why? How?" Your brain scrambles, as you try to follow along. He's always a few steps ahead of you.

"It's not that hard to figure out if you pay attention."

That's the thing, you think. The others never paid attention.


"At the club."

You've heard of it, you know he and his friends all belong to some bdsm club. It's far too expensive for you to have joined, even if you had the wherewithal. You know nothing about it, except it's the other place he goes other than his studio. But that's a story for someone else, isn't it? "Don't joke about it."

"I'm not." He scoffs. "I'm not saying the first time I fuck you I want to be in front of an audience." He twists his lips. "Thanks."

The waitress hands him the check with a doubtful look. She sweeps her gaze on you, like she isn't sure you have what it takes, before walking away.

"Yeah, me neither." You consider. "Maybe after we've had some practice."

"We'll do fine." He holds the pen tightly in his hand, shoving the signed slip back in the holder. "But you should know some things."

Oh god, does he have some weird demands, is this where you find out that he's with other women too, or some rule you need to comply with?

"Listen." He puts his palms on the table. "I like to be in control—"

"Well, the revelations are coming fast and furious tonight. I, for one, am shocked—"

"Pet." His voice sounds like a growl.

You sit straighter.  

He runs a hand through his hair. "The only thing I've been thinking about since that night at Joon's is getting you under me and fucking you until you can't remember anyone else has ever touched you."

"Me too," you exhale.

"But I don't want to mess this up, so I'm communicating. "

He's really struggling here. He really needs to say whatever it is he needs to say, and for once you're calmer than him. You're the one in control because he's desperate for you to hear it. You nod.

"I don't want to share, is the other thing." He glances at you. "Whatever we do, if we go to the club or not. If we're together, I don't want anyone else to touch you or be with you."

That's not going to be a hard demand to comply with. You don't want to be with anyone else. "What about you?"

"Huh." He looks dazed as if he's really just expended a lot of energy to tell you these two completely self-evident facts. Does he think you don't pay attention to him?

"Are you going to be with anyone else if we do this?"

He shakes his head.

"Say it."

"No, I'm not going to be with anyone else." He chuckles. "You usually aren't this demanding, I mean, you can be a brat—"

"I like it when people say things out loud."

"Now you tell me something."

"Like what?


"Are you feeling vulnerable because you told me something I knew about you within fifteen minutes of meeting you?"

"Come on," he says, looking up at the ceiling. "You can tell me something you don't like or do like—"


"—just say something." He taps his fingers on the table and looks at you.

He's sitting tense, as if it really did take a lot out of him to have this conversation. Well, you can give him something. You haven't done everything you've wanted to, but you know what you don't like.

"Well, uh, when I'm with someone, I don't like it when they call me a slut or something like that. Most times they can't really sell it. It's sort of half-hearted and I'm like, really, that's all you've got? Why are you talking like this if you can't sell it?" You glance up at him. "I'm guessing that's not a problem for you."

"Uh, no."

"And then when they can sell it, I'm like holy shit you really gave that your all and now I wonder if I am one. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I didn't enjoy it. So now I'm trying to have fun, but I'm worried about internalized misogyny at the same time."

"The shit you come up with, it's unfuckingbelievable."

"I know, okay." You take a deep breath and cross your legs. "I know."

"Hey," he says, looking concerned. "I like when you say shit. I'm not trying to change your mind. No demeaning names, cool."

"Thanks." You shake your head as if it could erase what you said. "It's whatever."

"Do you believe me?"


He narrows his eyes.

"I mostly believe you."

"I'll take it."

"So this has been educational, but what are we going to do? We're still at the restaurant. You're still sitting over there, and I'm still sitting here."

"I have some ideas." He takes a sip of whiskey.

"Do they involve talking? Because I don't really want to talk more." What you want is for him to do something with all this tension thrumming through your body. He can't just leave you like this, trembling and aching with yearning.

"You don't want to hear what I have to say?"

"Of course, sorry." Adult people communicate when they're in a relationship, not that this is a relationship. "Do you want to communicate more?"

"I wanna know how wet you got when I told you I wanted to fuck you in front of all these people."


"Yeah." He's smirking now, the bastard.


"Go on."

Doesn't he get it? He can pretty much just show up and say something sarcastic and your panties are half-way to the floor. He takes another sip of his drink, looking bored in that way that gets you even more excited. You rub your thighs together, your slippery sex needing friction, but getting none. "Sorta."

"Good girls don't lie," he says, leaning close, "not unless they wanna get punished."

Oh fuck, that's a lot. That's a whole hell of a lot of Min Yoongi sitting across the table from you.

"If I slip my hand under your panties," he says, voice slow and menacing, "are you gonna be wet for me?"

You uncross your legs, thighs falling open as if he could see you, as if he asked you to in that voice of his that doesn't allow for disobedience.

You nod.

"Use your words."


"What else do you like? Thinking about me punishing you?"

"That was good, but I also really liked . . ." You take a breath. "It was the hand thing."


"When you gripped my wrist and fingered my hand."

He starts laughing, a gulping laugh he hides behind his hand.

Can you make it through one conversation without making a complete ass out of yourself? Before you can pretend you have an urgent appointment to get to, he leans forward, taking your hand in both of his. He massages your palm. "Breathe before you pass out."

You take a shuddering breath.

"Tell me," he whispers, "how much you like it."

He's still stroking your hand, and he even brings your fingers to his lips.

"A lot." Words are never your friend when you're with him. "I'm not sure I can—"

He nips at your fingers. Your blunt nails are painted pink and you wonder if he likes it. He mouths at your middle finger and pointer finger, just a little, just enough that you can feel his tongue move between the two digits. You let out a whimper as your mouth falls open. "Y-Yoongi"

"I haven't fucked you yet, because I'm gonna take my time with you." His eyes meet yours. "I want you desperate and begging like a good girl for me to fuck that tight, wet cunt."

You exhale. "I'm already all of that."

He huffs a laugh. "Show me."

You tense. He shushes you, brushing his lips over your fingers. "I know you aren't ready for an audience, but you trust me?"

You nod. He lifts your hand and bites down at the base of your palm. You stifle a groan.

"Here's what I need you to do, kitten." He sets your hand back on the table, still stroking your fingers. "Slip off your panties, pass them over to me and then go to the bathroom in the back of the restaurant."

You nod absently. In that tone of voice, you'd do anything he asked. It's a good thing he's trustworthy.

He looks up at you. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

You move your hands to your lap, running them up your skirt as it bunches in your hands. Yoongi's staring at you, taking in your cheeks as they heat, your heavy lidded eyes, your bitten red lips. You slip your hands under your skirt, moving higher and higher still.

You don't resist running your thumbs over your panties at the apex of your thighs. Your panties are stuck to your swollen sex, and you quiver from just the gentle pressure of your hand. "Oh fuck, Yoongi."

"What's that?" he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey as if you were talking about the fucking weather.

You exhale and try to stop your heart from pounding out of your chest. "My panties are a mess."

"They're mine, remember."

You swallow and regret moving away from your aching core to hook your thumbs at the sides and pull down you black mesh panties. You slip them down your thighs and awkwardly pull them off your legs, trying not to get them caught in your boots and fling them to the next table. He better appreciate this.

"Hand them over."

You huff. "It's a little tricky, okay."

Finally, you grasp them in your hand. Still under the table you put them on his knee. You lean awkwardly, looking like you're passing a note in class and about to get caught. He doesn't reach for them.

"Up here." He smirks, holding out his hand palm up on the table.

This guy. You roll your eyes. You really will do anything he asks. Slowly, holding your damp panties in a tight grip, you lift your hand and drop them into his.

"Good girl."

You exhale.

"You remember what to do next?"

You nod. You push back your chair awkwardly, limbs stiff from holding your body so tense. You bump the person behind you and apologize in a mumble. You stand, smoothing your skirt. It didn't seem this short earlier.

"Hey," Yoongi says, reaching for your hand. You move to stand next to him as he still sits at the table. "You okay?"

You nod.

"Say it."

"I'm okay." You bite your lip to keep from letting a moan escape. As you stand beside the table, his other hand begins an exploration of your tights, sliding up to dip his finger under the elastic, just as he did that night at Namjoon's. His hand moves higher, inexorably closer to where you need him.

"Yoongiiii," you plead in a whisper, voice wavering.

"You won't have to wait long. Go."

You turn, unthinkingly walking through the throng of people in the crowded restaurant. They crush against you, and you force yourself not to pull down your skirt, not to plaster your hands to your side as if there is something to hide, as if your bare ass couldn't be exposed at any moment with an innocent nudge. The skirt moves against your skin. Every brush against your thighs creates a spark of sensation. It feels beautiful now, not the old, worn thing it actually is.

He's probably watching you. You slow. Of course, he's watching you. It's excruciating, but you hold yourself still, closing your eyes momentarily to focus on the onslaught of sensations flooding your body. Your pussy clenches around nothing, and you cover your mouth, moan threatening to escape.

Another diner stands, pushing in front of you. The innocent movements of the man, pushing back his chair, apologizing for bumping you and putting on his coat, all while you wait is agonizing. You hands shake from holding back the urge to flatten your arms to your body.

Eventually, you make it through the scrum to the back of the restaurant to the two separate bathrooms. Trying to remember what a normal person looks like when they enter a bathroom, you turn the handle and open the door. The bathroom is dark, lit by a lamp in the corner. It's a normal single bathroom, nothing out of the ordinary, except the video screen. There's a video screen on the wall, about the size of a large monitor and its showing a street scene from a country you've never been to, but muted sounds of horns honking and bright chatter fills the bathroom. It feels like you in the second story of a cramped building with traffic and people below you.

Before you have a moment to think about what you're doing, the door opens. A bit of light enters and with it Min Yoongi. He locks the door behind him. He looks so handsome, you can't believe it. This is really real, you remind yourself, really fucking real.

"You stopped." He says, breath ragged. "You just stood there, while that guy brushed against you."

"He was just leaving."

Yoongi grunts as if that were a sufficient response. He clenches the panties in his hand, running them between his fingers. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"Fuck me?" You say, voice hopeful.

"Not here." He chuckles, looking around the cramped space. "I don't know what it is about us and bathrooms but the first time I fuck you I'm gonna need a lot more room and I want you loud." His eyes wander your body, as if he's imagining it right now. "I'm gonna make sure you can feel me for days."

He strides forward, and in one movement has you back against the counter, one hand around your waist and the other threading into your hair. He hesitates a moment, lips hovering above yours, as if to give you a moment to prepare yourself. There's nothing really that could prepare you for any of this. You feel his breath against your skin, one heartbeat between the two of you.

Then he's kissing you, demanding and possessive. You can't stop the moan humming from the back of your throat. He angles his head to deepen the kiss, holding you in place just where he wants you. He grips you so tight, as if the force of his hands is the only thing preventing you from disappearing into thin air. You tighten your grip on his shirt. He pulls at your bottom lip, sinking his teeth into it as you mewl. He runs a hand under your skirt to the edge of your tights.

You raise your skirt, dragging it up your thighs. He pulls back, watching you with a dark gaze. Slowly, you drag your skirt higher. The cool air on your wet mound makes you shiver.

Yoongi lets out a muttered swear. "You sure?"

You nod.

"Good girl. I wanna taste."

God, he sounds so desperate. No has ever looked at your pussy like it's the finest meal they've ever had. He moves down to his knees. You are strongly reminded of the last time you saw him like this. So much is the same, but so much has changed, too. How much you will admit to liking him, that's changed.

"If you want me stop, you'll tell me, yeah?" He runs his hands up your thighs.

That hasn't changed, him being considerate.

"I was right." He pushes up your skirt. "So pretty."

You laugh in your nervousness, covering your mouth with your hand. You can feel his breath on your exposed mound.

He doesn't do anything at first, but leave soft, wet kisses on your thighs, nipping at the skin. His hands continue their exploration. You feel worshipped, worthy of his attention, even as your pussy gets wetter the more time he takes. A whine escapes your throat. "P-please, Yoongi."

He moves closer to where you need him, tongue and lips working together. You tense, he's gonna remember right? He's not gonna—

"Relax, kitten." He ignores your swollen clit, but leaves a soft kiss on your mound. He hums in satisfaction. He flattens his tongue and licks a long stripe the length of your slit. You sigh into the sensation. You don't have to worry about anything. You lean back against the counter. Your limbs turning loose and relaxed, as he does it again and again and more, and you have to chew your bottom lip so you don't announce what you are doing to everyone in the restaurant outside.

Then Yoongi runs a finger over your wet pussy. Even that slight sensation has you moving your hips to deepen the contact. He chuckles, but gives in and pushes a finger in your tight canal. You watch as he stares fascinated as he fucks you with his finger. "You're dripping for me."

Your hands grip the counter beside you, your legs feel weak, as desire whirls within you. He moves his lips and tongue over you in a gentle motion. Now he adds a finger and curls them in a come hither motion and you are moaning above him. He groans as if he were the one receiving such ecstasy. "Such a messy girl, aren't you? What am I gonna do with you?"

Your mouth drops open at his words. What the fuck have you been doing with your days, when he could've been doing this?

You lose yourself in it, spiraling higher and higher as he tastes you, still gently thrusting his fingers in and out, tongue peeking out to lap at your clit. Your panting breath mixes with the obscene sounds of Yoongi's licking and sucking, and still the muted street sounds of the video overlay it all, making you feel like you've entered a movie of someone else's life.

You shift your hips, rutting and trying to get just the right angle. So close to coming, but needing just the perfect sensation to get there. What if you can't? What if he thinks you don't like it? What if he's annoyed?

Yoongi pulls back, his fingers stopping in their soothing movements.

You stop the gentle rocking motion of your hips as you tense your legs and hold your body still. "I'm sorry-"

"Shh, baby." He gently removes your hand from where it grips the edge of the counter and leads it down to your swollen clit. "Show me." He looks up at you, meeting your eyes. You expect annoyance or pity, but there's just hunger. "You can show me, yeah?"

Your fingers start their exploration, moving easily at just the right pace to get you there.

"Good girl."

Even that bit of approval is enough to unwind the tight knot of fear that's taken hold, giving you a kind of tranquil confidence. You grind your palm on your mound and rub your hooded clit just like you like. Of course, it's what you like, it's you. But now it's him too. He brings one of his fingers up to his mouth, and he licks it like it's the best fucking thing he's ever tasted. You can feel the bliss swirling in your core. You hover on the edge, feeling the elation build, as you bite your lip trying to hold back your whimpers at the sight of Min Yoongi on his knees in front of you, watching you.

"You look so good," he says, licking his lips, "you're gonna look even better covered in my cum."

The pleasure spirals through you so slowly, drawing you taut as you linger on the edge, it's glorious and agonizing, and you are pretty sure you aren't going to survive this, him.

"That's it, kitten," Yoongi says, still licking his fingers. "Show me what's mine."

Wicked shivers surge through your pussy and an exquisite rapture moves through your body. It's almost too much to handle, and it's so intense, you can't think, can't worry, can't do anything but let the delirium overtake you. You take a deep sobbing breath, as you come back to yourself.

Yoongi's still on his knees, smirking at you. He leans forward, licking at the sloppy mess between your thighs. You're so sensitive, you never though you could handle it, but he's gentle in his exploration of your swollen sex.

"Y-Yoongi," you whimper, barely able to hold yourself upright.

"Take what you need, baby." He murmurs.

You move your hands to his hair angling him just where you want him. Your body relaxed, you don't think twice before grinding down as he flattens his tongue. You writhe above him, thinking only of your own pleasure, your own need. Before you can figure out how the fuck this happened, you're coming again. Ecstasy coursing through you, bright and sharp and exploding. It's so surprising you can't even stop the low cry torn from your throat.

You nudge him mindlessly away, too overstimulated to handle anything more. You look down at him, blinking your eyes open.

Yoongi cocks his head smug, and he should be. He rises to stand before you, thumb swiping his bottom lip. Your slick release covers his lips and chin. You must look a mess too. Before you can worry about it, he kisses you. This time slow, his lips moving over yours at a languid pace. You can taste yourself on him, and you want more. It's new and weird and good.

He pulls back. The two of you stare at each other dazed and wanting. You blink, remembering where you are, remembering that the world doesn't consist of just the two of you in this small room.

He palms his hard cock beneath his jeans, letting out groan. You really shouldn't leave him like this.

"You want?" Funny you are asking him, when all you want is his cock in your mouth. You're practically drooling.

He shakes his head.

You pout. "You sure?"

"This was for you, and I think we were a little loud. We need to get out of here."

"Fuck, sorry."

"Don't apologize." He kisses you again. "I liked it."

You swipe your tongue into his mouth, kissing him back and liking the way he responds, excited for more.

"We have to stop," he says between kisses.

"No, we don't."

"Don't be a brat, I'm not going to fuck you in this bathroom."

"Don't want you to fuck me."

"No?" He kisses you, licking into your mouth, tasting you, reminding you that you're his. It's sloppy and wet and heavenly. You go weak with the force of his onslaught, enjoying being used any way he wants you. When he finally pulls back, he's panting, but still giving you that smirk of his. "You really don't want me to fuck you?"

"Want you to cum down my throat." You say in a raspy whisper with swollen lips.

"Jesus, you're a menace." He slaps your bare ass. Not hard, just enough to give you a sting.

You exhale, holding yourself perfectly still. He's gonna do it again, right? You are this close to begging him to spank you.

Oh no.

"Yoongi," you plead. "I need my panties."

"No, you don't."

"Please," you whine. How are you going to get home like this? It's difficult to know if you're gonna get mad at him or beg him to fuck you. Goddamn it, it's probably both.

"They're mine," Yoongi says, voice not permitting any argument. He smirks. "Besides, you're not being nice."

"I'm being nice." You pull back, his black shirt clutched in your hand so tight, the buttons dig into your fingers. "I just wanna show you how good I can be with my mouth. That's nice."

"Move before I ask for your bra, too." He reaches under your sweater to palm your breast. His hand lingers, caressing and stroking.

Breathless, you writhe under his ministrations. "I thought we were leaving."

He cocks an eyebrow and removes his hand slowly, thumb skimming over your peaked nipple, knowing that you were hoping he wouldn't be strong enough to stop.

You release his shirt from your grip and lean back against the counter, limbs weak and trembling. You let out a shuddering breath.

Yoongi checks his reflection in the mirror, fluffing his hair and straightening his collar. "You ready?"

You're ready for absolutely none of this.

Yoongi picks up your coat and holds it out for you. You slip your arms in and push the buttons through the holes with shaking hands, hoping your nervousness isn't noticeable. Your heart is still standing outside where you've left her. It's for your own good, you think, as she knocks to be let in. There's no way I'm not getting in the middle of this, she calls out. Look at him, he's so kind, and the things he says, too. You steel yourself. Your heart was never supposed to come into this.

Yoongi gazes at you with a questioning look on his face.

You reach for his hand, and he leads you out the door.


Chapter Text

Yoongi can hear your family laughing and shouting. He can’t believe he’s talking to you on the fucking phone. You really have set precedent in ways you can't imagine.

He looks out at the dark, empty parking lot. The sun set a few minutes ago, and there is still an unearthly glow surrounding the quiet street. It’s cold out. It smells like the sea and the harsh cleaner his mother uses inside the café. It smells like his childhood, he thinks. He stubs out his cigarette. His mother still keeps a pack, poorly hidden, by the back door.

You’re arguing with your cousin. You might have even forgotten he's on the phone.

Yoongi had excused himself from the quiet, Christmas dinner at his parent’s small flat above the café. It was just the three of them at the table, the fancy candles burning and the nice dishes at each setting.  The dinner was almost over, anyway, he reasoned. Besides, after your many texts it was clear your family's Christmas dinner involved quite a bit more wine than his did.

Yoongi had already heard (read) about your uncle's bafflement that librarians needed to go to graduate school, your cousin's baby spitting up on your ugly Christmas sweater (which had won the annual family contest), and your mother's comment about the fact that you didn't have a date.

This text had been followed by numerous short declarations clarifying the statement -- that this wasn't a passive aggressive attempt at communicating regret at not inviting him, that you weren't trying to say anything about introducing him to your parents, that you knew it was too soon for that sort of thing, that you were only recently exclusive anyway, and confirming you were, in fact, exclusive. Right?

Yoongi should have put you out of your misery sooner, but it was sort of charming. He let it go until his mother's disproval at the beeps caused him to respond.

He agreed that you two were exclusive. He knew it was too soon to meet your parents. (Far too soon, he thinks, but doesn't add.) If you kept this up, then he was going to start texting about ghost sex.

If anything, he was doing his parents a favor by answering your call. They had stared at him with twin looks of astonishment when he did, however.

 It was comical, really, considering his father was a tall, barrel chested man who always looked a little too large for whatever chair he occupied, and his mother was a petite woman with pale skin and neat short hair. Her strength hidden at first glance like a ballerina in street clothes. There had been a time he hated taking after his mother, shorter than the other boys, his features almost delicate. He's embarrassed to think about what an idiot he had been. Thankfully he had given up such adolescent regrets.

When he stood up from the table and excused himself, his mother even cleared her throat, so there's that. When he returns to the flat there are going to be Questions and he will need to offer Explanations, but he won't make you leave a rambling voicemail.

You ask come back on the line and ask about some music trivia.  He gives you the answer.

"I fucking knew he lied," you mutter. "Frank, you’re a fucking liar."

Yes, Christmas dinner at your parents' house is a bit different than his. Frank, apparently, didn't take the news well. He yells back until a baby cries loudly and unrelentingly.

"Oh shit, let me hand off the baby."

This must be successful, because you're back shortly.

"Sorry, I really don’t want to get puked on again."

Your voice is pleasantly slurred and soft. He wishes he could picture your family's home. Are you curled on a couch or tucked into some corner of the staircase? You've described your family's rambling house as an old, falling apart thing, but always with a note of happiness. It must be a nice change from your small, shipping container of an apartment.

"How are your parents?" You ask, sounding like your eyes are closed. "They must be happy you're home."

"We worked in the café today."

Yoongi isn't sure why he blurts this out, but he needs to tell you, somehow. This isn't a Christmas of crying babies, presents piled beneath a Christmas tree groaning with ornaments and drunken uncles singing forgotten Christmas carols. This is the Min family Christmas. It has always been a little different. He doesn't know if his mother misses her family on this holiday or wants to purge them from her memory.

"It's nice your mother keeps it open. Must be good for people to have a place to go, if they aren't with anyone else."

He should’ve known you would get it.

"It's hard to imagine you making sandwiches and serving coffee, though."

"I'm a good cook." Yoongi says, unable to keep a bit of pride out of his voice. Nothing fancy, but his mother taught him to be self-sufficient.

"So, you keep saying."

"I'll prove it to you."

"So, you keep saying."

"I am." He insists.

"Does your father help at the café too?"

"Mom doesn't like him behind the counter or in the kitchen or making the coffee."

"What’s left?"

"He gives up trying to help eventually and sits at the counter and drinks coffee."

"It sounds nice."

He wonders what it sounds like, really. It must be so different from the cacophony he hears through the phone. "What did you get me for Christmas?" He asks instead.

He would rather fall back on old jokes than think too much about what he would do if he was there, what your family might think of him. Too soon, too soon, the chorus repeats in his head.

You snort. "Nothing."

"I held it in my hand, so it was something."

"It wasn't worth the wrapping."

"You know, I don't – " he scratches the back of his neck. "I don't care about money like that."

"It's not that."

He can picture the look of consternation on your face.

"You found that book for me, and my gift wasn't like that."

"I don't want a book, so that's fine."

"Just give me a chance, okay. Just let me try better."

"Come on, tell me."

"No." Your voice is firm.

It must really bother you, he realizes. He didn't think it was that big of a deal. You had mentioned an out of print book. It didn't take long to find, a few different booksellers, a few emails. Maybe he paid a little more than he should have, but it wasn't that big of a deal.

"It wasn't that big of a deal," he says. Was it?

"So, you keep saying."

The cacophony on the other end of the phone grows louder. "I don't want to hold the baby."

But he can hear the shuffle of the phone, so he is pretty sure you lost.

"Fuck. Shit. I really shouldn't swear in front of the baby."

"I think you already did."

"Goddamn, I do not believe this." You sigh. "We're going fucking caroling."

Yoongi starts laughing. "Have fun."

"It's freezing out, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to carry this baby because no one else is."

"Put a hat on it, it's cold out."

"Any other advice?"

"Don't swear in front of the baby."

"Okay, I'll try."

Yoongi looks at his reflection in the window of the dark café. What would you think of the fading paint and the old-fashioned tables and chairs?

"Thanks for picking up. I know how you feel about the phone."

"It's not a big deal."

"It's just hard to remember when I'm home that this isn't my life. It’s nice to remember that I'm not just an almost librarian who once puked on the baby Jesus in the church nativity, you know?"

"Not exactly, but I get it." He knows what it’s like not to fit in anymore – even in the places you know best that you can recite from memory like a poem. "Stay warm."

"Merry Christmas, Yoongi."

"You too."

Yoongi finishes his cigarette. Well, he better get ready to Explain Himself. He trudges up the stairs. The whole place needs a new coat of paint, so maybe he can do that next year.

He enters the flat. The music is off, and his parents are standing in the small kitchen, huddled together.  They have twin looks again, but this time it isn't comical. There is only one thing that make his mother nervous and his father scared.

His mother wrings her hands. "Your grandfather wants to talk to you."


Yoongi has only met his mother's father once.

He had been ten years old. As he washed the front windows of the café, a fancy, ink black car pulled into the lot. It moved like an oil stain over the uneven pavement under the hot, summer sun. The rotating fan whirred behind him. Even when the mechanical breeze passed over him it offered little relief.  No customers today, but his mom never closed the café, not even when Yoongi begged her to.

Yoongi pushed open the door, the heat suffocating him as he walked outside. An old man got out of the car, steps careful and face lined like a wizened truth teller. He asked to speak to Yoongi’s mother, using her full name. The strange visitor's voice was gravelly, his words precise.

Yoongi had been excited. This was something different. Different from sweeping floors and washing windows, different from dreaming about a skateboard his parents told him he couldn't have. Maybe something good was finally going to happen, maybe his life would finally start.

The man looked behind Yoongi at the café. As if a demon possessed the old man, a look of utter disgust washed over his wrinkled face. The old man tried to wipe it away, but Yoongi saw.

Yoongi knew that look.

It was the same look the rich boys at school gave Yoongi's sneakers. So now Yoongi knew two things – one, he knew something good wasn't going to happen, and two, he knew he didn't like this man.

This man looked the boys who were mean to Yoongi only when the teachers weren't watching. Those boys were cowards. Yoongi always hit back when a teacher could see. He might be dumb, and he might get called to the principal's office, but he wasn't a coward.

Yoongi thought the day couldn't get any odder, and he was just about to tell the man to go away when his dad walked out of the café. Yoongi's dad didn't talk to people much. He was quiet, a good quiet, the kind of quiet that his dad chose because his size might scare someone or intimidate them, so he hid it in plain sight.

But today was different. Yoongi didn't recognize him. His father stood at his full height, his shoulders no longer hunched, his mouth set in a firm line.

The old man scowled. "I'm here to talk to my daughter, not you."


"I won't leave until I talk to her."

"You'll leave if I make you leave."

Yoongi's father didn't threaten anyone, not even the people who deserved it. 

"It's about the boy," the man said.

Yoongi looked at his dad expecting him to tell the man off, but instead his dad looked scared. That never happened.

"Get inside, Yoongi."

He couldn't move. He stared at the old man who didn’t hide his disdain now. What was going on?

"Get. Inside." His dad yelled.

Yoongi moved quickly. The door opened as soon as he reached it. His mother walked out, wringing her hands.

"Get inside, Yoongi." She said, voice soft.

Everything was wrong, everything was topsy-turvy. His mom was the one who yelled when Yoongi didn't do what he was told. Now she sounded small, like those moms who baked cookies and picked up their children from school, not a mom who ran her own café and yelled when Yoongi didn't wash his hands.

Yoongi went inside and stood at the window. The old man talked to his mother. She bowed her head. Finally, the old man got back in the car but didn't leave.

His parents came back into the café arguing. Everything was topsy-turvy.

"I will never let him live with that man."

"I didn't have a choice. He will have one. We don't make his decisions." His mother said over and over again. "We don't make his decisions."

"He's ten!"

"I was seventeen when I left. That's not that far away. We don't make his decisions."

Yoongi's father sighed and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

His mother wiped her eyes. "Yoongi, that's your grandfather out there."

"I know, Mom."

"He wants you to come live with him."

"Why haven't I met him before?" Other kids saw their grandparents all the time, got presents, went on trips. He had never met any of his grandparents.

"Smart boy," his father muttered.

"When I left home, I wasn't allowed back."

"Why did you leave?"

"My father didn't agree with my choices, and if I stayed, then I had to do what he said."

"Why would I go with someone you left?" None of this makes any sense.

"Well," his father announced. "I'll go tell him the good news."

"Wait," his mother said, her voice coming back. "He has a big house, Yoongi, and he can give you a lot of things we can't."

"Like what?"

"Like that skateboard you want and the fancy sneakers. Things we can't afford."

Yoongi really wanted those sneakers and his own skateboard. For a minute it sounded nice. The other boys wouldn't make fun of him.

"That's not the whole story." His father added, sounding desperate.

"I would have to do what he says?" Yoongi asked.

"Yes," his father declared.

"That's not so different from here," Yoongi considered.

His father huffed.

"You couldn’t come back to the café," his mother added, voice quiet. Sad quiet.

Yoongi looked around. No more doing dishes. No more washing windows. No more sweeping. His life would be like those kids on tv, but then he looked at his parents. The way his mother was small and quiet, and the way his father was loud and big, and everything was topsy-turvy.

"I'm not going."

Yoongi's mother wiped her eyes.  

"You don't have to talk to him again."

Yoongi and his mother watched from inside.

"Did Dad rescue you?" Yoongi liked the thought of his father being like a knight in a story.

"No," she said. "I rescued myself, but when I wasn't sure if I could keep going, he showed me how."

"That sounds boring."

"Did you finish the windows?"  

Yoongi watched his dad return to the café. His mother made him a cup of coffee and he sat at the counter. Yoongi finished washing the windows and that was the only time he met his grandfather.


Now standing in his parents' doorway, he feels ten years old again, trying to make sense of everything, trying to right a topsy-turvy world.

"No." He shuts the door behind him.

"He's dying," his mother says.

Yoongi moves to the kitchen table to pick up the dishes, giving himself something to do.  "I don't care."

"He might be able to help you with your career. He’s well connected."

Yoongi knows. He googled the man once to see who he was, and then he never looked again.

"Who gives a fuck?"

Yoongi startles at the anger in his father's voice. This is only the second time he's heard his father swear. The first time Yoongi had been so disrespectful, he had been lucky not to get slapped.

Only his grandfather, even after all this time, has the power to create such unhappiness in their small family. It feels like battle about to start. Topsy-turvy.

"I don't need his help." Yoongi drops the dishes on the counter. "Are you going to see him?"

"Maybe," his mother admits.

His father clearly did know this. He runs his hands through his thinning hair and grabs the cigarettes Yoongi tried to hide on his way inside.

"Dad smokes?"

"Only when he needs to." His mother sighs. "You get to decide. We don't make your decisions."

We don't make his decisions, Yoongi remembers hearing his father say over and over again to his mother that weekend senior year of college. Yoongi had his head in his hands and he hadn’t eaten in two days and he was so anxious, he thought he might pass out. We don’t make his decisions.

It was the weekend he had come home to tell his parents he had changed his major from engineering to music. His mother was so disappointed. His father, too, but Yoongi hated disappointing his mother more. She had been so proud of him. But that semester he hadn't been sleeping, living on coffee and cigarettes. Hoseok had been so worried about him, bringing him food and reminding him that he could pursue what he wanted. It wasn't going to be the end of the world if Yoongi switched majors, but Yoongi couldn't keep going on this way. Yoongi told his parents, turned in the paperwork and put himself through an additional year and a half of school to finish with a music degree. He tried to remind himself that he had done the right thing.

"We don't make your decisions." His mother repeated. "If you want to see him, you can."

Yoongi leans against the counter, all pretense of washing dishes gone. "What happened, really?"

His mother sighs. "I was his favorite, the youngest. I thought that meant the rules didn't apply to me. I wasn't going to have an arranged marriage like my sisters. I was invincible. I even imagined him handing the keys to the kingdom to me, instead of one of my brothers. You don't understand, you can't even guess, what it's like to have that much money. We were so rich it is incomprehensible to me now. Life was so easy." She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. "When I realized that he was selling me off like a pig to the slaughter to a terrible man, I left. I was such an idiot. I had never worked a day in my life, but Granny took me in."

Yoongi remembers her, an old woman who his mother took care of when he was little. They weren't related Yoongi knew, but he also knew his mother respected the old woman more than any other.

"She was my laundress. We were so rich I had a servant just for cleaning my clothes. She was the kindest woman I've ever known. She let me live with her. I started working at the café and I saved every penny so I could buy it when the owner retired, and then I met your father."

His mother smiles. Yoongi knows this story well. They've both told it to him, separately, together. He's heard it so many times he can tell it himself.

"I'm not talking to my grandfather." Yoongi declares. "It's my decision."

His mother doesn't mention it again. He and his mother carefully wash the nice dishes. They wait. His father returns late, hacking and coughing. His mother is so relieved she doesn't make fun of him, so something is definitely wrong.

Yoongi stays awake that night in his old twin bed, and he can hear the mumble of his parents talking quietly.

He thinks about the story of how his parents met.

His father had a handyman job nearby, and he came to the café for lunch one day. He didn't say a word, and he ate his mother's sandwich and then he came back the next day. Again and again, no matter where in the city his odd jobs took him, he came back for lunch. His father asked his mother if she minded having a tall man, shy and awkward, sitting in her café for lunch day after day. She didn't.

Yoongi wonders what they talked eventually talked about, and how they eventually fell in love.

His parents love telling that story, and Yoongi doesn't understand it or them. He's never understood his parents.  


"I fell in love with your mother over her sandwiches," his father had said one day when Yoongi was seventeen years old.

The two of them stood behind the counter, wearing matching aprons and making sandwiches. Yoongi was angry at the world, wondering why he didn't go live with his rich grandfather when he had a chance. Instead, he was spending another hot summer in this fucking café while his best friend, Hoseok, went to the beach. Hoseok's mom wasn’t like his. She didn't have bad days when she couldn't get out of bed, so his father put on an apron and canceled his work for the day. We don't close the café, he reminded Yoongi.

"Do you really need to tell that story another fucking time?" Yoongi wondered how far he could push his dad. "That is the stupidest story I've ever heard. Are you even my fucking dad? Christ, if I had gone with my grandfather I wouldn't have to put up with this shit."

His father wiped his hands on his apron, slowly, carefully. He stood tall, shoulders broad. He could still be intimidating when he wanted. "Son, you need to leave now and don't come back until you can apologize because I don't want to do something I'll regret for the rest of my fucking life."

Yoongi left. He wandered the city, feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He came back after midnight. Since his mother was having one of her bad days, she probably didn't even know what happened.

His father waited up for him, reading in the corner chair by the lone lamp, glasses perched on his nose.

"I'm glad you're back." His father said. At the time Yoongi thought his father was so weak. He had no idea the strength his father possessed.

"Yeah, well, I live here."

His father smothered a laugh.  "I know what people say, but I'm your dad."

"I know."


"I asked mom 'cause I wasn't sure."

But his dad didn't take the bait this time, just shook his head. "I'm glad your home."

Yoongi had wished at that moment his father wasn't so kind, his parents weren't so hard working. Then he could hate them and have a reason for all his anger, but instead he was just angry at nothing.

Yoongi realizes he never actually apologized.


The next morning, the day after Christmas, Yoongi's mother drives him to the train station in the small, dented car his parents have driven ever since he can remember.  She's quiet. Not small quiet, not the topsy-turvy quiet but content quiet.

"You haven't told us about this girl," she says, when they're almost there.

"I don't know what to tell."

She glances over at him, hands perched perfectly on the steering wheel with its rips and faded fabric. "But it's something?"

"It’s something." He agrees.

"Is she good enough for you?"

He laughs at the absurdity of it. "That's not what most people would ask."

"Most people aren't your mother." She sighs. "I know you think you take after me."

Yoongi rolls his eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes."

She pulls into a parking space, the car still running. She has to get back to the café. She doesn't like leaving it. He gets it now, the way he didn't when he was young. It is the one thing she made on her own.

"You don't take after me, not really, and thank God."

He grabs his bag from the back. He's not excited about this conversation. He's most happiest when he knows what his mother is going to say, when she’s scolding him about washing his hands or moping the floors. Not this. He can't imagine anyway that he is like his father, not really. She puts out her arm to stop him from leaving.

"You are like your father." She insists. "You're good and kind, and I hope you choose someone worthy of you. When you fall in love, you aren't going to fall out of it."

It's too much, his mother's words. He can’t have this conversation. All he was supposed to do was have Christmas dinner with his parents. Not this. Too many revelations one after the other.

As if she senses his distress, she forces a laugh and adds. "Not even if the woman is total bitch sometimes."

He wonders if that's what she thinks of herself. "You haven't had it easy."

"I had it too easy, and then I had such a difficult time I didn't think I would make it, and then I met your father and I knew everything would be fine. We have a simple life, but it's ours."

Yoongi nods, and he pretends to understand, but he doesn't. He's always wanted more. He doesn't see an end to what he can accomplish, and it frightens him sometimes.

His mother grips the steering wheel in one hand and the gear shift in the other. He guesses she's ready for the conversation to be over too. She's quiet again, quiet nervous.

"I know, I'm not… I'm not like those other mothers, the ones who are friends with their children."

"Thank God."

She laughs, her eyes watering. "You make your own decisions, but we aren't going anywhere, if… if you decide you want to introduce her to us."

Does she think he wouldn't? Maybe she does, after everything she's been through. The only way she could survive was to leave, but he's not like that, not anymore. He no longer wishes for parents to rebel against, he just hopes he can help them. "Of course, I will. If it is . . . I don't know what it is." He's glad he doesn't know, because he isn't ready for all this. That's one thing he's learned this holiday. "But if it's that, yeah."

This time when he grabs his bag from the back, she doesn't stop him.

His mother pulls out of the parking lot without another glance, without a hug, without any further words. His mother usually foregoes emotional scenes, and he's glad their conversation is over.

On the train back to school, Yoongi thinks about all the things he doesn't know.

He doesn't know what it's like to fall in love in a café over sandwiches and a cup of coffee. Day after day, coming back to just sit and be content with such a small life.

He doesn't know what it's like to be a wealthy socialite, with designer dresses and diamonds falling from your neck. To run away with no plan, no idea, nothing but your own limited knowledge of the world and a small seed of hope wrapped in what little strength you can muster.

There are so many things he doesn’t know, he could catalog them in y/n's library and the shelves would wind for miles.

He doesn't know why he broke up with his last girlfriend. He hasn't thought about her since he met y/n, but the memories rush back as the scenery floats by the train window.

The way she was perfect for him. everyone had said so. She was sly and sardonic and wore the perfect lipstick and the perfect clothes and the perfect laugh. They had been dating for six months – his longest relationship. Then he woke up one morning and he knew it was over. He didn't think she would care. She would find someone like her, someone perfect. He sent her a text. The first twelve hours she was conciliatory, and the next twelve hours she was pissed. He never responded. He had the lingerie artfully left in his bedroom delivered to her door. He never spoke to her again. Three days later he met y/n at Namjoon's.

He does know one thing. He’s not sure he wants to know it.

If he brought y/n home to his parent's small flat and smaller café, she wouldn't notice the peeling paint or the smell of industrial soap or the marred floors. She would be too nervous for any of that. It would be a good nervous. His father would talk more than usual, and y/n wouldn't know for a long, long time what an effort he had made. His mother would be quiet, and y/n would stumble a bit over her words. Y/n would fill up the negative space, and she wouldn't know that his mom's quiet would be a good quiet, a contemplative quiet because Yoongi finally brought someone home. She would be checking to see if y/n was good enough for him. His mother would like the nervousness, he thinks. His mother would know what it meant.

But he knows he's not ready for that. Not at all.

When Yoongi steps down from the train, he calls y/n's number without thinking.

"You talk on the phone a lot for someone who claims to hate it."

"Are you home?"

"I'm back at the cell block."

"What are you eating for dinner?"

"Suspicious yogurt and stale crackers."

"Come over, I'll cook." As he waits for you to say something, he reminds himself this isn't a big deal.

"That would be fucking awesome."

"I know. We're having steaks."

"I can't cook."

"I know. You don't have to help."

"I can bring drinks."

"Bring you and your drinks."

He gives you his address. He doesn't know why he waited, and he doesn't know what this is, but he was right, it is something.


Chapter Text

Life is unpredictable. Sometimes it's spilled coffee, missed buses and lost opportunities. Other times it's delightful – five dollars waiting for you in the pocket of a winter coat or your office closing early for the day. This one is pretty good too. Not entirely unpredictable, what with his teasing and his talk of bending you over any readily available surface. You've been hoping for it. It just turned out better than you expected.

Your jeans are around your ankles. Your panties – thank god they’re the cute, red ones – are stretched over your ass as you bend over the kitchen counter. The cold tile chills your arms. Hissing at the unpleasant sensation, you brace yourself for what's coming. You glance over your shoulder and suppress a shiver. This isn't a game for him, you realize. Yoongi looks pissed.

"Want to take it back?" With his hands on his hips, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. he’s not fucking around.

The words you plan to fire back at him lodge in your throat. You shake your head, quick and awkward.

"Sweetheart, you've not going to be able to move tomorrow without thinking about me."

"So you keep saying." You mutter, but apparently not softly enough.

He huffs quietly. "You asked for it."

But he doesn't sound disappointed in the outcome.


Walking up the steps to Yoongi's apartment building, you try to calm your nerves. It's not as intimidating as you thought it might be. There's no doorman. (What the hell were you thinking, a doorman?) It's just that sometimes he doesn't seem real. Sometimes he seems like a dream you made up because you were too lonely or too tired or too sad. If you conjured him, then maybe the spell can be reversed, maybe he will leave as quickly as he appeared.

Shaking your head, you enter his code into the keypad with numbers faded from use. Yoongi's muffled voice comes through the ancient speaker. He sounds like he's stranded on the moon, radioing for help. Or maybe that's you.

Your thoughts are muddled. Christmas with your family, a ride back to school with your brother, and suddenly arriving at Yoongi's apartment for the first time, it feels like a carnival ride, turning this way and that, twisting up and down, then finally coming to a stop and depositing you here.

The door buzzes, and you trudge up to his third floor, one-bedroom apartment.

Are you a graduate student with a sorta-serious fling with Min Yoongi who hasn't fucked you yet? Or, are you someone's daughter that can't wash the dishes correctly or wear the right clothes, but you always know when to hide the whiskey from your uncle and how to make your niece laugh?

You're all of those things and none of them.

You didn't change your clothes, still wearing a warm, oversized sweater and jeans and the heavy coat that you stole from your mother's closet. What is the dress code for this? You do much better with rules, but it's too late now.

Whatever you might be when you're at your parent's house eating your mother's cooking or in your brother's car fighting over music, here you’re just yourself. Whoever you are, Yoongi's interested in you or at least not bored yet.

You knock on his door.

There are a lot of good looks on Min Yoongi. A black leather jacket, a soft plaid flannel, or an oversized hoodie you still haven't figured out how to steal from him, but you've never seen him like this. white shirtsleeves rolled up, apron on, and . . .

"Do you wear glasses?"

"Uh, sometimes." He steps back to let you into his apartment.

You just stand there, taking in the sight of Min Yoongi in his glasses, wire frames on the bottom and thicker on the top. He cocks his head at you, smiling, like he has a secret.

You bite your lip so as not to say anything ridiculous or force him against the door until his glasses are fogged.

"So you like the glasses?" Yoongi doesn't bother to keep the laughter out of his voice.

"You can't just spring this on me . . . unawares." You follow him into his apartment where more surprises await.

The main room isn't large, but it is a little cluttered, a little over full. Nothing like what you expected. You expected white and aesthetic and incredibly expensive mid-century modern furniture, all with a kind of refine, airy emptiness.

Instead, Yoongi’s apartment is comfortable. The leather chair is so inviting you want to wake up in it. A deep green velvet couch sits low to the ground. It's a bit out of place, like a neighbor left it when he moved out. One wall is taken up with albums, lined on shelves. There is an order here, some kind of specific place for each and every one, you're sure. This is as carefully cataloged as the library where you work, or the few bookshelves you have in your small apartment. A hideously colored rug rests on the floor. It doesn't match anything in the apartment. Where in the hell did he find it? Dragging your eyes away from its atrociousness you scan the rest of the room. There's an efficiency kitchen hugging one corner with small kitchen island. A narrow hallway must lead back to his bedroom.

The apartment is well cared for, and you wonder what it means that he invited you here, tonight, the day after Christmas. What would a holiday be like with him? You walk into the kitchen, put your bag of bottles on the counter with a clang, and decide to ignore slash shut down any internal musings for the night. You don't need those kinds of thoughts, thoughts about the future, thoughts about relationships and Min Yoongi, thoughts about love. Your heart knocks on the window outside where you've left her. She's smoking a cigarette, looking smug. She rolls her eyes and exhales, disappearing in a puff of smoke. You feel relieved. Your heart getting in the middle of this is the last thing you need, but she’ll be back, you're sure.

"The glasses are there." Yoongi gestures behind him, so you make yourself at home. Just like the rest of the apartment, the cupboards are neat and well-organized. It's as is if he wants to hide it, the way his things are just so and just as he likes.

You grab the glasses and give each one a large pour of wine. Yoongi doesn't mind. Maybe he needs a drink after being home.

"Cheers," Yoongi says, and it makes you smile.

You pull up a stool and sit, watching him tend to the meat grilling on the stove. He looks at ease.

"You're quiet tonight," he says.

"I'm not the only one."

Yoongi sighs.

There's a story there, you think. A story he doesn't want to tell, too new or too much or too not for you, you don't know.

You want to ask so many questions-- about his parents, about their café, but instead he asks about your family's home. You tell him stories of your drunk uncle and the baby that spit up on you. You tell him funny stories to make him laugh, all the ones you keep archived for when you need them. The time you threw up on the Christmas nativity. The time you got caught drinking in the bathroom at prom. It works. Slowly whatever tension inhabits him unwinds. He may have offered to make dinner because you’re pathetic at keeping food in your fridge, but maybe he needed this too. It's nice to fill the quiet with parts of you he doesn't know about. He laughs at the time when you snuck out of your house at midnight in middle school, but all you did was roller skate in the driveway because you had nowhere to go, living so far out in the country as you did.

Yoongi piles food high on your plate. He was right. He is a good cook. Apparently, there isn't anything he's bad at, but you really want to find something, as unfair as that is. The bottle of wine gets lower along with the candles he lit on the little counter. The two of you sit side by side as if seated the world's smallest diner. You've eaten with him before – restaurants and take out and walking to work – but this is different. Three glasses of wine, and you're starting to feel blurred and pleasantly lost, not quite following his rant, something to do with a piece he's working on, him and Namjoon disagreeing about something.

"What does Hoseok think?" You interrupt.

"Namjoon always – what?"

"What does Hoseok think?"

"I don't . . . know." He scrutinizes you, shifting in his chair, empty plate pushed aside. "Why do you ask?"

"You always talk about what he thinks, I mean, not always, but sometimes, like his opinion matters to you." You shrug. "It might help."

Yoongi's face breaks into a smile. You want to save it for a bad day.

"How did you figure this out?"

"I'm really smart if you haven't noticed."

Yoongi laughs, throwing his head back.

"I have." He finishes his glass of wine. "What is it you’re working on?"

You avoid his gaze. "I’m not working on anything."

"I’ve seen you. You’re writing something and isn't your thesis."

You sit straighter, food forgotten. "No, I’m not."

Yoongi rolls his eyes. He goes to pour more wine but the bottle is empty. He sets it down firmly. "You are."

Your heart races. You're so used to not being seen that it surprises you when it happens. What has he read? Is he going to laugh? No, he wouldn't do that, you don't think. Would he?

"It's nothing."

"If it matters to you, it's something." He takes your plates from the counter, setting them in the sink, pushing up his sleeves. He starts washing the dishes, giving you time to answer.

"It isn't a real thing."

You observe his scowl in the small window above the sink. It's dark outside so his reflection is hazy, an otherworldly Yoongi disapproving of you.

"If it's yours, it's a real thing."

You stand from the stool, moving back from the counter. You straighten your sweater, though there's no need. Yoongi tries to catch your eye in the reflection but you avoid him. In this you are skilled.

"Why won't you tell me?" He turns around to face you. "Y/n?"

"It's dumb."

Yoongi picks up a towel from the counter. He carefully dries his hands, meticulous and thorough, not meeting your gaze. The silence stretches.

"I don't want talk about it." You wring your hands. "Because I'm terrible at it."

"Why do you talk like that?" He walks over and stands in front of you "Y/n."

It comes out like a plea, and you can't bear this feeling of him looking at you, really looking at you as if you're something to be pitied. Hand coming up to your face, gentle, always so gentle. He's an artist even if he works in sounds, something you can't see, can't understand really, but still he appreciates that touch has meaning, as much as sculptor or a painter would. He doesn't waste touches, Yoongi. He gives them out sparingly but he's not stingy. He's cradling your face in his hands now. You wanted banter and fun tonight, not for Min Yoongi to look at you like you've disappointed him. That's not what this is supposed to be.

You roll your eyes, pretending you can’t feel the heavy weight of this moment, the air tightening around you, suffocating you. "It’s stupid."

Yoongi moves back as if you pushed him. "Oh no, that's not what we're gonna do."

You want anything other than to believe that you've let him down. He gazes at you, unblinking, as if asking do you really want this.

"Whatever, it doesn’t matter." You say quietly, feeling the familiarity of these thoughts, comfortable even in their toxicity.

Yoongi takes a breath. Whatever is going through his mind, he's going to help, you think. You can't fathom exactly how, but he's going to do something to help you move from this moment to the next one. He's going to make sure you aren't trapped here, confidence gone, unable to tell him the simplest of facts about yourself.

You meet his eye. "I’m not any good."

He unties his apron, fingers moving quick. "I don't like it when you talk about yourself that way."

"Oh," you exhale. After everything, that's what gets him? That's what he doesn't like?

He drops the apron on the counter and flexes his fingers. What in the hell is he getting ready for?

"You remember what to say when you want me to stop?"

You lick your lips at his words. Your breathing picks up, along with the rise and fall of your chest. With each moment that passes, you wind tight and he calms. He holds steady, as impassive as a statue.

You nod. You've gone over it all, red for stop, green for keep going. He wanted to talk about it last week, during one of those conversations where he tells you something you could’ve guessed, but he needed to say the words out loud anyway. A ritual you're sure he's conducted with others, but this time it's with you. It feels good to be worthy of such consideration.

"Say it."

"Yes, I remember."

This isn't new to you, but he's not like the others. You already know that, even though the two of you have done so little, really, when it comes down to it.

Without a word, he reaches for your waist. He grips softly, thumbs moving over your skin, pushing up your sweater, taking his time. You resist the urge to suck in your tummy. He watches your face, rather than his hands, as he unbuttons your jeans and unzips the zipper. There's a faint smile on his lips, and you can't quite believe it, to have him unwrap you like this. You close your eyes.

"Look at me."

Your eyes flash open, embarrassed at the way you comply so quickly. The apartment isn't warm, but you feel a flush on your cheeks. Your body exists in a state of wanting, a state of needing him. You'd do anything he asked at the moment, it's a good thing he is trustworthy. You let yourself smile. Whatever happens, he's going to take this shame away, this idea that you aren't good enough for what you want, for him.

Yoongi's hands leave your waist as quickly as they arrived. He reaches up to run a finger over your bottom lip. "Don't smile, you aren't going to like your punishment."

"I can take it," you say in a breath. You're going to try, anyway.

"We'll see." Yoongi takes you by the shoulder and turns you around. He pushes you gently down against the counter. You take a deep breath and try to steady your nerves. Things have moved so slowly between the two of you, this moment is the most exposed you've felt. The restaurant was so rushed, so fast, that you don't quite remember it. This isn't kisses in doorways or late-night phone calls, like a teenager still living at home worrying about getting caught. There's not a screen between you or a chance of being interrupted, there's just Min Yoongi standing behind you making your heart race. You lick your chapped lips.

Yoongi pushes your jeans roughly to your ankles. When he makes sure you don't want to take it back, don't want to stop whatever this is, you hear him take a deep breath. The music you haven't really noticed all night, gives a low pulsing rhythm that lulls you into a kind of hypnotic state.

Then you are just sort of waiting, ass out. What the hell—

You sneak a glance back at him. He's biting his bottom lip and you hope it's out of admiration and not confusion. What in the fuck? He's just observing you, not doing anything, standing there like he could wait all night if he wanted. You stifle a moan. He hasn't even done anything, not really, already your panties are damp. He's the worst tease, you should have known, is he not – you rub your thighs together, needing something, anything, even a poor substitute for him. Oh god, what if his punishment is not to touch you at all? That would be unbearable.

Yoongi runs one finger over the edge of your panties, moving so slowly and inexorably over your skin, he leaves a trail of shivers in his wake. You exhale, your whole body readying itself for what comes next. Surely, this is it. He dips below the hem, pushing them down to expose your ass. Your legs tremble, and his hand abandons your skin. You try your best to stay still, to hold yourself composed for him. Then he’s back, this time pushing up your panties, the fabric tightening pleasurably around your slit. There’s a decided disinterest, and it somehow makes everything feel better. Now, he’s grabs your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, insistent and possessive.

"Please," you moan.

"What do you want?" he asks idly, with no interest in the answer.

"Anything," you say.

Abruptly, his hands stop, moving away.

"Not that," you whisper. You’re fairly certain he’s laughing at you, but it’s a shared joke, not a cruel interjection. You smile.

His hands return, and you stifle a moan as he runs his fingers over your clothed slit, back and forth. Nothing extraordinary, just a repetitive hand motion that has you slowly unraveling under him. It’s incredibly perfect and utterly terrible that he is such a tease. It feels like that first night, his hands under the table, as your sex gets slicker and your heart speeds up. He nudges aside your panties to feel your messy release.

"Kitten," Yoongi drawls, "I haven't even done anything yet."

"I'm aware," you grit out, turning your head, but not bold enough to meet his eyes. All the frustration from the last few minutes poured into those words.

"No, pet," Yoongi says, as his hand leaves the apex of your thighs and returns to, kneading the flesh of your ass. "That's not how this works."

You purse your lips so as to prevent the many pathetic pleadings from pouring out. You aren't that bad yet, but you will be soon. You push back into his ministrations.

Abruptly, he removes his hands. "Pull them down," he commands.

Awkwardly, you reach back, wiggling out of your panties, letting them fall past your knees. You focus on the counter in front of you, a cold, white tile, instead of the pleasurable humiliation moving through your limbs, already making you feel wonderfully fuzzy. You take a steadying breath. Something in the air has changed, become thick, and any thoughts of playful banter are gone. The only thing left is concerted, heartfelt begging.

Some desperate plea is on your lips when—

"Oh god," you exhale when the first slap falls on your ass. It's a sharp, bright pain that dulls quickly. His hands aren't huge but he's strong . . . fuck, you mutter when the next one comes down.

The third is harsher, causing your hips to slam into the counter where you had been able hold yourself steady before, but that's not going to happen anytime soon. He’s good, you realize through the delightful haze, at regulating the way it’s felt. There’s a halt before the pain spreads, bold and sparking through your ass.

You right yourself, up on your arms once again, your breath coming in gasps. "You want me to count?" you say, trying to sound as bored as possible, but it comes out panting and forced. You might have made a huge mistake.

The sound of his laughter makes it easy to picture the way his head is likely thrown back. You aren't foolish enough to try to sneak a look. Maybe this won't be so bad, maybe you'll make it just fine.

"There's going to be too many to count, pet."

"Oh," you say. Now there's a dull, steady ache moving through your body. No longer primed for the next slap, you're starting to figure out just how much it hurts.

"Yeah, oh." Yoongi mimics. Like an asshole, honestly, but you don't mind. Already you don't remember where started this and where it will end. Everything is centered into this one moment, and you aren't worried anymore.

It's quiet, just the sound of the music in the apartment. As if giving you time to regret your actions, which you are - yikes - he doesn't fill the space with anything. You lose yourself in the beat of the pulsing music.

When he begins again, his strike is lighter, but it's so much worse. Your skin sensitized now and burning bright, nothing stops the multitudes of pain layered over your skin. It unfurls something else within you too. You've liked this before, but with him it's better because you don't have to worry if he's going to play by the rules. You don't have to assess his capacity for kindness because he's already shown it to you. With other partners a part of you had to remain behind, hovering just above you like an out of body apparition to make sure you aren’t betrayed. Unbidden, you sob at the realization that he's not going to do that to you, you can just exist here without fear.

It's a heavenly feeling, and it just keeps going. The feeling of your labored breathing against the cold tile, the harsh smack of his hand keeps you focused. It's all a moment that you don't have to leave, don't have to run away from. You feel your slick pussy, your throbbing clit and an inexorable want to take whatever he gives you.

Through the haze of light slaps and gentle spankings on your thighs even, it finally comes to you. There is something off with the rhythm, something in addition to the growing, glowing pain where all your life has become centered. It's slightly off, not exactly --

Another hard slap, this time pushing you into the counter. You groan at the thought of marks on your skin and his hands putting them there.

What doesn't make sense though? What's off?

Oh fucking goddamn fuck.

Yoongi's spanking you off beat to the low music. Your whole life is circling around this one fact, the entirety of your experience wrapped up in this aggravating lack of rhythm, like the precipice of an immense cliff and the last thing you want to do is look down, but you can stop yourself from focusing on it. It is literally the most infuriating thing you have ever experienced. Christ, he's such an asshole.

You grip the edge of the counter. "This has to hurt you, oh fuccckkkk, more than it hurts me."

He's giving you more breaks now, more pauses and it is almost worse, because you can't anticip-

His hand rains down on your ass. "Trust me, it doesn't."

He pauses though. You lower your forehead to the cool counter. You don't realize there are tears on your cheeks until you lay your head on the tile. Primed for the next slap, you flinch when he runs a gentle finger over you aching sex. There's nowhere to hide, and you don't want to for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Yoongi can't believe how much he likes the dull red hue of your ass, the way you can't catch your breath and the way you can frankly fucking take it. He smiles at the thought of you hating his little trick with the music. He’s pretty proud of that one.

You don't exactly hate it though, despite your protestations, the way your pussy is dripping for him. Yoongi wants nothing more than to keep you bent over this counter and fuck you until you're screaming his name. He wants nothing more than for everyone to learn, even his annoying neighbors, that you’re his, that your body is just for him.

"Babe," he whispers, rubbing your slick pussy, avoiding your clit knowing that it's too much. You push back into his hand, desperate to be filled. "My perfect, little sl—"

Oh shit. He catches himself just in time, covering his words by pushing his fingers into your slick folds. That was close, and he hopes you didn't hear him. You moan, and rut back onto his hand, your tight wet heat taking him in. Christ, he can't wait to feel you come on his cock.

You push back into his hand, rutting yourself on his fingers, and it is such a sight he doesn't reprimand you. He loves seeing you like this, messy and lost, all that anxiety and tightly wound thoughts, becoming a slurred mess, begging for him to fuck you.  Not tonight, not yet. He's not interested in discerning what it is about you that leads to self-denial, but he’s going to wait until the two of you are desperate for each other, until you can't fucking survive without having him. He knows you're gonna take it so well. His hard cock is uncomfortable in his jeans and needs some goddamn attention, but tonight is about you and whatever the hell you need to get over, about you not trusting him.

Yoongi gets on his knees. Your pretty cunt looks so enticing, nice and wet for him. He just needs a taste, you flinch and call out his name when he takes a lick up your dripping sex. It's obscene, how good you taste, how much he wants to revel in the fact that this is all for him.

It isn't going to take long. You like your punishments, more than like it from the way you are getting loud, mewling as you try to muffle the sounds of pleasure pouring from your lips.

He pulls away, and you whine. "Louder."

You groan at his command.

"Wanna hear you."

He wants nothing more than for you to be his. Even as he sucks at your clit with his lips, gentle. You buck, jerking your hips, and he grabs your ass, still warm from his treatment. He groans into your sex at the way you keen. You're loud now. Lost to it, panting his name.

"Y-yoongi," you barely form the word and muffled by the counter. He is just a little proud of himself. "I'm gonna . . ."

You break off as he sucks on your clit. He takes a finger and runs it along your wet folds, pushing in just a little, giving you far too little for what you want. You squirm in frustration, trying, failing to get him to do more. He curls his finger. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

"I wanna – hic— come." You sound pathetic. There's a desperate sob in your voice, and he fucking loves it.

"What about what I want?" He goes back to his tender licking and playing. You're so soft and loves the way his lips are slick with your desire. He is a terrible tease, but if it gets you where he wants you, then he's fine with it.

"I can't . . ." your legs are trembling, and you're struggling to stay upright and not sink to the floor. You've done well for the first night.

"Come on, then, kitten, come for me." He sucks on your clit, and your pussy clenches around his fingers.

You cry out, a shuddering pleasure that moves through your trembling body. It takes you over, leaving you limp and worn out. You struggle to stay upright. He stands and pulls you from the counter as you shiver. He likes you like this, weak and speechless from the way he made you feel.

Yoongi kisses you, you're pliant as he uses your mouth. You clutch his shirt, crowding into him. There's nothing nice or gentle about the kiss. It's desperate and needy as if all the words he can't say are put into it. Teeth clashing and inelegant just wanting to get as close to you as he can. He kisses your cheek, moving to your neck, small nips as you writhe and moan beneath him. He palms your mound.

Eyes closed, you are barely standing and he's just putting pressure on your pussy and you ground into his hand, his fingers filling you.

"Oh fuck, Y-yoongi."

This is his favorite part, when you forget and just take what you need. "You gonna come again?"

"Please," you whine. You open your eyes, heavy-lidded and red rimmed. You lick your lips.

"Go on, you know I wanna watch."

You move yourself against his fingers. It isn't going to take much, you’re sensitive, and just on the edge of what you need to tip over into pleasure again.

This time you make a silent cry, opening your mouth and he watches the way pleasure moves through your body, pussy squeezing his fingers as you come. He loves seeing you like this, all fucked out and spent.

When you come down, he kisses you slow, languid and gentle. He's never going to get tired of this, never going to get tired of the way you come undone. When the trembling stops and your breathing becomes normal, he helps you off with your shoes and jeans. You're not really following what he's doing, mumbling about something.

Yoongi kisses you. It's messy and fumbling. Your lips are soft and enticing, and he tangles his tongue with yours, languid. He likes this, the way you're fumbling and desperate. He pulls up your panties, gentle and leads you over to the couch. He gives you a few kisses to entice you, since moving isn't very comfortable for you. Your hair is disheveled, your eyes wide, and lips slick. He can't wait to have you splayed out on his bed, presented like a feast.

"Pleaseeeee, Yoongi," you whine. The two of you stand in front of the couch, on the hideous rug Seokjin dragged in here one night.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" Yoongi entwines his fingers with yours.

"Wanna suck your cock."

Yoongi splutters a little. Goddamn, you're cute.

"Please." You kiss him again, this time less soft more like you want him to ruin you. Your hands fumble for his belt, untucking his shirt. It's all a delightful jumble. "Please, I'm gonna be so good for you"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you mumble in reply, still kissing him.

"You gonna let me fuck that sweet mouth?"

You nod.

Yoongi's done waiting. His dick is in agony, and he wants nothing more than to see his hard cock between your swollen lips. He pulls you toward the couch, falling back to sit legs splayed. You move to the floor, sitting on your knees. You wince when you sit back.

"You okay?"

You nod, licking your lips and closing your eyes as you settle back. "I like it. Feels good." Your eyes flash open, and you swallow thickly. "It's not bad, is it? About me?"

Yoongi spots the tears where they dried on your cheeks. Your lips are swollen and a pretty, chapped red. One day he's going to have to find out, going to have the conversation so he learns what happened and what was said to you. It isn't tonight, though. Not now. It's too raw, whatever emotion is racing through your body and leaves you cold. Your eyes are imploring, as if you really need him to tell you if there's something wrong with you.


It shouldn't matter, you know. The fact that you like the burn, like the bruises on your hips and the dull ache in your ass. You shouldn't need anyone's permission, anyone's approval. But you can't help it, it's gone wrong too many times.

"Hey," Yoongi says, distracting you as he leans forward, running a thumb over your cheek. "There's nothing bad about you. How could there be anything bad about you?"

It takes you aback, his simple words, spoken in his questioning raspy way, like he can’t understand you sometimes. The way he says more than he needs sometime. Does he know if he's doing it? Does he know what it means to you?

"I'm sorry." You shake your head. "It’s silly."

Yoongi kisses you, really kisses you like he wants to say a lot but can't put into words. His tongue thrusts into your mouth, assaulting your senses and leaving you bereft when he's done.

He pulls back, breath labored. "We don't have to, if you want –"

Your hands reach up to undo the button of his pants. "If I live one more day on this planet without you coming down my throat, I'm gonna lose it." You peer up at him. "Unless I killed the mood."

"You killed nothing." He says, stroking your cheek. He leans back on the couch, settling in and wiggling a little against the cushion, you want to smile at how cute he is. "I told you, the only thing that kills the mood is clowns."


"See, I told you." His hand comes up to push you gently on your shoulder. He smiles, looking wonderfully smug and, nudges you down and you moan at the exquisite ache.

Yoongi shucks off his shoes and you pull down his pants and underwear, leaving him in nothing but his shirt as he leans back against the couch. He strokes his hard cock, eyes closed. He's tantalizing, and there's something carnal in the casual way he strokes himself, as if he might not let you have a taste.

You bite you lip at the sight, running your hands up and down his bare thighs, wishing you could leave a mark.

"Min. Yoongi." You say, attempting some kind of commanding voice.

He smirks at you.

Well, you failed. Back to mindless pleading. "Yoongi please . . . I swear, you've gotta."

He looks down at you, smiling. "Go on, wanna see you choke on my cock."

Your pussy clenches at his words, the pleasure building again.

You nudge away his hands, and he huffs with laughter. He leans his head back against the couch, as you wrap your fingers around his length, and give him a few strokes. His hands wrap around yours, showing you how he likes it a little harder, tighter. You comply, and he sighs in satisfaction.

You lick your lips. He looks so good, head thrown back, the column of his throat visible, breath steady. He appears a little too calm, a little too in control.

You lean down, taking the head in your mouth, swirling your tongue giving it a lazy, teasing lick before popping off. You taste the precum and hum at the taste. It's been so long, and you've missed this, being in control, being the one who knows what your partner wants. You mouth at the head, teasing.

Yoongi sighs, settling himself even deeper in the couch.

You lick a stripe up the length of his cock, playing with him. "Y/n," he whines, dragging it out, sounding anything but annoyed.

You lavish attention on the head of his cock, working yourself up to it, getting yourself as excited as he is, legs tensing underneath you, hands clutching at the fabric of the couch. You move lower, sucking as you pull back and he gives a satisfied Fucckkk.

It might be the best thing you've ever heard, might make you want to keep going all night.

His breathing is labored now, his groans getting louder, more drawn out with every suck, with every swirl of your tongue.

You pull off, with an obscene slurp, and he gawks down at you, startled. "What –"

You pick up on of his hand, clutching at the couch, silver rings prominent. You place it on top of your head. He gently pushes you back down his length, and you take him even farther this time. He sucks in a hiss as the sensation. As you begin to move up and down, he pushes down your head, not to hard, and you marvel again at his restraint.  

You stroke his cock, pulling off. "Harder," you say, words slurred.

He's mesmerized at the spit stretching from your mouth to his cock. You're slobbering and messy. He nods stupidly, this time when he grips your head it's more forceful.

He's loud, he's vocal about what he likes, and he likes it all. Desire whirls low in your belly, at the way he's come undone under your mouth. His thighs tense under your hands. His breath is coming faster now, more labored, sucking in the air between his teeth, his chest lowering and rising above you.

"Babe," Yoongi says, voice low and rough.

You glance up at him, even as you still mouth at his cock. Sweat is dripping down his throat, his head is thrown back, and he's biting his lip. It's all for you.

"I'm gonna—"

You hum in satisfaction, going back to deep throating him. You suck harder as you pull off, now working him so good, he's squirming underneath you.

"So fucking good." He's panting, his breath labored as if he wants to hold it off, wants to keep going. "Oh god, oh, fuckkkk."

He's an incoherent mess, and you would smile if you weren't stuffed full with his cock. Instead you swallow, tightening around the head.

It's enough, and he comes with a long drawn out groan, hands grasping and legs tense. Swallowing his cum, you don’t mind the taste knowing how much he likes this from the sounds he’s making. He pulls out slowly, and a little oversensitive he hisses.

"So good for me, yeah." Yoongi says, all mumbled and tired. It's muffled even as he kisses you pulling you up and into his lap. "Such a good girl."

He cradles you in his lap, and with a heaving chest he holds you to him. It's hot and he's sweaty, and your ass is sore, and you're legs are trembling, and he's smiling with his eyes closed, and it feels almost perfect.


Yoongi doesn't want to move to wake you, so he sits in the growing darkness, mind wandering, content even though he knows he should be putting on his clothes or taking a shower or doing any number of things, but stay here, holding you. The candles burn out. The room is dark but for the city lights coming through the window.

You stir. It hasn't been long you were out. You're mumbling about something. There are tear marks on your cheeks, and whatever you were going through, whatever fear was moving through you is gone, wrung out and forgotten. He can't do much, but he can give you this.

"I should go," you mumble into his neck. You’re still cradled in his lap.

He doesn't know why you're always running away. He wraps his arms tighter around you.

As if losing your courage, you close your eyes and press your face into the crook of his neck. "It's a book."

Yoongi guessed, but this isn't the time.

"You probably guessed."

He nods. He doesn't understand, but he interprets it from the way your hands worry at the sleeve of your sweater and you hide your face that this is big for you. Biggest, maybe. He doesn't understand why you don't just run after what you want, take it with both hands. He doesn't understand anyone who doesn't go after what they want.

"If I talk about it, I might not do it," you say. Now you play with his hands, holding them in yours and inspecting each in turn, it's odd and endearing. "Thanks, for helping me not worry . . . not be so consumed, I guess."

"Everyone needs help."

Your shoulders shake in laughter, and he sees your eyes alight before you say anything.

"Even your perfect little . . . sloth? Slob?"

"Hey," Yoongi says, not really minding but wishing you hadn’t heard his slip up.

"Slytherin?" You pull back, smiling and looking delighted with yourself as you continue to hold his hand.

"I'm learning, okay." He focuses on the way your fingers are entwined with his. "It's sort of my go to."

At his words you look up at him. Even though a wince of pain moves across your face, you move to sit in his lap and straddle his waist, still wearing your sweater and panties. It's a good look on you.

"Thank you." You bite your lip. "For remembering."

You cradle his face in your hands, and it seems you are thanking him for a lot more than just remembering a simple fact – a fact he actually forgot in the moment when he should have remembered.

You kiss him gently on the lips like a prince awakening a sleeping beauty, chaste and gentle. It feels lovely. It feels like you haven't really kissed him at all before this.

"Stay," he implores. "Sleep here, okay?"

Your gaze is soft, as you smile and nod. You snuggle into him, closing your eyes. "I’m tired."

"What are you doing New Year's?" Yoongi asks, before thinking too much about it. "Do you have to work at the gas station?"

"I have the night off."

"Come to a party with me."

You pull back, meeting his eye. "Like a party-party?"

"I don't know what that is, but . . . probably?"

"Do I need to wear a dress and get all fancified?"

"Probably?" Yoongi names the hotel.

The surprise shows on your face. "Wow, fancy-fancy."

"Namjoon's label is putting it on. Come with me."

You gaze at him, like a fortune teller trying to divine the future. "Of course . . .yeah, I'll go with you."

Yoongi hides his relief by wrapping you in his arms. Pulling you to him, he realizes he didn’t plan to ask you or even go to the event, but it feel right. Besides, Yoongi always goes after what he wants.