#min yoongi friends to lovers

[pennyellee]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡?

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐢𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡? | 𝐌𝐘𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐔 (𝐌) pairings: producer!min yoongi x popgirlie f!reader genre: romance, smut, slight porn with plot, friends to lovers au word count: 6K beta read by @chaoticpuff17 (ily)

prompt: "There is just no way you two did not fuck each other's brains out." summary: "You Big Enough?" - when an old flame resurfaced, rumours spiralled, and suddenly, every lingering glance and every touch between you seemed to carry weight. It had always been just music, just friendship—hadn’t it? No. You always had the vibe of  'will they, won't they.' This has become bigger than the music. Tension crackled, boundaries blurred, and there was this thing that Yoongi made sure you knew well besides that he was big enough. "They just talk. I fucking deliver."

warnings: minors dni 18+ | sexual tension, explicit language, themes of subtle (and not-so-subtle) possessiveness, teasing, sexual activity, rough sex, fingering (f receiving), miscommunication driving emotional conflict, dirty talk, raw fucking (stay safe!) choking and spanking as part of intimate scenes, creampie, fleeting nipple play, very subtle dominance/submission dynamics, implied size kink ... (as per usual, I'll add some if needed)

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, sexual activity, sex without protection, choking and spanking as part of intimate scenes.

a/n: yall, I had this idea like a month ago and I wrote the initial part but lowkey forgot that it's in my drafts so I finished it yesterday (might come later to edit, pls excuse me im working overtime these days) and amazing and spectacular @chaoticpuff17 managed to read it so you can have it as a lil Valentine's day treat. So here is something simple, smutty, and cute for ya. Happy Valentine to all of you who celebrate, love you my little fairies! ♥

masterlist

Your hands hovered above the keys and your brain could not figure out what to press to make it sound as magical as you want. Your mind searched for the perfect melody for the bridge of her latest song—

"Try F-sharp minor," Yoongi suggested, his voice low and even. The studio is a second home for you. Always have been and dear Min Yoongi was as much a refuge as the soundproof walls and softly humming equipment.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"Perfect—" There was a warmth in his gaze, one that lingered a second too long.

"How do you always know, Yoongi-ah?"

"It's my job," he said simply, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. Your heart fluttered with a familiar yet unwelcome sensation. But you quickly shook it off, focusing on the music in front of her.

"I'm lucky to have you, then," you murmured.

Yoongi didn't respond immediately, and when he did, his voice was quieter than before.

"I'd say I'm the lucky one."

Before you could process what he meant, your phone buzzed, breaking the spell. You picked it up, seeing a message from your lifelong bestie, Jimin-ah.

Emergency. Coming over.

You frown but you are happy to not indulge in something you don't have the answers to. "Jimin-ah is on his way. Guess I'll have to call it a night."

Yoongi's expression was unreadable, but he nodded, knowing that it must be something important if you’re packing your stuff so quickly. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"You need to fucking hear this," he says, her voice brimming with urgency when he bursts into the apartment like a whirlwind, his dark glossy hair bouncing as he flops onto the couch.

"You remember Seo Kang-joon?"

You hand him a glass of red wine and sit across from him.

"What now? Did he suddenly reappear after he ghosted me?"

Jimin winces.

"Actually, yeah. And I finally found out why he did so."

Your stomach drops. You liked that man when you went out, but the message you left a good amount of time ago went unanswered for an even longer period of time.

"Why?"

He hesitates, his eyes darting around the room. Finally, he leans forward, lowering his voice. "Everyone thinks you and Yoongi are… you know."

You blink.

"What?" you say, playing dumb.

"You knooowww…—

"—that."

He said through gritted teeth, trying to make you understand, but your brain was not cooperating.

"No, I dooooon't know that" You mimicked him, and he only stared dead serious at your stupidity.

"They think you've been doing it," he says bluntly. "Apparently, it's some open secret in the industry. Like, 'Oh, Y/N and Yoongi? Of course, they're a thing.'"

Your jaw drops. No way. No fucking way.

"That's insane. We're not… we're not like that."

"You sure about that buttercup?" Jimin raises an eyebrow and you merely nod.

"Cuz', he's not exactly denying it. And honestly, can you blame people for assuming? You've written two albums together, spent countless hours locked in the studio, and the way he looks at you…" he trails off, shaking his head.

"There is just no way you two did not fuck each other's brains out."

Your cheeks burn.

"That's ridiculous. Yoongi and I are friends. Just friends."

"Hmm, I don't know hun,—"

He was right. You weren't buying it. Not entirely.

But you weren't ready to admit that out loud—not yet, anyway. Your mind races. You replay every moment you've spent together, every lingering glance and fleeting touch.

Yoongi and you?

It was absurd, wasn't it?

Right?

Jimin watched you carefully, his perfectly shaped brows raised in amusement. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"

"No," you scoffed, but your voice lacked conviction.

Jimin smirked, leaning back against the couch. "Look, babe, I wouldn't bring this up if I didn't think it was something you should actually think about. People don't just make this kind of shit up for no reason."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "I just—why wouldn't he deny it?"

"That's what you need to figure out." Jimin gave you a pointed look. "You trust him, don't you?"

You hesitated. That was the problem, wasn't it? You trusted Yoongi more than anyone. He had been your anchor in the storm, your safe space when everything else felt uncertain.

But this—this was different.

The way he looked at you.

The way he always knew exactly what you needed.

You replayed every moment with Yoongi in your mind, combing through the memories with a fine-toothed scepticism, looking for anything—anything—that could have fed these rumours. The way he watched you while you worked in the dance studio, the quiet way he always made sure you had water before long sessions, the casual intimacy in the way he touched you—light, fleeting, like a habit neither of you had ever questioned.

Had you been blind this whole time?

Jimin's voice snapped you back to reality.

"Look, I think you need to talk to him. Like, actually talk to him."

You swallowed hard.

Talking to Min Yoongi had never been difficult before. But this? This felt dangerous.

The next evening, you stepped into the dimly lit studio, and the question sat on the tip of your tongue like a loaded gun.

Yoongi was already there, as always. The warm amber glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows across his sharp features, catching on the soft strands of dark hair that fell over his eyes. His fingers rested idly on the soundboard, a picture of quiet focus—until he looked up at you.

His gaze, steady and unreadable, held you captive.

"You're late," he murmured, but there was no accusation in his tone—just that familiar, quiet warmth.

You swallowed. "Got caught up with Jimin last night, forgot to set a reminder."

At that, something flickered across his face—too quick to name, gone before you could hold onto it. "Ah."

Silence stretched between you, thick with something you weren't ready to name. But you hadn't come here to tiptoe around things anymore.

So you stepped forward, pressing a hand against the cool surface of the mixing console, grounding yourself, only now taking his appearance in.

"I played with the structure a little last night after you went home and—" he broke the silence first, but you knew he sensed the sudden awkwardness in your posture, your whole being.

"Is something the matter, sleepyhead?"

"Nope, nothing at all."

You quickly retorted, trying to look anywhere else but his gorgeous face.

Yoongi's eyes, however, never wavered. They held a depth that made it impossible for you to escape his gaze. You had always known how intense he could be, but now, in the stillness of the studio, it felt almost intimate, the air thick with unspoken words that seemed to pulse around you like a melody begging to be heard.

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting casually on the desk, but his posture was all focus—intent, almost as if he was waiting for you to unravel yourself.

"Are you sure about that?" His voice was lower now, a gentle challenge. He was pulling at the thread, testing the tension between you.

Your stomach twisted. This was the moment, wasn't it?

"I'm fine, Yoongi, just had a lot of wine last night," you said again, but your voice betrayed you. It cracked, ever so slightly, and you couldn't mask the uncertainty in it.

The silence between you thickened, and it felt like the space in the room had shrunk, until it was just you, him, and the suffocating pressure of the question you both knew was lingering.

He didn't look away, not even when you avoided his gaze, staring down at the soundboard like it could offer you some kind of escape. He moved to the electronic piano while lifting a brow at you.

"So as I said, I played with the structure—"

You watched him, leaning at the piano, his fingers poised just above the keys, waiting for him to break the silence again, to give you something more. But you didn't want more from him—not in the way you wanted it. Not yet.

Instead, you played a dangerous game, one of subtle manipulation, testing him, probing for the truth behind his unreadable expressions.

"You remember Seo Kang-joon, right?" You interrupt him, raising your voice just a little.

The name hung in the air between you, deliberately chosen, carefully placed like a baited hook.

Yoongi's fingers stilled for the briefest of moments. But it was enough. Just enough for you to notice. His posture shifted ever so slightly, his shoulders stiffening imperceptibly.

You bit back a smile, inwardly satisfied at his subtle reaction.

"I bumped into him yesterday on my way home. He... he actually asked me out on a date again. Said he lost his phone and had to get a new phone number, didn't remember mine."

A lie.

The words left your mouth so easily, like a lie you had rehearsed in front of the mirror, and yet your heart pounded with anticipation. You weren't expecting much. Just a flicker of jealousy, a crack in the calm façade he always wore. So your interrogation of his, perhaps, hidden feelings isn't unprovoked.

Yoongi didn't immediately respond. His fingers finally touched the keys, the faintest chord ringing through the room, but his eyes remained fixed on the piano.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the soft melody playing between you, the rhythm of his fingers meeting the ivories almost too steady.

And then, finally, he spoke. His voice was low, flat. "Is that so?"

Your breath caught. That was it?

You frowned, staring at him from across the room, searching for a reaction. Anything. But his expression was as controlled as ever. His calm demeanour was unshakable.

No way.

You leaned forward, the pressure of the lie beginning to claw at your insides. "Yeah, he asked me. He was actually pretty... persistent about it. He was sorry I thought he ghosted me." You let the words hang, trailing off deliberately, watching his reaction closely.

But Yoongi only nodded, his eyes focused on the keys.

"I see."

A small flame of frustration ignited in your chest. Was he really this indifferent? Was he truly going to let this lie slide without a hint of a reaction?

You stood up abruptly, unable to hold the pretense any longer. You could feel your temper rising, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

"You fucking see?!" Yoongi's fingers paused mid-chord as the tension in your voice snapped through the room. You busted out your feelings. Well, this was doomed from the start.

You stepped forward, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and something else—something raw that you hadn't been prepared to face. "You don't even care, do you? You don't care that everyone is saying we're fucking, that they think we're—" You cut yourself off, almost choking on the words. You couldn't bear to say them aloud, but you needed to know, needed to push him.

His gaze met yours, and in that instant, you knew he hadn't been indifferent. He'd been waiting. Waiting for you to unravel yourself, for you to show your cards. His eyes, dark and unreadable, pinned you in place.

"Is that what you wanted to hear?" His voice was cold now, controlled, with an edge that made your skin prickle. The air in the room thickened, turning heavy with the weight of his words.

"Well, perchance?!—" You gesture rapidly.

"You run around not denying it Yoongi,—?!"

The calm, controlled exterior he wore was unravelling, and you weren't sure if you liked the version of him that was emerging—or if it terrified you.

He stood up, slowly, deliberately. The sudden motion caused a cold shiver to run down your spine. He didn't step towards you, but the space between you both seemed to shrink in the way he carried himself—every step deliberate, every movement measured.

"Why do you care so much?" His voice was low, almost detached, but there was a certain sharpness to it now. It was the tone he used when he was dangerously close to losing control, but for now, he still kept it in check. "What's so important about what they think?"

You opened your mouth to reply, but the words tangled in your throat. You had been so sure of your reasoning—so certain of the way you wanted him to react—but now that he was giving you exactly what you wanted, you realized just how hollow that satisfaction felt.

"I dunno Yoongi—maybe because men ghosted me—maybe because you just might be the reason I had a dry season— or maybe you're that kind of motherfucker—"

Yoongi let out a sharp breath, a dry laugh escaping him as he shook his head. You elevated this to a different level now. "A motherfucker?" He repeated his tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "That's what we're doing now?"

You were too far gone to stop. The frustration, the pent-up emotions, the sheer nerve of him sitting there, all unbothered while you spiralled—it cracked something open inside you.

"Yes, Yoongi! A motherfucker! What else do you call a guy who lets rumours fly like this and doesn't even care?" Your hands gestured wildly as your voice grew more frantic.

"You don't deny it, you don't address it, you just exist in this limbo, letting people think we're screwing while I sit here looking like a desperate idiot who cannot get a hold of her man—"

His jaw clenched, his patience visibly wearing thin. "So what if I don't deny it?" He stepped closer, voice a fraction lower now, dangerously quiet. "What if I don't care what they think? What if I like the way it sounds?"

Your breath hitched.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your entire argument, the whole reason you'd brought this up, suddenly felt shaky, flimsy, like a house of cards collapsing under the weight of his words.

Yoongi watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable, waiting for you to process what he had just admitted.

Finally, your voice came out in a whisper, hoarse and unsure.

"The fuck, Yoongi?"

"I don't deny it," he said again, slower this time. His head tilted slightly, studying you. "Because it's not entirely wrong."

A rush of heat flooded through you—anger, shock, confusion, something else, something deeper and more dangerous. "Not… entirely… wrong?" You echoed, blinking at him. "Are you—are you actually fucking insane?"

Yoongi exhaled sharply, like he was just as frustrated as you were, like you were the one being difficult. "Y/N—"

"No," you cut him off, pointing a finger at him. "No, you don't get to just drop that and act like it's nothing."

"I'm not acting like it's nothing," he countered, his voice still calm, still infuriatingly composed. "You wanted to know why I never denied it? That's why."

"You can't be fucking serious right now, you fuck—" his body in your proximity startled you, but you let him pin you to the wall next to the mixing desk.

His hands caged you in, palms pressing against the wall on either side of your head. You felt the sharp inhale of his breath, the slow exhale, the tension buzzing between you like a live wire.

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice was quiet but razor-edged, his eyes dark and unwavering. "You've been running in circles trying to make me jealous, trying to get a reaction—" his gaze flicked down to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, "pushing me like you want me to snap."

You listened. For once.

"You sat in that fucking booth with only your panties under that big shirt—"

"My fucking shirt—"

"My fucking shirt," he repeated, voice rough. "And you think I wouldn't become possessive? Think I didn't see the way you stretched in it, how you leaned in close, pretending like you didn't know exactly what you were doing?"

Your breath hitched. You did not realize he saw you this way.

You swallowed, trying to find solid ground beneath the sudden energy shift, but Yoongi wasn't giving you the chance.

"You wanted me to react?" His eyes burned into yours. "You wanted this?"

The heat between you became unbearable.

"I—" You started, but you had no words.

Because now, finally, Yoongi wasn't holding back.

And neither were you.

Your pulse hammered in your throat as his words sank in, wrapping around your ribs, tightening like a snare. You had been waiting—aching—for a reaction, pushing buttons you hadn't even fully understood yourself. But now? Now, Yoongi was looking at you like he had already decided.

His breath was warm against your cheek, the space between you non-existent.

"Say it," he murmured.

You licked your lips, the movement not lost on him. "Say what?"

Yoongi let out a short, dark chuckle. "That you like it. That you like this—the way I look at you, the way I see you."

Your stomach flipped.

"You're so full of shit," you whispered, but there was no weight behind it but pure provocation.

His fingers twitched against the wall before he exhaled sharply and leaned in, just enough for your breaths to tangle.

"And you'll be full of me."

"You big enough?" 

Oh, that did it.

A sharp, involuntary gasp left his lips and your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up. The air between you turned electric, charged with something too dangerous to name.

Yoongi's gaze darkened, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip as if savouring the way your breath hitched when he looked at you that way. He bit down his lower lip before he spoke again, laying his palms on the flat surface of the table in front of the piano that lay on it–

"There are two possibilities happening between us—" He tilted his head slightly, gaze never wavering from yours, his voice a low rasp against your skin.

"One—we make this official,—" He said it like it was inevitable, like it was a fact written in stone. "No more rumours, no more bullshit. No one else but us. Just you and me."

Your breath stuttered, your heart slamming against your ribs.

"And the second?" you whispered, barely able to form the words.

Yoongi smirked, slow and sinful, his fingers twitching against the wall before he leaned in, his mouth a breath away from yours.

"I keep writing my songs, keep filling my verses with filth about how I would fuck you good and hard—until you finally beg me to bury my cock in your cunt."

“And people will hear you’re mine—”

Your entire body went hot. Yoongi's smirk widened, watching the way your breath stuttered, your pupils blown wide. He tilted his head, gaze flicking down to your parted lips, his voice dropping even lower. Your thighs clenched a traitorous reaction that made his smirk turn predatory.

"You—"

"That's the difference between them and me, baby." His fingers ghosted over your waist, light enough to make you shiver. "They just talk. I fucking deliver."

You swallowed hard, your pulse thrumming so violently it was a wonder you were still standing.

"You're so—"

"What?" Yoongi pressed in closer, his nose brushing against yours. "Say it."

You had no idea what you were going to say.

But when his fingers finally curled around your hip, pulling you flush against him, the words you should say, the ones that would stop this before it went too far—before you gave in—died in your throat.

"Fucking thought so." He smirked again. That smirk. That fucking smirk.

It did something to you, something dangerous, something you weren't sure you could control. It made you want to wipe it off his face—maybe with a slap, maybe with your mouth.

Yoongi knew it, too.

He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath hot against your cheek, his grip tightening on your hip as if daring you to push him away.

You didn't.

"See?" His voice was silk and smoke, smooth but lethal. "You love this. You love the way I get under your skin. The way I make you feel."

Your nails dug into your palms. "You don't know shit about what I feel."

Yoongi chuckled, low and rough. "Don't I?"

His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down your side, stopping just shy of indecency but still making you shudder.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this, and I will."

It was the worst thing he could've said. Because the truth—the one you refused to admit even to yourself—was that you didn't want him to stop. Ever. You were so fucking needy to be touched after you got to know that your dried spell had a sorcerer and it was him. So technically now, he should be the one breaking it. And he knew it.

Your silence was all the confirmation he needed to press his lips against your neck.

His hands were suddenly everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your thighs, spreading you open like he had every right to.

"You think I'm going to let you run your mouth, push me to the edge, and not do something about it?" His voice was a rasp, thick with hunger. "You think I don't see how badly you want this?"

Your breath hitched as his thigh pressed between yours, the friction making your knees buckle. His mouth found your jaw, teeth scraping over sensitive skin before he kissed a path down your throat, sucking, biting, claiming.

You barely had time to think before he gripped your wrist, guiding your hand down—down—until your fingers brushed against him, hard and thick beneath his sweats. The sound that tore from his throat was pure sin.

"Feel that?" Yoongi growled, grinding against your palm. "That's what you do to me. That's what you fucking cause each time we're in this studio."

Your fingers flexed, a teasing squeeze that had his breath stuttering. He cursed under his breath, tilting your chin up with his free hand, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Dark. Devouring. Desperate.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured again, a cruel echo of earlier. But this time, there was no space between you, no restraint.

And you didn't.

Instead, you yanked his mouth to yours. Yoongi groaned into the kiss, the sound reverberating through you as his hands pushed under your shirt, fingers trailing over bare skin, leaving fire in their wake.

Your nails raked down his back as he lifted you effortlessly, pressing you harder against the wall.

His hips rolled, slow and devastating, and a moan ripped from your throat, shameless, wrecked.

"That's it, baby" he rasped, his forehead against yours, breath heavy. "That's the sound I've been waiting for."

His hand dipped lower, slipping past the band of your shorts, finding you soaked for him. Yoongi cursed, his fingers teasing, circling, before sliding through the wetness with devastating precision.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice hoarse. "You're already so fucking ready for me."

You didn't even get a chance to respond before he pushed a finger inside, then another, stretching you, filling you, working you open until you were trembling against him.

"Yoongi—"

"I know," he hushed you, his lips brushing against your ear, his fingers moving faster, deeper. "I've got you, baby. Just take it."

And fuck, you did. You took everything he gave, your body writhing against his as pleasure built sharp and unbearable, spiralling higher, tightening—

"Come for me," he ordered, his voice dark, commanding. "Come on my fingers like the desperate little thing I know you are."

And when he curled his fingers just right, his thumb pressing where you needed it most—

You shattered.

Completely. Utterly.

Yoongi swallowed your cry with his mouth, dragging it out, his hand still moving, still milking every last bit of pleasure from you until you were shaking in his arms.

Then, as you barely caught your breath, his voice came again, low and teasing.

"Now," he murmured, undoing the string of his sweats, letting them fall.

"I'll fuck you hard that you'll forget about those smutty books you're reading—"

Your body barely had time to recover before Yoongi was pressing closer, his fingers sliding away, leaving you aching and empty. But then—then—his hands were on your hips, tugging your shorts down, peeling them away with agonizing slowness, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

Your breath stuttered as he stepped back just enough to look at you, his dark gaze trailing over your bare, trembling form.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered, almost to himself, before his hands gripped your thighs and lifted you, forcing your legs around his waist.

The weight of him, the sheer heat of him, pressed right against your core, had you gasping, fingers digging into his shoulders. Yoongi groaned low in his throat, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel all of him, hard and thick and ready.

"Ain’t big enough, huh?" he murmured, dragging his clothed crotch against your soaked heat. His voice was rough, strained. "I’ll show you how big I am."

Your nails bit into his skin, your body writhing against him as he kept teasing, kept torturing you with slow, precise movements. The friction had you panting, your forehead falling against his.

"Stop teasing," you managed, barely above a breath.

Yoongi chuckled, dark and knowing. "Look at you. So desperate for me already." His fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Tell me how much you want it."

You let out a sound between a whimper and a growl, rolling your hips against him in a silent plea. But that wasn't enough for him. Your heart racing, you felt his warm palm connect with your skin, a stinging sensation spreading through your buttocks as he spanked you. You let out a small yelp, but Yoongi didn't relent, his hand rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"Say it." His voice was like gravel, low and demanding. "Say you want me to fuck you, Y/N. Say you need me." He pulled down his sweats enough so his cock sprang free from the confinement.

Your pride clashed with your need, the battle waging for only a moment before he rolled his hips again, pressing the thick head of his cock right against your entrance—and your resolve snapped.

"Fuck—I need you," you gasped, your fingers twisting into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. "Please, Yoongi—just fuck me."

Something broke in him then.

With a guttural sound, he aligned himself and pushed inside, the stretch of him stealing the air from your lungs. He didn't stop, didn't hesitate—just drove forward, sinking deep until he was fully sheathed inside you until there was no space between you, nothing left but the overwhelming, consuming feel of him.

"Fuck," Yoongi gritted out, his forehead dropping to yours. His hands flexed against your thighs like he was trying to hold himself back, to give you a moment. "So fucking tight."

You could barely breathe, barely think, pleasure and pain and something deeper rolling through you in waves. But then he shifted, just slightly, and—

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your head falling back against the wall.

Yoongi's grip tightened, his breath hot against your skin. "Yeah?" He rolled his hips again, slow and deliberate, dragging himself out before thrusting back in, harder this time. Your moan was wrecked, broken—exactly what he wanted.

"Fuck, you feel so good wrapped around me," he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, across your collarbone. "Taking me so fucking well."

Then he moved. Snapping his hips as hard as he could to make your back rub against the wall, to make your head spin from the bouncing on his thick cock that made you see so many constellations. Up and down, up and down. He felt so good inside you, filling you completely as his hips slammed against yours.

The force of his thrust made you cry out, your fingers tangled in his dark raven hair, which you so openly adored when he kept longer. His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your moans as he drove into you with a fierce intensity, each stroke building on the last.

His hand cupped your breast and his thumb brushed over your nipple. The touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the fierce way he was driving into you. Your back arched, pushing your breast further into his hand, and you felt his fingers close around it, squeezing softly. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and you moaned loudly, the sound lost in the kiss that still claimed your mouth. Yoongi's hips kept moving, each thrust building on the last, and his hand on your breast seemed to be pulling you closer to some unseen edge. His fingers tightened around your nipple, rolling it between them, and you felt yourself teetering on the brink of something explosive.

Yoongi groaned, his grip almost bruising now, his thrusts turning erratic. "You gonna come for me again?" he rasped, his hips thrusting into you harder, each one was met with your breath hitching in your throat before you moaned. Loud.

"Gonna fall apart on my cock?"

It was too much—too good.

"I know what you want, love. What will make you cum around my cock."

Your body began to tense, your muscles coiling tighter and tighter as he spoke. "You want it rough," he growled, his thrusts becoming more savage, more primal.

"You want me to take you apart, piece by piece." His grip on your breast tightened, his fingers digging deep into your skin, and you felt yourself spiralling out of control.

His hand left your breast to envelope around your throat, his fingers wrapping tightly around your neck, his thumb pressing against the underside of your jaw. That was it. Your moans got even louder and he raised a brow. You felt a flutter in your chest as his grip tightened, his eyes burning with an intense hunger as he gazed into yours and he slowed down to observe your face that certainly did not hide any pleasure.

"Kinky," he rasped, his voice low and dirty. "So fucking kinky."

He held you in place, his grip on your throat tightening ever so slightly, he began to move his hips again, his cock stirring back to life inside you. His eyes burned with an intense desire, and you could feel the tension building in his body as he drove into you with slow, deliberate strokes.

"I'm going to fill you up, babe" he growled, his voice low and husky. "I'm going to make you take every last drop of me." And with that, he began to thrust into you harder again, faster again, his hips pounding against yours as he chased your release. You felt him swelling inside you, his cock growing thicker and hotter as he approached the edge.

Your orgasm crashed into you, and you could not even stop it. You wanted this to last until your body shuts down from all that pleasure he has given you. Your body locking up as pleasure burns through every nerve ending. You clenched around him, drawing a strangled moan from his lips, his hips snapping forward one last time before he broke. His release spilt deep inside you as he let out a low, guttural groan, his semen erupting into you in a hot, pulsing flood that warmed your walls. You felt him shudder and convulse above you, his body trembling with pleasure as he emptied himself into your waiting flesh

The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of being filled and claimed by him almost too much to bear. His chest heaving with exertion and for a moment, neither of you moved.

"You're so fucking mine," he murmured, voice still thick with satisfaction. He lifted his head to meet your lips once more before he said.

"Don't you ever question my devotion for you—" he started, panting after the little stunt you just pulled. 

“—Or the size of my cock, doll.” 

You only smiled wickedly into his lips. 

“You like us role-playing, tho—“ you started. Yoongi's grip on your waist tightened, his lips brushing over your collarbone as his breath warmed your skin. His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of your body possessively. 

"He could not stop talking about it the whole fucking night, babe."

"Who, Jimin?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement, yet there was an underlying tension in it, like he was trying to keep himself in check to not turn you over and fuck you in the ass. Even though he had to thank Jimin for this fuck prompt he unknowingly gave you an idea of (such a mundane trope) and the final ride you two just had. The thanking will wait until whenever you decide you want Jimin to know about you two.

Of course, something similar happened at the start of your relationship and you could not help yourself to let him fuck you against that wall once again. This time with a similar scenario but slightly adjusted replicas.

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh, though it was edged with a hint of frustration. You shifted under his touch, your heart still racing from the intensity of the night.

"Yeah. Couldn't stop about how people talk about us fucking our brains out here—"

"But we are—" his voice thick with the weight of his meaning, but his tone now softer than before. His mouth pressed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, and his hands pulled you closer, if that was even possible, as if to remind you of just how much he could claim you again and again and again.

You gasped, your body reacting to him in ways you couldn't control, and you felt a rush of vulnerability, knowing how deeply he could read you. "Yoongi," you breathed, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn't making it easy.

"Yeah, you can say that again," Yoongi whispered, his lips brushing against your ear before his teeth grazed the lobe, making your entire body shudder.

You swallowed hard, your head spinning. "I'm serious," you managed to say, even though your voice came out shaky. "Jimin—he thinks I'm still under that dry spell cuz' everybody thinks we're doing it—"

"Let him yap, love."

"Yeah I would, but he went to a point where he talked about how I'm gonna need to buy that Tesla robot to fuck me cuz' no living man will, thanks to you and your not-so-subtle hints that we're doing it—"

"My not-so-subtle hints?" He chuckled.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, feeling a mixture of amusement and frustration. "I mean, he was kinda making some good points," you teased, pretending to think it over. "We do have that whole 'will they, won't they' vibe going on."

Yoongi's fingers paused against your skin for a moment, as if he were considering your words, but then a slow, mischievous smirk crept onto his lips.

"What do you think, babe?"

"I—I think," you stammered, feeling the weight of the moment sink in, "I think we could've been doing a better damn good job of hiding it. But maybe—" You hesitated, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

"Maybe it's time we stop pretending."

"Well, next time Jimin mentions our 'vibe,' I'm making him listen to a few of our 'studio sessions.'"

Your eyes widened in mock horror. "Yoongi!" You gave him a dramatic shiver, and he chuckled, wrapping his arms around you.

"Exactly," Yoongi said, smirking mischievously. "That'll shut him up real quick."

"Good luck," you teased, tapping his chest lightly. "Maybe he'll start talking about how lucky you are to have me in your corner."

"Lucky, huh?" he mused, pulling you in for a hug. "You're damn right I'm lucky."

You grinned, enjoying the easy banter, letting the tension slip away as you let him hold you. It wasn't about proving anything to anyone—it was just the two of you, sharing this moment, enjoying each other's company and, of course, having a little fun at Jimin's expense.

"Wait—" you just realised.

"You know about my smutty books?!"

He threw his head back and gave a loud throat laugh in response.

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, p.

[bbsantc]

my favorite bts fics so far (hyung!line)

hello lovely readers, i hope all of you are doing great. i've been wanting to make this post for a while now. i really want to share the amazing work and talent that many authors have on this app. as a literature fan and hopeless romantic myself, i made sure to pick out all the fics that i think are beautiful and amazing :)

disclaimers!!!!:

some of these fics contain nsfw content (minors dni), or some heavy themes, i am yoongi biased so excuse me if the fic ratio compared to the other members is waaayy bigger (like by a lot i am so so sorry), also this post is insanely long heh (once again, i am so so sorry :p), all pictures are from pinterest!

fluff- ♾️

angst- Ω

smut- ☻

crack/humor- ☼

i would sell my liver to read this again for the first time- ¶

Kim Seokjin

Turn Back Time- @raplinesmoon ♾️☼Ω☻

''pairing: baseball player!Seokjin x doctor!reader (based on the movie 13 Going On 30) genres/au/rating: fluff, humour, angst, smut, time travel au, 18+ summary: After total humiliation at his middle school baseball try outs, Kim Seokjin wants nothing more than for his awkward years to fade away until he’s thirty. Cue a magic baseball glove, and his wish is finally granted. Seokjin suddenly wakes up seventeen years later, now the star pitcher of the team he’d always dreamed of playing for. Confused and overwhelmed at the prospect of the new life waiting for him, he turns to the only person who seems to understand him — you. Will Seokjin learn what it truly means to be thirty, flirty, and thriving? Or will he find himself wishing he could turn back time?''

Every Year- @another-army-spot ♾️Ω☻

''Pairing: Jin x Reader, some implied Yoongi x reader and Namjoon x reader

Word: 15.6K

Genre: friends-to-lovers!au, richkids!au, chef!Jin, bookworm!oc, hard fluff, smut angst?

Summary:  As the daughter of the Kim’s closest friends, you’ve attended their extravagant annual New Year’s party since the year you were born.  No matter what you always spend time with your favorite childhood friend, Jin, who has always been there for you.  Here are the highlights of you and Jin realizing just how important you two are to each other.''

Let's get married as a joke- @burningupp Ω♾️

''Genre: angst, fluff

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x reader

Wordcount: 8210 (I’m so sorry)

Summary: Your best friend Jin has always had a talent of getting you into trouble. Maybe that’s why you’re not surprised that he asks you to marry him as a joke - or that you agree.''

friends get married all the time- @hobipost♾️

''The silly promise you made ten years ago comes back to bite your asses, and you’re both too weak to pretend it never happened

pairing: seokjin x f. reader

genres/tropes: friends to lovers, fluff

words: 2k+''

Min Yoongi

series:

The Truth Between Us- @jimlingss @gukyi ♾️Ω ☼ ¶

“⇒ summary: a book deal should be the most exciting time of your life, but there seems to be a constant and omnipresent damper on your mood in the form of a certain min yoongi, who you would just cut out from your life, if he weren’t your editor. but then, the world shifts beneath your feet, and you begin to wonder if maybe you’ve always been looking at life from the wrong angle.

⇒ enemies to lovers au with various other au’s thrown in there

⇒ word count: 14k (first chapter)

⇒ genre: fluff, angst, drama”

Dating advice- @taleasnewastime ♾️Ω☻

''Summary: It’s been months – ok, it’s been years – since you last went on a date. And you’re sick of it. Sick of seeing couples kissing and holding hands in the street. Sick of your friends settling down. Sick of everyone buying houses and having families. You’re going to do something about it. You’re going to snap up a man, you’re going to tie someone down, you’re going to finally commit, you’re going to – you’re going to need a bit of advice.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: fluff; angst; smut

Word count: 54k

Status: Complete''

unexpected lovers- @jjkeverlast ♾️Ω☻

''-> pairing artist!yoongi x female reader

-> genre fake dating!au, romantic comedy

-> summary what happens when you meet min yoongi at the club, or well accidentally use him as your pawn to not get hit on. not knowing your cousins friend overhears and suddenly your whole family knows.

-> word count 19.8k''

Only Yesterday- @borathae ♾️☻Ω ¶

'' “Your life in a small countryside village was nothing of the extraordinary, you owned a quaint little teashop, enjoyed warm evenings in your garden and liked taking walks by the river. One day a handsome stranger moves in the abandoned cottage opposite side of the river and it is not long that he becomes a source of comfort in your life.”

Pairing: Yoongi x f.Reader

Genre: s2l!AU, Neighbours!AU, Teashop!AU, Slice of Life!AU, Romance, Fluff, Smut

Warnings: This is a very feel good story, meant to comfort the soul and warm the heart. However it contains talks about car accidents and memory loss, as well as sexually explicit scenes. If you are sensitive to such topics I advise you read with care. 

Wordcount: 78.620''

Signed in Black- @yoon-kooks♾️☻

''Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU, BadBoy!AU, FLUFF, Smut [in future chapters]

Summary: Min Yoongi. That was the name magically tattooed to your skin. You were told he was your lover by fate. And as cute as it would be to have a soulmate, Yoongi was the last person you ever wanted to be bound to. But thankfully, there was a way to remove the tattoo. All you had to do was convince six Bulletproof Fairies that the two of you were in love.

Word Count: 3.3k'' (first chapter)

neon signs- @pantoneyoongi ♾️¶

''title ; neon signs [ drabble series ]  pairing ; campus crush!yoongi x campus crush!you 

description ; namjoon doesn’t think it can get any clearer outside of yoongi building a giant neon sign saying i have the absolute biggest crush on you but apparently, book smarts don’t exactly translate when it comes to you and your massive crush on min yoongi.

(alternatively: namjoon and hoseok try for three years straight to get you and yoongi together.)''

Reflection of You- @agustdakasuga ♾️Ω ¶

''Genre: Historical!AU, Timetraveller!AU/ Different Dimension, Romance

Pairing: SUGA x Reader, Yoongi x Reader

Characters: Normal!Reader, Idol!Suga, King!Yoongi, Guard!Seokjin, Guard!Jungkook, RoyalAdvisor!Namjoon, Servant!Jimin, Servant!Hoseok, Prince!Taehyung

Summary: Confirming you were dating the famous Min Suga of BTS, you knew you were bound to make some enemies. But what you didn’t expect was to be cursed, leading you to meet a cold-hearted, arrogant king that shares the same face as your rapper lover. ''

your universe- @muniimyg ♾️☻Ω ☼

''in which min yoongi refuses to lose you

+ 

regretting rejecting oc, min yoongi goes through a circus load of gestures and tasks in attempt to be loved again

pairings:

basketball captain // tsundere yoongi + sunshine // preschool edu major oc

au/genre:

friends to lovers 

uni au

one sided pining / rejection / redemption / a sad excuse of a slow burn

smut, crack, angst

social media au + written

warnings:

implied + actual smut

angst (oc is heartbroken and trying to move on from being initially rejected)

name calling, love/hate friendships, big egos, overprotective friends, childish social culture, and a burnt out era <;3 

parts:

ongoing ( ongoing/25 )''

andante cantabile- @kkulfm-2 ♾️☻¶

''pairing: myg x f!reader

genre: historical / regency au, fluff, smut

wc: 30.6k + 3.8k smutty bonus

summary: You are convinced Mr. Min is nothing but a rude and gloomy man after he leaves a horrible first impression on you. His friends' attempts to convince you otherwise are met with mixed success.''

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

oneshots:

Man of The Year- @raplinesmoon ♾️¶

''pairing: single dad!Yoongi x gn!reader genre(s): pure fluff, very minor angst au(s): graduation au word count: 2.7k warnings: some swearing, Yoongi is a little nervous, Yoongi is bad at flirting, this is so cute I could cry

rating: PG

summary: For the longest time, it’s always been Yoongi and his daughter, celebrating every milestone of life together. But today, that could change.''

Shut Eye- @alpacaparkaseok ♾️

''pairing/genre: idol!Yoongi x reader, fluff

premise: In a world where every night you meet your soulmate in your dreams only to forget their face and voice when you wake up, you’re now more desperate than ever to find them.

word count: 2.6k''

gold- @aquagustd Ω♾️☻

''↣ you’re in love with Min Yoongi, yes, you are, but why do you keep thinking of the boy who broke your heart into a million pieces when you should be focusing on the one who’s mending it.

pairing: yoongi x reader (past jungkook x reader)

genre: angst, fluff, smut, bff2l

word count: 17K''

stood up. -@parkdatjimin Ω☻♾️

''Three years after dumping your toxic boyfriend, you decide it's finally time to try the dating scene again. What you don't expect is for a handsome and confident CEO to come to your rescue after being stood up.

"Just play along. My name is Yoongi and whoever stood you up is a douche."

Pairings: CEO!yoongi x fem!reader

Genre: HEAVY angst, smut, lil fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, non-idol!au''

First-Date BAIT!- @jimlingss ♾️

''Words: 11.3k

Genre: Fluff

First dates are embarrassing. First dates are awkward. I’ve been through countless ones, sitting across from people who bored the living daylights out of me. It was less exciting than watching paint dry. Some dates were so utterly rude - I think you and I both know what it’s like to be on the receiving end on that. But now we both don’t have to waste our time anymore!

With First Date Bait they went out for me! Afterwards, they informed me if it was recommended to go out on a second date. It’s amazing with a 99.99% accuracy rate! That’s how I ended up meeting my husband!

First Date Bait. Why waste your time with awkward first dates?''

DreamCatcher- @jimlingss ♾️Ω

''Words: 13k (oops)

Genre: Fluff & Angst

Summary: When your dreams are more or less nightmares, monsters inside your head that eat you alive, it seems like the only person who can help you is Min Yoongi, professional dream chaser.''

Purr-haps I like you- @taleasnewastime ♾️

''Summary: You have a no pets policy where you live, but when you find a tiny kitten in a box on the side of the road, what can you do but bring it home with you? The only problem? The landlord who made the no pets rule, also happens to be your flatmate.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: pure fluff; Flatmates au

Word count: 11.6k''

Wild Strawberries- @yoonia ♾️☻

''➤ Character / Genre: Min Yoongi x reader/female OC (told through Yoongi’s POV) | Lucid Dream!au, fluff, smut''

first love- @jungnoir Ω♾️

''⇢ summary:  yoongi meets you, seated next to him at a familiar brown piano, and he steals you away hours before your wedding day, seated next to him at a familiar brown piano + yoongi’s been in love with you since childhood and he only has the courage to tell you when you’re about to marry someone else.

⇢ relationship: min yoongi/reader.

⇢ genre: best friend!au, angst, romance. 

⇢ words: 5.6k''

strike a chord- @snackhobi ♾️☻¶

''pairing: yoongi x reader // word count: 15.8k // genre: smut

summary: your idea of a good night certainly doesn't involve being stood up by yet another blind date and finding yourself alone in a fancy bar; fortunately for you, there's an attractive man playing the piano to keep you busy, instead.''

Anyone But The Groom- @yoonjinkooked ♾️Ω☻

''❅ Summary: After a meet-cute that brings all the romcoms to shame, you realize that for once in your life, the stars have finally aligned and presented you a guy that might be able to make you believe in love at first sight. Only to find out that you’re in charge of planning his Christmas Eve Wedding.

❅ Pairing: Yoongi x female reader

❅ AU: Wedding Planner reader x Arranged Marriage groom Yoongi

❅ Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, will-they-won’t-they type of relationship

❅ Word Count: 36.5k (I AM SO SORRY)''

Not Even a Mouse- @softyoongiionly ♾️☻¶

''Summary:  The week before Christmas, you are tasked with delivering some paperwork to your father’s former business partner in order to secure your ownership of their legendary toy store. However, things don’t go as planned and a sudden blizzard keeps you cooped up inside the tiniest town you’ve ever seen, Snow Falls. You keep telling yourself that it’s the weather that’s keeping you here, but after a visit to Min’s Mini Mart, you aren’t so sure anymore…

Pairing: Single Dad! Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Romance, FLUFF, Smut (18+ only please)''

All I Want for Christmas (ft. Yoongi)- @hayjeon ♾️Ω

''→ singledad, CEO!yoongi x secretary!reader→ 13k words''

ceo!yoongi- @jungshookz ♾️☻☼ ¶

''→ pairing: min yoongi x reader 

→ genre: ceo!au, clumsy!y/n because that’s always nice, jimin is ur best friend, floofy fluff, a touch of nsfw aka office sex

→ wordcount: 21k+ so u should probably read this using ur laptop and not ur phone''

first love | myg- @lavienjin ☻Ω

''synopsis: After an incredibly long day, Yoongi found you crying in the copy room. Though he doesn’t talk much, you’ve always found his presence comforting, and it didn’t surprise you when he stayed and listen to you vent. However, while you sought comfort in his embrace, he proposed a special offer to reduce your stress with the magic of his hands. The only catch to your arrangement? You couldn’t fall in love.

But wouldn’t you know it, just as your friendship deepens into something more, you find an old notebook sitting on his bookshelf, and in it, a collection of poems. The last entry has you reeling because it’s addressed to you. And in that page, a single line is written: Without you, I am nothing

pairing: yoongi x reader

wc: 11.3k

genre/rating/au: 18+ | fwb, coworkers, f2l au | smut, angst

warnings: unprotected sex, fingering, semi public sex, multiple smut scenes, multiple orgasms, oral (m. & f. receiving), masturbation, exhibition, lots of feelings. like a lot of feelings :(''

A Boy Like You | Yoongi- @cinnaminsvga ♾️¶

''→ summary: for whenever you are feeling low, always remember that there is a boy you know who would lift the sky for you.

{or alternatively: Min Yoongi loves you, though he never says it. He’s always been a firm believer in that actions speak louder than any words ever could.}

→ genre: coworker!au, f2l, fluff''

when the stars align- @itskimtaehyung ♾️Ω

''Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: FakeDating!AU with a hint of roommates (well actually more like apartment-mates but roommates is catchier), College!AU, fluff, angst

Word count: 10.5k

Content/Warnings: Mentions of heavy drinking, drug usage, strong language, but also cute things like adopting a dog together

Summary: With cuffing season approaching its end, you thought you had escaped the pressures of finding a boyfriend for the holidays. That is, until your friends set you up on a blind date that goes horribly wrong. This prompts you to enlist the help of your roommate, Yoongi, to fake a relationship so your friends will stop meddling in your love life. And it turns out Yoongi is a lot better at this romance thing than you originally thought…''

p.o.v | myg- @jtrbluv ♾️Ω

''summary: you were eight when you first met your soulmate. then you were eighteen when you realized that the boy who just got hired at the local record store next door, is also your soulmate. the issue at hand: you are the only one that knows.

pairing: yoongi x reader (fem)

genre: fluff, angst, soulmate!au, redstringoffate!au, college!au, high school!au

word count: 17.9k''

Yoongi is a Rock- @yoongsisbae ♾️Ω ¶

''rock!Yoongi x reader :D fluff a bit of angst a lot of silliness

Word Count 1.3k''

android!yoongi- @jungshookz♾️Ω☻☼ ¶

''→ pairing: min yoongi x reader

→ genre: android!au becauSe for some reason android aus are popping up everywhere, the usual heaping serving of fluff and comedy, N S F W like reALLY nsfw i poPPED OFF this time i don’t know even know what happened,,, forgive me god for i have sinned, a n g s t, i definitely teared up a little writing this because i was listening to kim bum soo’s i miss you and it made me 100x more emo

→ trigger warnings: this does get a little intense! beware!! 

→ wordcount: 24k like that bruno mars song''

you’re so concerned about the ending that you don’t even know the plot- @joonsgalaxy ♾️☼

''° yoongi x reader x taehyung

° 1.9 k words ° fluff/humour

🌟 you bring your broken laptop to Tae—the IT specialist—who you have a crush on. you drag your bff Yoongi along with you, who—you’re certain—has a crush on Tae too. what a mess, right? well, the thing is, you never even considered the possibility of your assumptions being totally wrong.''

better place- @cupofteaguk ♾️

''summary: you might be in love with childhood best friend Min Yoongi, and he might be in love with you—and everyone seems to know it. except for the two of you.

pairing: yoongi x fem!reader

genre: hogwarts au, friends to lovers au | fluff

warnings: slow burn, alcohol consumption, truly lowkey an idiots to lovers au word count: 14k''

something to hold on to- @fantasybangtan ♾️Ω ¶

''❦ word count. 17.7k ❦ genre. parent fic, fluff, angst, a bit of boob action ❦ warnings. illness, mention of hospitalisation, mention of minor character death, yoongi is kind of a dick sometimes, accidental(?) flashing ❦ summary. it’s not that you don’t like your job. on the contrary, reading bedtime stories to a certified little princess is something you still can’t believe you get paid to do. it’s just that between all the school runs, snow days and secret second hot chocolates before bed, you may fallen a little too hard for those dimpled cheeks and gummy smiles…. worse still, you’ve fallen for her father too.''

the proposal- @dreamescapeswriting ♾️Ω☻

''WORD COUNT: 35K (No its not missing a decimal point)

PAIRING: CEO!Yoongi x Assistant!Reader

GENRE: Smut, enemies to lovers, CEO x Assistant, fake marriage, angst, movie inspired, slow burn''

basketballcaptain!yoongi- @jungshookz ♾️☻☼ ¶

''→ pairing: min yoongi x reader

→ genre: basketball captain x water girl, cheesy cheesy stuff, the FLUFFIEST fluff, jungoo is an idiot, humour, nSFW = smut, cocky yoongi, spoiler alert yoongi does a body shot off of u it just be like that sometimes

→ wordcount: 18.4k this will definitely make the app crash as per usual don’t come for me''

Hug-o-gram- @cinnaminsvga ♾️☼ ¶

''→ summary: 

“This is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Yoongi hisses, but it’s kind of hard for Seokjin to take him seriously when he’s wearing a cardboard sign around his neck that says ‘Huggie Wuggie Machine!’ in bubble font. 

“Like, even worse than when we DIY’d your car into a convertible by sawing the top off?” Seokjin asks, genuinely curious. 

“Worse,” Yoongi admits, trying his best to stay out of your line of sight. His cheeks redden, matching the gaudy pink kitten ears he was forced into wearing.

{or alternatively: Seokjin is a terrible wingman. He also runs a profitable business by sending hugs to people’s crushes for a fee. Mix them together and you have a recipe for Min Yoongi’s worst nightmare.}

→ genre: college!au, hugging booth!au,fluff, humor → warnings: yoongi is so smitten that he’s a walking disaster, so much shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to scream, seokjin just tryna get his homie some y/n love coochie bro ;o; → words: 13.3K''

I Wanna Hold Your Hand- @minisugakoobies ♾️

''Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Genre: friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, Roommates!AU

Rating: T

Warnings: pining, a lil’ smooching, Yoongi is very persuasive, reader is easily duped, it’s as fluffy as freshly fallen snow

Word Count: 1.4K

Disclaimers: None, other than obviously I don’t own BTS - they simply inspire me

Summary: It’s hand-holding season, according to your roommate.''

subtle- @joonary ♾️Ω

''↳ summary: just another memory added to the long list of drunk memories that you’ll forget but wish you’d remember, while yoongi will remember but wish he could forget. 

↳ genre: fluff; light angst; friends (?) to lovers (?); min yoongi x reader

↳ rating: pg-13

↳ warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, and yoongi’s soft spots being exposed to the light of day. yknow, just another joonary fic.

↳ word count: 3.5k''

Hobi's Girl- @jjungkookislife Ω☻

''↬ pairing: f. reader x Hoseok, f. reader x Yoongi

↬ genre: smut [18+], angst

↬ summary: Yoongi had a wonderful night with you… but you’re Hobi’s girl.

↬ wc: 4.8k''

The King Isn’t Dead- @another-army-spot ♾️Ω☻

''Pairing: Yoongi x oc (fem)

Rating:  M

Word: 19.7k~ (my finger slipped?)

Genre:  historical fic, smut, romance, fluff, angst, political upheaval shit

Summary:  After the invasion and the King’s miraculous survival, the nation aims to secure stability and his position of power through the prospect of marriage and continuing the Min line.  As a promise to your brother on the battlefield, the King promises to consider you as his potential wife - to love and to protect.  Or maybe it’ll be the other way around?''

the landlord- @ppersonna ☻

''↳ summary- your air conditioner breaks right at the height of a recordbreaking heat wave.  good thing your hot landlord, yoongi, knows how to attend to any needs you may have.

↳ rating- explicit / 18+

↳ word count- 4.3k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- smut, light crack, PWP''

CYBERSEX- @gimmethatagustd ♾️☻☼

''The whole point of being a phone sex hotline operator is that you’ll never have to meet your clients. So what are you supposed to do when you find out your favorite client is your brother’s best friend? 

» pairing: yoongi x fem!reader 

» wc/date: 14.6k | July 2022

» genre: BTS | 18+ | brother’s best friend | smut | fluff | humor

» warnings: alcohol | blowjob | car sex | creampie | dirty talk | fingering | masturbation | pet names | phone sex | pussy slapping | sex work | unprotected vaginal sex''

Jung Hoseok

hot rod- @kinktae ♾️☻

''a 1950′s inspired fic where greaser Hoseok can’t keep his eyes, or hands, off the new waitress at his and his boys’ favorite diner.

pairing: greaser!hoseok x reader

word count: 10k

genre: 1950s au, smut, fluff''

Kim Namjoon

The Bodyguard- @rmnamjoons ♾️☻Ω

''➳ summary: You’re the daughter of the ambassador to a small, peaceful, barely-on-the-map country in Western Europe, working as a diplomat to help your mother with her endless meetings and politics. After a kidnapping attempt gone wrong, you and your protective bodyguard Namjoon are on the run across Europe, jumping from trains, stealing cars, and pretending to be a couple on your honeymoon to stay hidden. As the would-be kidnappers close in, Namjoon promises you that he’s going to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

➳ pairing: bodyguard!Namjoon x reader

➳ genre: bodyguard au, romance, smut, fake dating/fake marriage, road trip (kinda), very slight angst

➳ word count: 62.9k – this is a complete, VERY long oneshot''

Show Me How- @imaginationofacrazyfangirl ☻ ¶

''Summary:You swiped right on a nerd, instead you got a Greek God. Or tired of your virginity, you decide to throw caution to the wind and find a hook up on tinder.

— PAIRING: Namjoon x f!reader

— GENRE: smut. 18+ minors dni.''

I'll continue in a pt.2

(tumblr doesn't let me write more lmao)

[igwb]

First Love.

“though we are putting an end to our relationship, dont ever feel sorry to me, i will get to meet you again no matter what form, greet me happily then”

pairing: min yoongi x reader (pianoteacher!yg x pianist!oc)

genre: strangers to friends to lovers (?), angst + fluff

summary: for as long as you can remember, the piano has been your entire world. music runs through your veins, but what happens when you start to feel like you’re losing that passion? in the midst of your uncertainty, the only source of hope comes from a stranger—min yoongi, a musician who shares the same deep connection to music, and might just help you find your way back.

word count: 21K (one shot)

warnings: angst, anxiety, self-degrading, fear of losing a passion, age gap! (yoongi is 29 and oc is 22), music talk, min yoongi is a sweetheart ♡, no explicit romance, open-ending

It was almost laughable how you ended up here in the first place. The morning had already started on the wrong foot—you had one of the most important performances of the year ahead of you, and your piano teacher had made it painfully clear that you weren’t ready.

Deep down, you know she was right. And yet, you had to play.

And she was right. You weren’t ready—not because you didn’t know which keys to press, or how to press them, or at what speed. You had all of that down. But for people like Ms. Kim—and for you—that was never enough. The audience was captivated, their applause enthusiastic, but the moment your eyes met hers, you knew.

It wasn’t good enough.

She didn’t hold back. She told you that even a three-year-old could play with more feeling than you. And after throwing that in your face, she made it clear—she never wanted to see you in her conservatory again.

And that’s how you ended up here, at this university, with a teacher said to be the best around.

The only piano in the classroom stands alone, its dark wood worn from years of use, a small but sturdy instrument that carries the weight of time. It looks old, yet when its notes fill the air, the sound is anything but dull—it’s rich, full of life, resonating through the quiet space like a secret being whispered to those who care to listen.

Your gaze shifts from the instrument to the figure seated before it. His back is straight, posture effortless yet disciplined, the kind that comes from years of practice rather than conscious thought. His hands move over the keys with a quiet reverence, fingertips barely pressing yet commanding the sound with a grace that speaks of deep familiarity.

You can’t see his face, only the slight tilt of his head as he listens to the notes, adjusting ever so slightly, lost in the music. But even without seeing his expression, you can tell—whoever he is, he’s great. Not just technically skilled, but something beyond that. There’s emotion in the way he plays, something personal.

And suddenly, you find yourself unable to look away.

For a moment, you feel like you don’t belong there—like you’ve stumbled upon something too intimate to interrupt. The music seeps into your skin, quieting the restless thoughts in your mind, and you almost want to stay in this moment forever, unnoticed, just listening.

But then, without warning, the music stops.

His fingers still on the keys, a breath of silence stretching between the last note and reality. He turns his head slightly, eyes meeting yours from across the room.

And just like that, the calm shatters.

All the thoughts that had momentarily faded—the uncertainty, the hesitation, the weight pressing on your chest—come rushing back, crashing over you in full force. You shift under his gaze, suddenly aware of your presence, of the way your hands feel too stiff at your sides, of the way your heartbeat stumbles against your ribs.

Without a hint of discomfort or hesitation, he smiles at you—a soft, knowing smile. It doesn’t quite reach his cat-like eyes, hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses, but it’s there nonetheless. A quiet acknowledgment. An invitation rather than an intrusion.

There’s no irritation in his gaze, no sign that your presence is unwelcome.

“Hello?” you said hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your eyes wander around the music room, taking in every detail—anything to avoid meeting the gaze of another musician. Ms. Kim’s words were still too fresh, echoing in your mind like a melody you couldn’t shake.

The pianist watched you carefully, his gaze steady yet unreadable, while you did everything in your power to avoid meeting it. Instead, you focused on the details of the room—how everything was perfectly arranged, the simple monochrome décor giving it an air of quiet serenity. It felt calm. Simple.

So different from the practice rooms back at the conservatory, where the ceilings stretched impossibly high, like something you could never quite reach no matter how hard you tried. Even the air here felt different—lighter, easier to breathe. There was no weight pressing down on your shoulders, no invisible expectation suffocating you. Just the sound of the piano lingering in the silence between you.

His body was angled toward you as he remained seated on the bench, not even bothering to stand. Yet, his warm smile—quiet and unforced—spoke volumes of acknowledgment. That simple gesture was enough to bridge the silence between you both. After a brief pause, he finally spoke; his voice was deep and calm, each word measured and deliberate, as if carefully calculated to convey exactly what he meant.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” he asked gently, his gaze drifting over your face with quiet curiosity, as if he were reading you like an open book. And perhaps he could. Your body language betrayed you—stiff shoulders, fingers nervously gripping the strap of your bag, eyes darting between him and the piano.

You knew you looked hesitant, maybe even out of place. Scared. Ashamed. And yet, there was no judgment in his tone, only patience.

Your fingers absentmindedly reached for the bow in your hair, a small anchor in the whirlwind of doubt still lingering from this morning. It was barely hanging on—much like you.

The outfit from your disastrous performance was still clinging to your body, stiff and suffocating. The black skirt that once felt elegant now felt like a weight dragging you down. The crisp white shirt, the neatly buttoned cardigan—once symbols of discipline and refinement—now felt like a cruel reminder of everything that had slipped through your fingers. Here, in this university, in this modest, sunlit room, your attire felt out of place. Too formal. Too extravagant. Too much of what you used to be.

“I want to take piano lessons,” you finally said, the words escaping in a quiet breath. They felt heavier than they should, settling between the two of you like something unspoken, something deeper.

He nodded like he knew. Like he could see the weight pressing down on your shoulders, the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly at your sides. Like he understood—without you having to say it—just how hard you had fought, how many years you had spent chasing a dream that always slipped away the moment it grazed your fingertips. Again and again.

Then, he finally stood up.

Without the piano behind him, he looked different. Less like the formidable musician Ms. Kim had spoken about in hushed, almost regretful tones—“a talent wasted,” she had once said—and more like an ordinary teacher. Just a man, standing in front of you, waiting. There was something almost comforting about that.

In a deep, soft tone, he asks if you’ve played the piano before—as if urging you to reveal the truth. He seems to expect an honest confession: that you’ve been playing for as long as you can remember, that you once honed your skills at a prestigious conservatory before being cast aside as if you weren’t enough. Admitting that truth—after nearly twenty years of pouring your life into the piano—would feel unbearably humiliating.

So, you chose to lie. You downplayed the instrument’s role in your life, as though the piano had never truly occupied your thoughts or your heart with unwavering consistency.

“I played a long time ago,” you say flatly, the lie slipping from your lips without even a flicker of hesitation, masking the depths of your true, unspoken history.

He watched you carefully, his dark eyes unwavering, like he could pick apart the truth from the spaces between your words. Maybe he could. Maybe he already knew you were lying.

But if he did, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he hummed, a deep sound in the back of his throat, considering your words as if they were a puzzle he was willing to piece together himself. “A long time ago,” he repeated softly, his voice neither questioning nor doubtful. Just accepting.

The musician himself wasn’t unfamiliar with this world—you didn’t need to tell him to make him see it. He knew the weight of those formal, dark outfits, the kind meant to impress and intimidate all at once. He recognized the elegance in the way you carried yourself, in the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly, like they were drawn to the piano behind him against your own will. That kind of muscle memory wasn’t born from casual practice.

He knew. A long time ago wasn’t the truth. Not entirely.

Before your eyes could linger any longer on the piano behind him, betraying your words and the unbearable urge to sit down and play, you forced your gaze to focus on him. He was already watching you intently, his deep eyes seeming to read the turmoil within you.

“I heard you were one of the best teachers in town,” you admitted, your voice careful and measured.

Ms. Kim herself had once spoken of him with rare admiration, praising his skill and dedication. Now, here you were, hoping he could teach you something she believed you would never grasp.

His expression shifted subtly, betraying a flicker of emotion beyond the calm demeanor he had maintained. His brows furrowed slightly, as if questioning his own abilities. Min Yoongi was well aware of his talent; he had been born with a gift for music, effortlessly weaving notes together to create melodies that resonated deeply. Yet, the recognition of his skill had waned over time, especially after he chose a path that led him away from the grand stages he once aspired to conquer.

Leaving the conservatory to embrace a humble teaching role was a decision that garnered respect but also subjected him to the judgments of others. The world often measured success by fame and grandeur, and by those standards, his choice might have seemed like a step back. However, in his heart, he knew it was the right path—a path that allowed him to share his passion and knowledge with others, even if it meant sacrificing personal acclaim.

His face softened into a proud grin, clearly appreciative of your words, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Glancing at his watch, he informed you that other students would be arriving soon and suggested you take a seat. Choosing a spot not too far from the piano yet angled so you wouldn’t have to face it directly, you hoped another student might sit closer, obscuring the instrument that stirred such turmoil within you.

As you gracefully lowered yourself into the seat, the years of disciplined practice evident in your poised movements, Mr. Min’s gaze lingered on you, his curiosity piqued. There was an intriguing blend of confidence and underlying nervousness in your demeanor—a subtle contradiction that didn’t escape his notice.

Your eyes, almost instinctively, reached toward the piano behind him, betraying your composed exterior and revealing a deep-seated connection to the instrument. Yet, your eyes told a different story. They shimmered not with the eagerness to learn, but with a silent plea to let your guard down, to allow yourself the vulnerability of emotion.

As other students began to fill the room, their voices creating a gentle hum, Mr. Min turned his attention back to the piano. His fingers brushed over the keys lightly, the familiar touch grounding him as he prepared for the session ahead.

As Mr. Min’s fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, it became immediately evident why Ms. Kim held him in such high regard. His playing was a masterful blend of softness and power, gentleness and sharpness—a delicate balance that showcased both his technical prowess and deep emotional connection to the music.

His unwavering focus on the keys, eyes wide open as if peering beyond them, contrasted sharply with your own approach. You often closed your eyes while playing, seeking refuge from external distractions and allowing the music to guide you inward.

Mr. Min’s fingers continued to dance across the keys with the same fluidity and grace, each note falling into place like a carefully crafted sentence. But as the music swirled around the room, his attention remained anchored on you. While the others were rapt, completely consumed by the performance, you stood out.

He could see the way your eyes drifted from the piano to the space around you, the way your gaze seemed to wander into something deeper, as if you were lost in a world of your own thoughts. It wasn’t disinterest, though—it was something else, something he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in your expression, the subtle tension in your body, like you were holding something back.

He found himself intrigued. What was it that made you seem so distant, even when the music flowed around you? He had an inkling that the music wasn’t just an escape for you, but rather a confrontation—a challenge you weren’t ready to face. And that made him wonder: who were you when you weren’t in front of the piano? What did the music mean to you when it wasn’t the thing that defined you?

As the last note lingered in the air, Mr. Min’s fingers finally came to a slow, deliberate stop.

When he finished playing, the room filled with applause, but he quickly waved it off with a soft laugh, his cheeks flushing slightly as though he was unaccustomed to such attention. It was clear he didn’t want to linger in the spotlight for too long. To shift the focus, he began explaining concepts that you were sure you had mastered long ago—fundamental techniques that felt almost too simple to be revisited.

The room was filled with beginners, judging by the hesitant and awkward way they approached the exercises. Their uncertainty was evident, and in that moment, you felt painfully out of place. Just that morning, you had been on a prestigious stage, performing before a captivated audience. Now, you sat in a classroom full of students who were just beginning their journey.

Your talent, though impressive—at least, it had been—for this room, but it still wasn’t enough for there. It was a strange and humbling contrast, the gap between where you were and where you wanted to be, painfully obvious in that moment.

The urge to run, to leave it all behind, gnawed at you. But you couldn’t walk away from the piano—not now, not after everything. It had been your constant companion, the one thing you had known your entire life. And yet, the pull to reach for the piano in front of you, so close to Mr. Min, was undeniable. Your fingers ached to play, to express something, anything, to release the pressure building inside you. But you couldn’t move. You were paralyzed, torn between the desire to escape and the need to prove something—to yourself, perhaps—to stay and face the silence that demanded so much.

His question snapped you back to the present. He asked if anyone recognized the piece, and without hesitation, your hand shot up. If Ms. Kim had ever doubted your abilities, she couldn’t ignore the depth of your knowledge when it came to music and its composers. You may have faltered during your performance, but here, in the realm of theory and history, you still had a solid grasp. It was one constant in a world full of uncertainties.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, by Ryuichi Sakamoto,” you said, your voice unwavering. The title flowed easily from your lips, as though it had always been there, embedded in your memory. For a brief moment, you felt a surge of confidence—a reminder that despite everything, you still knew what you were talking about.

Music was where you still had control. While your hands might have faltered on the keys earlier, the knowledge you held about music, the composers, the intricacies of each piece—it was still yours. It was still part of you.

His eyes widened when he heard the answer—said so confidently. But as he looked toward where the voice had come from, he knew. You weren’t just throwing out a random title; you were speaking with a sense of relief, something that you genuinely understood. It was clear this was something you could hold onto.

“Correct,” he nodded, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You clearly know Ryuichi Sakamoto’s work well.”

You simply nodded, your expression carefully neutral. You didn’t trust your own words at the moment, afraid that if you spoke, something raw would slip out—something you weren’t ready to share. You didn’t want to admit that Ryuichi Sakamoto had been the first composer to make you cry when you were only eight years old. That memory was too intimate, too vulnerable to expose, especially in front of a room full of strangers and under the scrutinizing gaze of someone like Mr. Min.

He didn’t press you further, recognizing the way you had withdrawn into yourself after that brief moment. His gaze lingered for a moment, analyzing your quiet shift, but he understood that some questions, no matter how much he wanted to ask, might never have an answer.

The rest of the class continued as it had before, students asking questions, working through exercises, and Mr. Min offering thoughtful advice and gentle guidance. But you remained in your seat, an observer more than a participant. The urge to step forward, to show them the finer details, to share your knowledge and help them improve, pulsed within you. Yet, you stayed still. It wasn’t your place—not here, not now. You were here because you hadn’t lived up to the expectations of the broader music world, and that bitter reality weighed heavily on your chest.

As you packed up your things and began walking toward the door, your movements were automatic, like you were on autopilot. You didn’t look back at Mr. Min, avoiding the weight of the moment that lingered in the room. The soft click of the door behind you was like the sound of another chapter closing, though you didn’t feel like you had finished reading it yet.

You wandered aimlessly, your feet carrying you down the hallway until you found yourself in the university theater. It was almost unrecognizable compared to the grandeur of the place you had performed in earlier that day. The theater here was modest, a far cry from the polished, high-end venue you once felt so comfortable in. The piano on stage was small, worn, and simple—nothing like the sleek, dark grand pianos that had been the backdrop of your dreams. It felt like a strange irony that the only piano you were now allowed to play was the one that symbolized everything you’d lost.

It was almost too easy to think that this was what you deserved—this humble, forgotten place, with its empty seats and quiet walls. It felt like a reminder of how far you had fallen from the dream you once chased so tirelessly, and how far you still had to go to climb back to something resembling the life you had once hoped for.

Your fingers, however, had a mind of their own. As you sat down on the worn bench in front of the humble piano, your hands found the familiar keys of Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence without you even realizing it. It was as if the piece had woven itself into your soul, impossible to shake off no matter how hard you tried. Each note was a soft lament, a reflection of the struggle that was still so fresh in your heart. You didn’t know why you played it, but in that moment, it felt like the only thing that could anchor you amidst everything that was swirling around you.

The world around you faded as the music took over, each note soothing the chaos inside your mind. The piano became your refuge, your sanctuary from everything that had been weighing you down. You let the melody flow, losing track of time, your fingers dancing across the keys as if they were telling a story you had yet to understand.

You didn’t notice the quiet presence in the doorway, the way Mr. Min had slipped in, drawn to the sound of a familiar melody echoing through the empty theater. His gaze was fixed on you, taking in the way your body seemed to meld with the music, how your hands moved with such natural grace. He stood there, unnoticed, allowing you to remain lost in the moment.But even as you played, there was a quiet awareness that kept you from fully surrendering.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew that if you opened your eyes and saw him watching, everything would come crashing down. The raw vulnerability you allowed yourself to show in your music would suddenly feel exposed, like standing in front of a mirror with nothing left to hide. And that thought, the idea of facing him with all your broken pieces laid bare, was almost too much to bear. So you kept playing, hoping the music could shield you from the reality waiting outside of it.

The final note hung in the air, weighted with an intensity you hadn’t meant to create, and you lingered on it longer than expected. As the sound faded, doubts crept in, unraveling the calm the music had offered you. Restlessness overtook you, and you struck the keys again and again, each press more urgent than the last, until all that filled the room was a harsh, discordant noise that reverberated through the stillness. It was as if the turmoil inside your mind had escaped through your hands, refusing to be quieted.

Frustration bubbled up, and without thinking, your eyes snapped open, locking onto the keys in front of you. In a burst of anger, you slammed both hands down on the piano, the sound violent and chaotic, letting all the pent-up emotions spill out in a frantic explosion. You held the notes for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before slowly releasing them, sinking back into a heavy, oppressive silence.

For a brief moment, the urge to destroy it all was still there, but it dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving you feeling exposed. You couldn’t bring yourself to play again, not after that. Not after what had just spilled out of you. The music, which had once been a refuge, now felt like an unbearable reminder of everything you couldn’t fix, everything you couldn’t control.

In the distance, you could feel Mr. Min’s presence, a weight in the room that made the silence feel even more oppressive. You didn’t have to look to know he was still there, watching, waiting for you to either rise or break. But you didn’t want to face him. Not now. Not after what had just happened.

Instead, you let your hands rest on the keys, unmoving, your fingers pressing lightly against the worn ivory. The softest sound, the faintest breath of music, came from the piano—a gentle reminder of the way things once were, when the instrument had been your ally, not your battleground. And you stayed there, caught in the silence, wondering if you’d ever find your way back to the peace the music used to give you.

Mr. Min stood in the doorway, frozen, caught between admiration and worry. The way you played had been nothing short of breathtaking—so smooth. But then, without warning, it all shattered into chaos. The dissonant chords, sharp and relentless, filled the space like a violent storm. It was as if you were battling your own emotions, a war within you where the music was both the weapon and the victim.

When you slammed your hands down on the keys, the sound stung him. It was jarring, furious—like a scream left unheard. He could feel the weight of everything you were trying to express but couldn’t find the words for. The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or to give you the space you clearly needed.

His voice cut through the silence, pulling you back from the whirlwind of your emotions. The sound of it, gentle yet commanding, made the warmth of the music and the anger melt away, leaving behind the sharp sting of humiliation. You hadn’t meant for it to spiral like that, but now, as his presence loomed in the room, it felt as though you had been caught in a fragile moment, raw and unguarded, with no way to hide from what you had just unleashed.

As he made his way to the stage, the shift in your demeanor was immediate. The fire of anger that had flared up moments before seemed to dissipate, replaced by a deep sense of shame that washed over you. The music, your outburst, everything felt too raw now, too exposed.

He approached the piano but kept a respectful distance, his movements careful and measured, almost as though he understood how fragile this moment was. His gaze softened as it settled on you, aware of the dark thoughts you were lost in.

“That was quite a performance,” he said, his voice gentle, “for someone who quit piano a long time ago.” He added the words with a light chuckle, but there was no judgment in his tone—only a quiet understanding. It wasn’t a reprimand for your lie; rather, it felt like an acknowledgment of the depth you carried, something he could see beneath your carefully constructed façade.

You let out a scoff, frustration bubbling up inside you again, but still, you didn’t leave. Your body felt stuck, anchored in place by something you couldn’t quite name. Your fingers, seemingly on their own, drifted to the piano, pressing the keys softly, like they were searching for something to hold onto. Each note was a tentative attempt to take back control, but the weight of the moment—of your own thoughts—kept pulling you deeper into a tangled mess.

Finally, you spoke, the words tumbling out as if they had been waiting to be freed.

“I lied,” you murmured, the admission quiet but heavy, like a burden you could no longer carry. He could’ve answered, could’ve told you that he knew the moment you walked into the room, that your eyes gave away more than your words ever could. But he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence stretch between you, acknowledging the weight of what you had just admitted without needing to say it aloud.

You hesitated, then, the truth finally spilling out as you whispered it into the silence.

“I never stopped playing piano. It’s been twenty years since I first touched the keys.”

Mr. Min’s face stayed calm, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes at the unexpected confession. He hadn’t anticipated you’d reveal so much, but perhaps this was the moment you were finally ready to open up—and he was ready to listen.

“So, why the lie?” he asked softly, his tone gentle. He could sense there was more beneath the surface, a reason behind your guardedness, the conflict in your words. He needed to understand.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a weight you had been carrying for so long finally finding its release.

“My teacher told me I was bad and that I should quit,” you said, the confession hanging in the air like a stone. You didn’t mention how, since joining the conservatory, every step felt like a competition, where your passion for the music was overshadowed by the constant comparisons to others. How the mentor you had once looked up to always made you feel like you weren’t good enough. If she couldn’t believe in you, how could you believe in yourself?

The beautiful walls, the polished floors, the golden moldings—all of it, so ornate and perfect, but they had slowly stolen your passion. Without realizing it, the grandeur of it all had crushed your love for the music, squeezing it between the layers of perfection and expectation.

The shame that had been buried deep within you for so long began to surface, raw and uncomfortable. The sting of those words, the rejection, still hurt—saying them out loud now felt like finally acknowledging an unspoken truth that had been kept in the dark for too long.

“I was ashamed of that, after playing piano my whole life,” you admitted, your voice quivering slightly. “So I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t a beginner. Because I feel like I am.”

The vulnerability in your voice caught you off guard. For a moment, you felt exposed—like the walls you had spent years building were falling down. The truth was out, and there was no running from it anymore.

Mr. Min’s gaze remained steady, his eyes not leaving yours as you spoke. He could hear the weight of your words, the burden of what you’d carried for so long. He knew well how one harsh judgment could bury the brightest spark, suffocating it with doubt and fear.

He understood how easily passion could be crushed under the weight of someone else’s expectations, someone else’s words.

“One person’s opinion doesn’t define you,” he said softly, his voice reassuring but firm. He took a slow step forward, his presence steady and grounded.

“You’re not bad. I heard you play. You have talent—real talent. It’s a gift you should never hide.”

“She called me a rock, said I play with my head, not my heart,” you murmured, the bite of her words still stinging. The memory of Ms. Kim’s harsh judgment lingered, a shadow over your thoughts.

“But I know what I feel inside,” you continued, your voice steady but soft. “I just can’t figure out how to show it.” The confession felt raw, something you’d been holding back for far too long.

Mr. Min listened intently, his expression softening as you spoke. He could feel the depth of your frustration, the way you had been carrying those words with you, the weight of someone else’s judgment that had slowly built a wall around your music.

He took a deep breath, considering his next words carefully.

“It’s not about playing with your heart or head. It’s about finding a balance,” he said, his voice gentle but steady. “You can feel the music, but you also need to let go of the fear of how it’s supposed to sound. You don’t have to force it or make it perfect. Just let it flow, and let yourself be part of it. Your music, your emotions—just let them be one.”

He paused, his gaze meeting yours, as if trying to convey everything he had learned over the years with just that look.

“Let go,” he whispered softly, his gaze steady on you. “Stop trying to control everything. Let yourself feel. Let the music take over. Trust your instincts.”

You had heard this before—Ms. Kim’s words, though delivered more sharply. The message was the same, but you couldn’t bring yourself to follow it. No matter how hard you tried, the link between your emotions and the music felt impossible to reach. The pressure, the expectations—they were like a heavy weight, pushing you further from the connection you desperately sought.

“It’s scary,” you confessed quietly, the rawness of your vulnerability settling in the silence.

Mr. Min’s expression softened as he watched you, his eyes reflecting a quiet understanding. He could feel the weight of your fear and anxiety, the kind of barrier that he, too, had struggled with in the past. He could almost see himself in your struggle, driven by the same anger, unable to let anything else in.

“I know it is,” he said softly, his tone warm and steady. “It’s terrifying to let your emotions show, to trust the music to carry what you’re feeling. But the piano doesn’t judge you. It’s here to help you.”

He took a step closer, his presence gentle yet steady. “Sometimes, the most beautiful music comes from the most vulnerable places.”

Mr. Min’s passion for music was undeniable. It wasn’t just in the way he played, but in the way he spoke about it—how his eyes seemed to light up whenever he discussed a piece or a feeling. It came so naturally to him, the connection between heart and instrument, and it was hard not to admire that effortless bond. Watching him, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever feel that same depth of understanding, that same fluid connection.

“What if I’m just not cut out for this?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet and almost fearful. The doubt that had been building inside you for some time now felt too heavy to carry any longer. “I keep fighting for something that maybe I’m just not meant for.”

“Asking yourself if you’re made for it shows you are,” he said softly but with conviction, a subtle determination in his voice. “There’s no such thing as not being made for music. And even if there were, I don’t see it in you. You have something special. You just need to find a way to reach it.”

“I’m scared that one day I just won’t love music like I did,” you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with the weight of the admission. Music had always been your anchor, the one thing that made everything feel right. But now, the fear crept in—what if that love faded? What if one day, it all just slipped away, leaving you with only the echo of a distant memory? The thought of losing that connection, that passion, gripped you in a way nothing else could.

“I’m already falling out of love with it,” you murmured, the words tasting like a betrayal. It was a truth you’d buried deep inside, one you hadn’t wanted to face. But now it was out there, undeniable and raw.

Your eyes finally met his, wide and vulnerable, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. The tears that had been on the verge of falling held back for now, but the hope that lingered in them was undeniable. Without thinking, you spoke from your heart, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Make me love it again, please. I need your help.” The plea was quiet but desperate, fragile yet genuine, as if you were reaching out for something—anything—that could bring back the music you once knew so well.

Mr. Min’s heart tightened at the raw honesty in your voice, and he could feel the weight of your plea. He knew the pain you were carrying, the fear of losing something that had always been a part of you. His gaze was unwavering, full of quiet intensity, but his expression softened as he spoke.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with an unspoken promise. “I’ll help you rediscover that love for music. I’ll guide you through it. But you have to trust me.”

His words hung in the air, both an invitation and a challenge, as if offering you the chance to find your way back to something that had always been yours, waiting to be found again.

Your gaze remained fixed on his face, searching for something—an answer, a sign, anything. There was a certainty about him, a quiet confidence that you had never known. And yet, you couldn’t fully understand why you were turning to him for help. You didn’t know him. Before this moment, he had been nothing more than a name, a fleeting mention from other pianists. You had never cared to listen to his work, too consumed by Ms. Kim’s world.

To you, she had always been the best—the only mentor, the only guide you needed. The path she had shown you had seemed like the only way forward.

At least, that’s what you had believed all this time.

“I want to prove her wrong,” you said, the words coming out with more conviction than you expected. You didn’t need to explain who she was—you were certain he would understand.

“I need to show her that I was meant for this,” you added, gripping the edge of the piano bench as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “Music is the only thing I’ve ever truly known.”

The words felt like both an admission and a plea. It wasn’t just about proving her wrong—it was about proving something to yourself. That all those years hadn’t been in vain. That you were as deserving of music as anyone else.

He could already feel it—this pull toward you, the inexplicable urge to help you reclaim what had been taken. To prove your former teacher wrong. To bring back the love for music that had once shone so brightly in your eyes. It wasn’t just about technique or talent; it was about something deeper, something that had been buried under years of doubt and criticism.

His hand found the edge of the piano, just inches from yours, a quiet gesture of support.

“Then we’ll show her,” he said, his voice steady, carrying a quiet conviction. “We’ll show her that you were always meant for this. That music belongs to you just as much as you belong to it.”

You smiled at him, quiet yet resolute, a newfound determination settling within you. You didn’t know why it had to be Min Yoongi—why, out of all people, he was the one you wanted to guide you back to music. Maybe it was the way he played, the way every note seemed to carry emotion so effortlessly. Maybe it was how, even in the short time you had known him, his words had stirred something in you. Or maybe it was simply because, despite everything, you trusted him.

Because underneath all the doubt and fear, there was one truth you couldn’t deny—you shared the same unshakable love for music. And maybe, just maybe, he could help you find your way back to it.

Mr. Min loved teaching. He loved the way his students’ eyes lit up when they pressed a key and it rang out just right, the quiet but persistent determination they carried when they finally mastered a piece. That was why he loved music—not just for the sound, not just for the technique, but because it was meant to be shared. A language that could reach people in ways words never could.

But in his five years of teaching and twenty-four years of playing, he had never encountered someone quite like you. Never had he met a musician who had spent their whole life devoted to music, only to wake up one day and feel as though it was slipping away. Someone who wasn’t a beginner, but who had lost something far more important than skill—their passion.

It unsettled him, the thought of it. He had never imagined a life where music didn’t feel like home. How could something so deeply ingrained in a person suddenly feel so distant? How could music—the one thing that had always been his anchor—become a stranger to someone who had once breathed it as deeply as he did?

But he was ready to take on the challenge. Because if it were him—if he ever lost music—he wasn’t sure he would survive it.

And perhaps that was what truly made a musician great—not just skill, not just talent, but the ability to pass on that love, to spark something in another person. To make them feel music the way he did.

For the first time, Mr. Min wasn’t just teaching someone how to play.

He was teaching someone how to love music again.

For the first time in a long while, he felt challenged. Not by the music itself, but by you—the girl sitting before him, struggling to find herself again.

He took a quiet breath, steadying himself before speaking. His voice was soft, patient, but unwavering.

“So… we start from here. From the very beginning. From what you do feel when you play.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, the sound lighter than anything you had felt all day—maybe even since the moment piano became more than just a hobby. Since the first time you stepped onto the stage of that grand theater, carrying the weight of expectations, the relentless need to prove yourself.

But now, for the first time in a long while, you felt something close to relief. Like maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to the reason you had fallen in love with music in the first place.

Your eyes flickered to your watch—almost 6 PM. As much as you wanted to stay, to let your fingers linger on the keys a little longer, you knew you couldn’t. And you couldn’t ask Mr. Min to stay either. He probably had somewhere else to be, a life outside of this dimly lit theater, someone waiting for him.

“Right now?”

You laughed softly, glancing at him through your lashes before shaking your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to,” you said, your tone laced with teasing. “But I think I need to prepare myself.”

The words settled between you—an easy excuse, a carefully crafted delay. Because the truth was, you were scared. Scared of having another teacher, of learning under someone who wasn’t Ms. Kim. She had been your only mentor since you were seven, the only guide you had ever known. The thought of starting over, of trusting someone new with something so deeply personal, sent a shiver of doubt through you.

Mr. Min’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze steady as he studied you. He saw through your words easily, past the teasing tone to the hesitation beneath. The fear. The doubt.

“Of course,” he murmured, accepting your excuse without pressing further. He knew patience was key—rushing you wouldn’t work. But still, a part of him, fueled by curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite name, wanted to stay. To see more of this version of you—the one stripped of pretenses, standing on the edge of something new.

He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Maybe tomorrow?”

You rose from the bench, putting distance between yourself and the instrument that held too much power over you—power to unearth emotions you weren’t sure you were ready to face. Turning to Mr. Min, you forced a smile, the same well-practiced mask you had worn countless times before. A shield against the uncertainty twisting in your chest.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you said, your voice light, almost casual—an attempt to ignore the way doubt already clawed at the edges of your resolve. The fear of failure, of not being enough, lingered just beneath the surface, but you pushed it down. For now.

Because you had taken the first step. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.

That night, when you got home, you rushed to your bedroom without a second glance at the small white electric piano in the corner. It had been your companion for years, yet tonight, it felt foreign—like a relic from a version of yourself you were no longer certain existed.

Instead, your fingers moved instinctively to your laptop, typing in his name. Min Yoongi. You had never searched for him before, never felt the need to. But now, you wanted to understand. A musician like him—someone who played with such effortless emotion—had to have left something behind. Something that could tell you more about the man who had just become your teacher.

The moment the first notes filled your room, you felt it. Relief. Like something inside you finally exhaled. His music wasn’t just precise or skillful—it was alive. Raw. Honest. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt at ease.

The video was simple, unpolished. Just him and a piano. No grand stage, no theatrics, just music. Just feeling. The camera only captured his hands, gliding effortlessly over the keys, and a faint glimpse of his chin. But it was enough. You didn’t need to see his face to know what he was expressing.

And that’s what unsettled you the most.

Because if you sat in front of a piano, alone, no audience, no expectations—would you be able to feel the way he did? Could you let go of the calculations, the precision, and just exist within the music?

You doubted it. And that doubt pressed against your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

Because the difference between you was clear.

It was in the eyes.

His were open, focused, following his fingers as they danced over the keys, occasionally lifting to acknowledge the audience—as if he wanted to share every note, every emotion. As if music, to him, was something meant to be given.

Yours? Yours were always closed. As if you were hiding. As if you needed to shut out the world, to build a barrier between yourself and the music—afraid that if you opened your eyes, it would all slip away.

He played with presence. You played like you were trying to disappear.

The day after, you didn’t go to his class.

Instead, you found yourself in the university theater, alone. Not beside the piano, not near it at all. You sat in an uncomfortable chair in the audience, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared at the empty stage.

From this distance, it looked different. Without the lights, the hushed expectations of a performance, it was just… a platform. A piece of wood resting in an empty room. It didn’t look grand. It didn’t look like much at all.

What made it something, what made it important, was the way it could transform—how a musician could breathe life into it, how silence could be turned into something worth listening to.

You didn’t know if he would come.

Maybe he thought you were backing out, that you had decided to run after all. And maybe, deep down, a part of you was trying to hide. The anxiousness gnawed at you, tugging at your chest, making it impossible to sit still. Your fingers twitched against your lap, your thoughts scattered, racing in all directions.

But just as the doubt started to settle in, the curtains on the stage shifted. And there he was.

Mr. Min stepped onto the stage, his eyes sweeping the empty space before landing on you. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t seem angry that you had skipped his class. He just looked at you.

And somehow, that was even more terrifying.

“The piano was waiting for you,” you said, your voice trying to sound casual, lighthearted—as though this wasn’t something big, as though he was the one who was expected to be there, not you.

But the words didn’t come out the way you intended. The anxiousness still clung to you, a weight in your stomach, twisting the sound of your voice into something more fragile than you wanted it to be.

Mr. Min took in your words, his expression unreadable as he moved across the stage, sitting at the bench, his body turning to face you. His gaze locked on yours, unwavering, as if he were studying you in a way that made you feel both seen and exposed at the same time.

He sat there for a few moments in silence, the stillness stretching out longer than you expected before he finally spoke.

“I suppose the audience was waiting for me too,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle dryness, a hint of humor tucked beneath his words.

And in that moment, you hated how right he was. The only audience here was you, sitting alone in the empty seats, feeling exposed and uncertain. The silence between you both seemed to echo louder than anything else in the room.

But his face softened little, the humor disappearing as his gaze remained steady.

“Why the front row?” he asked, his voice serious, probing, as if the answer held more weight than you were ready to admit.

You stayed still in your chair, leaning back as if you were completely at ease—though you knew that was far from the truth. Your gaze remained fixed on the stage, tracing the edges of the wooden platform, the empty space where performers usually stood.

“I always wanted to know what it felt like to look at the stage from here,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Wanted to see if it felt just as impressive as looking at the audience from up there.”

You lifted a hand, pointing to where he stood, your fingers tracing an invisible line across the air. It was strange—how different it all looked from this perspective. The stage that once felt huge beneath your feet now seemed almost… small. Almost ordinary.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn’t about the stage itself. Maybe it was about who stood on it.

Without warning, you abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the unpolished floor, sending a sharp noise through the silence of the theater.

“Turns out it didn’t look like much,” you laughed, the sound shaky, but it felt almost freeing. You hesitated, almost as if you were deciding whether to speak the thought bubbling up inside you. “But now that you’re there…”

Your gaze lingered on him, sitting so effortlessly at the bench. It was strange—the way he blended into the space. The dark navy sweater clinging to his body, his messy hair falling just enough to give him a look of unpolished calm. He wasn’t extravagant. There was nothing overly special about him, not in the way the world expected performers to be. But somehow, with the dim lights softly haloing his figure, he became one with the piano, the scene somehow more impressive now that he was a part of it. The simplicity of it, the ease with which he fit in, left you speechless.

The soft dim light of the theater reflected off his glasses, catching every detail of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his soft cheeks, the way his thin, plump lips were slightly pursed in concentration. His brows were furrowed, his eyes focused on the keys, lost in thought.

You exhaled, unable to finish your sentence as you found yourself watching him closely, unable to look away from the way he seemed to embody the music in ways you hadn’t yet been able to. It made you wonder if, maybe, you were starting to understand a little more about what it meant to truly belong on that stage.

Because despite the most beautiful dress you could wear, the bow in your hair—your signature style—the necklaces glinting against your neck in the stage lights, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d never come close to him. No matter how much you dressed up, no matter how much you tried to present yourself with grace and poise, you realized that it wasn’t about the outer appearance. It wasn’t about how perfect you looked or how much you tried to shine in the light.

It was about something deeper. Something he carried without effort. How he embodied music in a way that you could only dream of. His presence at the piano was effortless, natural—like the music was inside him, flowing through his every move. And in that moment, you understood that it wasn’t about what you wore or how you looked. It was about being one with the music, about letting it consume you in the most real, unpretentious way. And somehow, despite everything you’d tried to do, you felt far from that connection.

And that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth as you stared at him, wondering if you could ever be more than just the costume you wore—more than the image you tried to create.

He remained quiet at first, simply watching you with a steady gaze. When your laugh—soft and uncertain—broke the silence, he couldn’t help but chuckle quietly in response.

“Come here,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

From where you stood, you saw him in a way you hadn’t before. Behind the piano, he exuded an undeniable presence. The soft glow of the theater light reflected off his glasses, highlighting every angle of his face—the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the way his lips, slightly parted, were focused in concentration. His brows were furrowed, eyes glued to the keys, lost in the music.

In that moment, under the spotlight, he seemed powerful—like the piano and the music weren’t just things he played, but things he became.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. A thought crossed your mind—that maybe, just maybe, you could feel that way too. That, in time, you might belong in this space, just as he did.

“I think I want to watch first,” you confessed, your voice quieter now, almost as if the weight of your admission was finally sinking in.

You weren’t entirely sure why you said it, but it felt right. Maybe you needed to understand it from his perspective—to see how he approached the piano, the ease with which he made it look effortless. Perhaps that was the key to rediscovering what you’d lost along the way.

You weren’t quite ready to jump in, but the urge to learn, to observe, was growing stronger.

Without a word, he shifted slightly on the bench, his movements effortless, as if the piano were an extension of himself, as natural as breathing.

He placed his hands on the keys, and the sound that filled the room was soft—gentle, almost like a lullaby. Each note felt delicate, tender, as though it were caressing the air, each one lingering in the quiet of the theater like a whisper meant only for you.

The notes he played wrapped around you, unfamiliar yet oddly familiar. It was like the music itself recognized something within you—something buried beneath layers of doubt and distance. You couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a voice that had been missing for so long had finally spoken to you.

It wasn’t anything like the pieces you had listened to online the night before. No polished, calculated notes. No grand technique. This was raw, real, and deeply personal. Every note carried emotion, like he was reaching inside of you with the very sound of the piano. It felt intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, like he was sharing a piece of his soul through the music.

You couldn’t move. The world seemed to pause around you as his fingers worked over the keys, the sound filling the room with a kind of quiet reverence. There was a weight to it, a stillness that demanded your full attention.

And when the music stopped, you felt it—this strange emptiness, like a breath had been held for too long and finally released. You didn’t want to be the first to break the silence, so you sat there, frozen, eyes fixed on him as if afraid to move in case the moment dissolved.

The question lingered in your mind, almost unspoken but impossible to ignore: Why had you held onto Ms. Kim for so long? Why had you believed she was the only one who could teach you?

In front of you now stood someone who understood music in a way that transcended technique or rules. Someone who wasn’t just playing a song, but telling a story. And for the first time in a long while, you realized that maybe it wasn’t about who you had been following—it was about who you were willing to learn from now.

And just like that, it felt like a door had opened in front of you—one you hadn’t even realized was there.

You cleared your throat, hesitant, feeling almost as if the silence left in the wake of his playing was something fragile, something you didn’t want to disturb. It hung in the air, delicate, as though his music was still woven into the very fabric of the space between you.

His music. His creation.

In that moment, the stage and the piano felt entirely his, and somehow, you felt as if you didn’t belong to this place—not yet, anyway.

“What’s it called?” you asked, your voice softer than usual, careful as if you might break something just by speaking too loudly.

You took a tentative step forward, walking onto the stage. It felt heavier beneath you now, like something you had to earn the right to stand on. It seemed absurd, the way the stage made you feel like an outsider.

“I binge-watched all your videos on your channel yesterday,” you confessed, the words carrying an awkward blend of admiration and mild embarrassment. “And I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard this one before.”

Mr. Min’s gaze never left you as you stepped closer, his attention fully on you. There was something about seeing you on the stage, in this place that had always felt like his, that somehow felt right—like you belonged there, too, even if just for a moment.

“It’s about the fear of losing a passion,” he said, his voice steady, but there was something more beneath the surface, something personal he was sharing with you, something he wanted you to understand.

“Black Swan.”

The title hit you like a punch to the chest, your breath catching in your throat.

“You’re not the only one who feels that fear,” he continued, his eyes still locked on you, searching for something in your reaction. His words were firm, but there was an underlying understanding in his tone, a silent reassurance. “That fear is part of what makes you a musician. Don’t ever doubt that.”

His words wrapped themselves around your heart, heavy yet grounding, like a truth you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“If you’re not scared of losing your passion,” he added, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “then what are you really passionate about?”

It was a simple question, but it landed with the force of a revelation, making everything inside you shift, the weight of it settling into your soul.

His music hung in the air, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. It was the kind of sound you had been waiting for, the kind that spoke when words failed. It was everything you had longed for, a language you hadn’t realized you needed until that moment.

“Have you had this terrible fear?”

The question left your lips quietly, almost as if you were afraid to hear the answer, as though voicing it might make it all too real. For the first time in a long while, you let go of the armor you’d built up—no jokes, no distractions—just the raw vulnerability of a question that had been pressing on your chest for so long.

You needed to know. You needed to hear that someone like him, someone who seemed so certain in their art, had felt that same suffocating fear.

And maybe, just maybe, if he had felt it too, it meant you weren’t as broken as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone.

Mr. Min noticed the tremor in your voice, the vulnerability creeping through. Yet, he also saw the way you kept your composure, your eyes unwavering, like you were doing your best to hold everything together.

His face remained unreadable, but there was a quiet warmth in his gaze, a silent understanding.

“Of course I have,” he said softly, his voice almost tender. “Fear is something that shapes us as musicians. It’s what tells us we might be losing something precious, something we can’t afford to let go.”

He didn’t want to admit that he had spent the entire night composing this piece. Not because it had been difficult—it had come to him effortlessly, because it was honest, because it was something he had felt and still felt.

But more than that, he had written it for you.

It wasn’t just music—it was a message, a reminder, a lifeline. He wanted you to hear it and understand—you’re not alone. What you’re feeling, what every musician feels at some point, is real and unavoidable.

Min Yoongi wasn’t someone who could always find the right words. He knew that. He could teach you how to play, but you already knew how. That wasn’t the problem. And words, he understood, wouldn’t reignite what you were losing inside.

Only music could do that.

And therein lay the cruel irony—the very thing that could save you was the same thing that terrified you.

This was what he had tried to communicate in Black Swan. And as he watched you take it in, the weight of his music settling in you, he knew you understood. You had really heard it.

“I want you to try it,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Almost mechanically, you tucked your trembling hands away, instinctively reaching up to adjust the bow in your hair. It was a small motion, something to ground you, to stop the tremor that exposed the fear bubbling beneath the surface.

You had played pieces before that resonated deeply with you, music that touched you, shaped you in ways you couldn’t always explain. But never had a musician—someone so alive, so real—given you their work like this. Not just to listen to, not just to admire, but for you to make your own.

And that terrified you.

Terrified you that you would ruin it. That your hands wouldn’t be able to carry it the way it deserved. That the sound you made wouldn’t match the beauty he had created. That when he heard you, he’d feel the same disappointment Ms. Kim did. That he might take it away.

Min Yoongi was your only hope.

And if you failed now, you weren’t sure if you could keep going. Maybe after this, the piano would just be a memory, a part of your past, something you once loved but could never find your way back to.

His voice was steady, a quiet command that cut through the storm of doubt inside you. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his gaze unwavering, almost like he was willing you to believe him. “Just play. Just play the notes. That’s all you need to do. Don’t think about anything else.”

You nodded slowly, though the knot in your chest remained tight, and slowly, cautiously, you reached for the piano keys. But this time, you weren’t doing it alone.

You moved toward the bench where he sat, and when he shifted to make space for you, his quiet confidence eased something within you.

This space is yours, too.

You lowered yourself onto the bench beside him, your heartbeat racing as he placed the sheet music in front of you.

His handwriting was neat, careful, but still undeniably personal. There were notes crossed out, revisions, and scribbled thoughts filling the margins. It was raw, imperfect—a window into his mind, into the moment this piece was brought to life.

And, for the first time in what felt like ages, you remembered something important.

You had spent so many years playing from flawless, printed scores—neat, sterile, impersonal. You’d become so focused on precision, on getting everything right, that you had forgotten something essential.

Music is never about perfection.

It was about this. The smudged ink, the crossed-out mistakes, the honest struggle to channel feeling into something as rigid as musical notation.

And suddenly, you understood.

Imperfection wasn’t a flaw. It was a reflection of being human.

And perhaps, that was the very thing you’d been searching for all along.

Min Yoongi watched the way your eyes lingered on the sheet music, how they seemed to trace each note with a mixture of awe and reverence.

It made something in his chest tighten. An unfamiliar ache, one he hadn’t felt in years. He remembered that feeling once—how it felt to look at a blank page, to hold the weight of possibility in his hands, the excitement of knowing that it was his music waiting to be born.

It was the kind of anticipation that made everything else fade away. That sense of limitless potential—the world, and all its noise, felt far away, and all that mattered was the music in front of him.

Now, watching you, he realized how rare it was to see that spark in someone else’s eyes. The way you were looking at it—the same way he used to—was like seeing something he thought he’d lost forever, now reflected in you.

You glanced at the sheet music once, then pressed your fingers to the keys, letting the pull of his composition guide you.

Your eyes closed on their own, shutting out the world, shutting out him. You didn’t know the piece by heart, not yet, but the brief glance had been enough. Your hands moved almost instinctively, finding their way through the notes, trusting what felt right.

But as the melody unfolded, you could feel it again—the weight, the hesitation. Your body instinctively curled inward, shoulders slumping as though you were trying to retreat into yourself, to avoid fully inhabiting the moment.

You recognized it instantly.

The way you played like you didn’t deserve to take up space. How doubt seeped into your bones, twisting its way into your music. The way you hid—from the notes, from the audience, from yourself.

He watched you closely, his gaze unwavering as you played, a quiet intensity in his eyes. He could see it, clear as day—the way you were pulling away, the way you let fear shape your every movement. It hurt him to see someone so gifted stifle themselves like this. But underneath the pain, there was something else: frustration and a deep, unspoken fascination.

He felt angry—not at you, but at the world, for teaching you to shrink, for making you believe you didn’t deserve to take up space.

Without a word, he rose from his spot, moving around the piano like a painter stepping back from his work, trying to see the larger picture, searching for the hidden layers.

He didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t.

Instead, he settled into the front row—the same chair you had sat in earlier, the one that had felt so distant. Now, from this vantage point, he saw what you hadn’t let yourself feel. He saw how effortlessly your fingers danced across the keys, how the music poured from you with such fluidity, with such grace. From where he sat, you looked almost confident, as if the stage were truly yours.

But he wasn’t fooled by the outward performance.

He noticed the subtle things—the slight tension in your shoulders, the fraction of a second your fingers faltered before the notes fell perfectly into place, the way your body seemed to shrink inward, hesitant to claim the space around you.

You were playing beautifully, no question.

But you were still holding back.

When you opened your eyes, the spot beside you was empty. A flash of panic shot through your chest, your gaze frantically scanning the room, searching for him. The vulnerability of the moment felt crushing, making the space beside you feel impossibly wide.

Your heartbeat drummed loudly in your ears, erratic and out of sync, like an instrument you couldn’t quite control. But then his voice broke through the silence, pulling you back to the present.

“I thought you ran away because it sucked,” you joked, trying to inject some humor into your voice, even if it felt hollow.

But beneath the words was something deeper, something more honest—a quiet, persistent fear. That no matter how much you played, no matter how hard you tried, the audience would see through the act. That it wouldn’t be enough. And they’d leave.

“How was it?” you asked, attempting a smirk, though the tremble in your fingers betrayed you. “Do you think it can be saved, or should I just go burn every piano I come across?”

His gaze flicked up to you, sharp and calculating, as you attempted to brush off the tension with humor. He wanted to smile, maybe even laugh with you. But something about the way you tensed, how you refused to meet his eyes, kept him grounded, serious.

“Don’t you dare burn this old piece of wood,” he said, his tone carrying a mix of exasperation and something softer—admiration, perhaps, or a quiet affection that betrayed the edge in his voice.

He stood, stepping back to lean against the piano, a casual yet deliberate posture. Min Yoongi was always calm, measured, taking his time before speaking. His words were never rushed—carefully chosen, never too harsh but never too gentle either. It was like he knew you needed more than just a quick fix. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing in thought before he spoke again.

“I need you to explain something to me,” he began, his voice steady but open, as if he was trying to tap into something deeper within you. “How and why did you start learning piano?”

It had been years since you last stopped to consider why you had chosen this instrument. For so long, you’d been too consumed with perfecting your craft, with memorizing every note, that you buried the young girl who had once played piano for the pure joy of it—left her forgotten in the same dusty corner of your childhood room.

If you tried to recall how it all started, there was nothing particularly special about it. You grew up in a house where your parents needed something to keep you occupied while they worked, something that would keep a young girl entertained. So, at a very early age, you began lessons. Your first teacher called you a prodigy, a label that your parents eagerly passed down to you as you grew older.

But if you were to explain why you loved music, it wasn’t because of talent or praise. It was because music was the one constant in your life, the one thing that had always been there. It had followed you through your childhood, through the lonely years when the people you needed most couldn’t be there. When words failed you, and presence wasn’t enough, the familiar keys of the small electric piano in your room gave you solace. It never left.

“It says things I can’t,” you said softly, avoiding the deeper truth you couldn’t bear to speak. The loneliness you’d buried deep inside, the solitude that still lingered. “Like a friend, a mother, or a lover… I feel like I can talk to it, and somehow, it responds.”

His gaze softened as you spoke, sensing the tremble in your voice, and it was almost as if he could see that younger version of you—small, fragile, tucked away in the quiet of your room, seeking refuge in the notes of the piano. It was in that moment that he felt the weight of your loneliness, the quiet ache that still clung to you, revealed in the way you avoided his gaze, the way your hands stayed still in your lap, a silent barrier between you and the world.

But he knew music wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t meant to protect you. It was meant to strip you bare, to expose what was hidden, to make you feel every raw, unguarded truth.

His own journey with music had been similar. He didn’t play because someone told him to, but because something inside him pulled him toward it. Even now, he couldn’t fully explain it—the constant longing for a piano, for the chance to play. It was just something he needed, something that lived inside him.

He had begged for one, almost obsessively, and his parents, recognizing that it wasn’t just a passing fancy, finally relented. They weren’t ones to spoil him, but seeing how deeply he desired it, they scraped together their resources and brought him his first piano—a humble, worn-out instrument, much like the one sitting in the university theater.

He’d played grand pianos in luxurious spaces, in concert halls filled with applause, but it was here, in this makeshift theater, this imperfect place, that he felt the most at home.

It was in this raw, unpolished environment that he could truly connect to his passion, to the fire that burned inside him. There was something about its simplicity, its honesty, that grounded him in ways nothing else could.

Maybe that was what you needed too—to let go of the expectations, to return to that place where it all began. To let go of perfection and simply allow the fire to burn again.

“But somewhere along the way, I lost myself,” you say quietly, your voice steady but carrying a weight that makes your chest ache, your heart exposed to him in a way you hadn’t intended.

“I didn’t even notice it happening. It just turned into something I had to do, not because I wanted to, but because I was expected to. Slowly, I began to resent the piano—the one thing I thought I could always turn to. And over time, it started slipping away from me too.”

Your vision blurred as the vulnerability overwhelmed you, a feeling you used to run from. In moments like these, when you felt raw and open, you would turn to the piano, hoping to find solace, to find comfort in the music. But now… it wasn’t the same.

The keys no longer gave you the peace they once had. The connection was gone, leaving an empty space inside you, as if the music itself had evaporated, slipping away with the passing years.

His expression was unwavering—he wasn’t going to let you hide, not this time.

“It happens,” he said, his voice direct, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the piano with a quiet authority. “When your passion turns into something you have to do, when you start obsessing over results instead of embracing the process, you lose sight of why you began in the first place.”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own shaky breaths.

“Music shouldn’t feel like a chore. Art shouldn’t feel like a chore,” he continued, his voice sharpening with conviction, a weight behind every word. “And I hate the people who make you believe it is.”

His eyes locked onto yours, his words like a quiet fury, as though he had been fighting this battle for far longer than he cared to admit.

“They don’t deserve the admiration you give them. They’re not musicians. Not the kind that matter, not the ones worthy of your time, your talent. If we can even call them musicians.” He exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and understanding in his tone, as if he’d been down this road himself, had known this feeling all too well.

You finally turn your gaze toward him, your eyes still heavy with unshed tears, though none manage to fall. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, soften just a little, and his furrowed brow deepens in contemplation as he meets your gaze. His expression is more intense than you anticipated.

For a moment, a question nags at you, something that lingers despite the weight of everything you’ve just shared. You wonder if someone like him, so gifted in his music, has ever faced the same struggles you have—if he’s ever walked that thorny path of doubt and frustration that seems to follow every note you play.

“Why are you teaching at this university?” you ask, your voice soft, yet filled with genuine curiosity.

It’s not judgment, not at all. You’ve witnessed his talent, the way his music seems to demand to be heard. His pieces are alive with raw emotion and complexity, and for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t belong somewhere bigger, somewhere more fitting for someone with his gifts.

The world outside seems to call for him, a place where his work could reach more people, could have a wider impact. You wonder why he stays in this small, quiet corner of the world, offering his talent to a few instead of taking the stage that seems to be his destiny.

A complex mix of emotions flickers in his eyes, like a reflection of the chaotic music that churns within him. The words he wants to speak seem trapped, just out of reach, and you can see the conflict in his gaze as if he’s struggling to find the right way to express the swirling thoughts inside his mind.

He pauses, his eyes lowering to the floor, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest, as though he’s trying to contain the flood of feelings inside him. He’s not a man of many words, preferring to let his music do the talking instead.

“Just like you, I was scared of losing my passion,” he finally admits, his voice low and contemplative, his gaze shifting toward the piano as if it holds the answer to his own uncertainty. “Teaching it every day, though… it makes me fall in love with it again and again.” He allows the faintest smile to pull at the corners of his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in his words, as if sharing what he loves with others is the key to keeping that fire burning within him.

His words linger between you, and suddenly, you feel an understanding between the two of you, a shared recognition of the delicate balance between love and fear, passion and doubt. It isn’t just the music itself he holds dear—it’s the act of sharing it, of passing it on to others, that keeps him grounded, that keeps the passion alive.

In just one day, it felt like you had learned more than in all the years spent at the conservatory, surrounded by people who wore their talent like a mask. Now, as you sat down at your small electric piano in your room, there was a quiet sense of clarity. The dust that had gathered over time was quickly swept away with a motion of your sleeve, as though you were brushing away all the weight of self-doubt that had settled on you.

For the first time in a long while, the piano no longer felt like a tool for perfection, for meeting expectations. It was simply there, inviting you to reconnect. You placed your fingers on the keys, taking a breath as you closed your eyes, letting the music find its way to the surface.

You had always dreamed of creating something of your own, letting the music inside of you flow freely, sharing it with the world. But it always seemed out of reach. Ms. Kim had given you pieces to learn, pieces that demanded flawless execution. There was no room for your voice, no space for your own thoughts. People, she said, weren’t there to hear the musings of a twenty-two-year-old. They wanted the great works, the classics. It was the standard—the expectation.

But now, with your fingers resting on the keys, something inside you had shifted. Perhaps it was the presence of someone like Mr. Min, who understood the value of creating, of bringing something from your soul into the world. You didn’t have to play to impress or meet someone else’s measure. You could play because you needed to, because it was your story, your voice. And in that moment, it felt like a new beginning.

And then it clicked: how could she ever expect you to pour genuine emotion into your playing when the music wasn’t even your own, when it didn’t come from your heart? You needed something raw and personal, something that spoke to the truth buried deep inside you.

That night, you sat at your piano, fingers trembling but steady with intent. The keys felt different beneath your hands—alive, as if they were inviting you to tell your own story. You no longer worried about perfection or the judgments of others. You just played. Each note became a word, each chord a sentence. And for the first time in years, you weren’t playing someone else’s music—you were speaking your own truth.

Before parting ways earlier that day, Mr. Min had given you his phone number, telling you that you could reach out whenever you needed, and that he’d always respond. You had never had someone like him in your life—someone who truly seemed to understand you, who not only listened but wanted to understand your thoughts. He had become a reflection of the very connection you sought through music, close and accessible, like an instrument you could now play with ease.

He was the first to reach out to you through text, sending only an address and a time, telling you he wanted you there tomorrow. Of course, you replied without hesitation, agreeing to be there even though it was a Saturday. Something about his message stirred something inside you—like you couldn’t possibly turn it down, no matter the day.

You weren’t sure why you were standing there in the middle of the street, phone in hand, staring at it before glancing around at the busy crowd. It was the same address he had given you, but something about it felt off, like it didn’t quite belong. People bustled by, caught in their own rush, yet you remained frozen, suspended between the confusion in your mind and the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat.

Just as you were about to pull your phone out again to text him that you couldn’t come, you saw him. He emerged from the crowd, his dark hair a little tousled, glasses still perched on his nose. The sunlight, bright and harsh, illuminated him this time, casting a different kind of warmth on his face. He didn’t look the same as he did under the soft theater lights—he felt almost like a stranger, and for a moment, you simply stood there, watching him, trying to understand why he felt so… unfamiliar.

This wasn’t the musician you’d grown to admire over the past few days. No, he looked more like someone else—like an old friend. A friend who might meet you in the street to share a coffee, reminisce about the past. It was the kind of connection you had never allowed yourself to have, always too focused on practice, perfection, and the pressure of the performance. But seeing him like this, so effortlessly familiar, it felt as though a weight had been lifted, as though there was room now for something more than just the music.

He spotted you amidst the busy street, your figure barely noticeable as you stood still, eyes locked on him, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation. A smile tugged at his lips, amused and almost fond at the way you seemed lost in your own thoughts, unaware of the world around you.

He made his way toward you, each step sure and steady, his gaze never leaving your face. When he reached you, he stopped just a few feet away, his voice smooth and calm as he spoke.

“I thought I might have seen you turning back,” he says with a light chuckle, a playful warmth in his tone as if trying to defuse the nervous energy surrounding you. His smile fades a little when he notices how tense your body is, how your shoulders remain rigid, despite the teasing words.

You take in your surroundings, feeling out of place amidst the rush of the bustling street. It’s not at all what you had envisioned. The noise, the hurried footsteps of pedestrians, the constant honking of cars—it all feels foreign. The energy of the crowd overwhelms you, making your chest tighten. You’re not used to this chaos, this endless stream of people rushing past, each heading somewhere with purpose. A creeping anxiety starts to take hold, the fear that you might lose yourself in it all, or that you’re too small in this vast, unyielding world. For a moment, everything feels like it’s moving too quickly, and you can’t seem to keep up.

Your eyes move around again, still trying to make sense of it all. “What are we doing here, in the middle of the street?” you ask, your voice laced with confusion. There’s a part of you that wonders why you’re not back in the space you know so well, the one where everything feels clear. The piano, the stage—it feels so distant now, replaced by the chaotic hum of the city. You can’t shake the discomfort of being out of your element.

It’s not that you don’t want to be here, it’s just… so different. You never imagined finding yourself standing on a busy street in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by strangers and drowned in the noise. Without the structure of the piano or the comforting familiarity of the stage, you feel uncertain. You can’t help but wonder why things feel so out of place. You hesitate, trying to make sense of the moment. “Why aren’t we back at the theater? Where’s the piano?”

He smiles gently, stepping a little closer, as if offering a silent reassurance that the chaos doesn’t need to consume you. His voice, when he speaks, is calm and steady, almost as if trying to ground you in this moment.

“Sometimes, you need to step away from what feels safe,” he says, his tone thoughtful, as if he’s reflecting on the same thoughts that must be running through your mind. “Not everything happens on stage, and not everything needs to make sense right away.”

With a light chuckle, noticing your lingering anxiety, he adds, “The university’s closed on Saturdays.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “But don’t worry, we’ll find a piano,” he reassures you, his voice casual yet confident.

He gestures for you to follow him, leading you through the throngs of people on the busy street. As you walk behind him, something shifts inside you. Despite the unfamiliarity of it all, a quiet sense of hope begins to grow. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

He strides ahead of you with a natural confidence, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed as if the chaos of the street doesn’t bother him in the least. You can’t help but wish you could embody that same calm, flow with the rhythm of the city the way he does. But your fingers betray you, fidgeting nervously against your skin, a silent battle against the anxiety crawling up your spine.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” you ask, the teasing tone in your voice a little forced, more of a distraction than a genuine question. Anything to redirect your attention from the nervous pressure building in your palms.

He glances over his shoulder at you, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he picks up on the subtle undertone of your question. He lets out a soft chuckle, clearly amused by the way you try to mask your nerves with playful banter.

Yoongi shoots you a quick look from the corner of his eye, his smirk widening just a bit. “Would you believe me if I said no?” he responds, his voice teasing but laid-back, as if getting lost in the crowd wouldn’t faze him one bit.

You let out a small huff and roll your eyes, but the light exchange has its effect—your shoulders drop a little, and your grip on your palms loosens.

Even if he didn’t know where he was headed, you think you’d follow him anyway. Right now, he was the only steady thing in a world that felt like it was constantly shifting beneath your feet.

It was strange, how quickly he’d become something familiar. Not demanding or rushing, but just there—quietly, consistently beside you, letting you take your time to navigate through it all. Maybe that’s why you trusted him. Not just because he understood music, but because he seemed to understand you too—the parts of yourself you were still figuring out.

“Today, we’re going busking,” he announces with an easy grin, one you hadn’t seen before—unguarded, his gums on full display, like he was truly at ease.

You blink at him, trying to wrap your mind around what he just said. Busking. Playing on the streets, with no stage, no rehearsed performance, and no safety net. Your stomach knots at the thought.

“You’re joking,” you say, though the doubt in your voice betrays you. His grin only grows wider, and you can’t help but feel a chill settle in your chest.

You’ve always played for an audience, but it was always the kind that sought you out. They came because they wanted music, because they expected something polished and refined. You never had to pull them in, never had to stop them in their tracks to get them to listen. You knew how to perform for people who wanted to hear you, who were there for you.

But this? This was different. And the thought of it unsettles you deeply.

“What if no one stops?” you mutter under your breath, half to him, half to yourself.

The fear creeps in—the one that has always haunted you. The idea of playing in front of an empty crowd, not because there weren’t people, but because they didn’t care enough to listen. You’d be exposed, no stage lights to hide behind, no grand piano as a barrier between you and the world. Just you, alone with your music, and anyone who happened to pass by. It felt terrifying in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

He looks at your face, noting the tension in your features, the hesitation that grips you as the weight of uncertainty presses down. He can see it—the familiar worry, the fear of being judged, the self-doubt creeping in. But instead of pushing, he lets the silence between you stretch for a moment, allowing you the space to settle.

Yoongi, still walking confidently, shrugs nonchalantly. “Then we play for ourselves,” he says simply, his voice light, as though the idea of playing for no one but yourself was the most natural thing in the world. “And maybe for the one person who does stop.”

He doesn’t seem rattled, and the calmness in his tone is contagious. You feel a small shift in your chest as you try to breathe through the nerves.

“An audience isn’t just a sea of faces,” he continues thoughtfully, his gaze not leaving the path ahead as he speaks. “It’s about drawing them in, creating something that makes them want to listen, even if just for a moment. You’ve got to create that pull.”

He pauses, and you follow his line of sight, watching him as he stops in front of an old, weathered piano placed in the middle of the bustling street. The piano seems out of place among the crowd—an invitation to the brave souls who dare to share their music in the open air.

“There’s nothing more humbling than playing right here, exposed to the world,” he says, a touch of challenge in his voice, but also a hint of something deeper. Encouragement, perhaps, or something more personal that you can’t quite grasp just yet.

You stare at the piano, the worn keys under your fingers telling stories of countless previous players, each one leaving a mark in their own way. It wasn’t a polished grand on a pristine stage, nor was it your familiar electric keyboard at home. This piano was exposed, vulnerable, much like you would be if you sat down and played.

His words echo in your mind: having an audience isn’t just about the faces in front of you; it’s about pulling them in.

The idea of that, though, shakes you. In concert halls, people come expecting music. They sit in silence, already open to the experience, ready to be swept into the performance. But here? In the chaos of the street, no one expects you. No one has to stop and listen. You have to make them want to.

You let out a quiet, almost embarrassed sigh as you sit down on the bench. The worn wood beneath you, the slight unevenness of the surface, feels out of place—but not as much as the vulnerability you can feel creeping in.

“Why does it feel like I’ve never touched a piano before?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you gaze at the keys. The weight of the moment presses down on you—heavy and unfamiliar.

Mr. Min leans casually against the piano, arms crossed, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, simply watching you as if he’s waiting for you to find your own rhythm.

You narrow your eyes at him, your playful tone slipping back in as a defense mechanism, a shield against the wave of insecurity rising within you. “And why are you smiling like a cruel man?”

Soft chuckle dances in the air, his grin widening as his eyes flicker with amusement and something more playful.

He shakes his head lightly, clearly entertained by your unease. “I’m not cruel,” he says, though the twinkle in his gaze suggests he’s enjoying the moment just a bit too much. “I just think it’s funny how nervous you look.”

You scoff, trying to shake off the tension in your shoulders, but he catches the flicker of doubt in your eyes. He always does. And yet, he doesn’t press, doesn’t call you out for it. Instead, he steps a little closer, his tone shifting to something softer, more reassuring.

“You’ll be fine,” he assures, his voice calm and steady. “Just play, and remember—you’re not aiming for perfection here,” he continues, understanding the hesitation written all over your face. “You’re playing to be heard.”

Your eyes meet his, searching for something to hold onto—reassurance, maybe, or some kind of understanding. But all he offers is a simple nod, one that says everything you need to hear. No rush. No pressure. Just… when you’re ready.

You begin with something familiar—safe. A piece from long ago, one that’s embedded in your hands through years of repetition, a melody that flows without thought, devoid of the rawness you wish it had. It’s easy, comfortable, and predictable. Nothing challenging, nothing risky. Just a smooth, reliable tune.

Yoongi doesn’t interrupt. He stays quiet, arms crossed, his face neutral. But the silence presses down on you, heavy and still. It’s not critical, not exactly, but it doesn’t feel like praise either.

As the last note lingers, swallowed up by the bustling sounds of the city, he finally speaks, his words simple: “It was nice.” And somehow, that doesn’t feel like enough.

You glance around, catching the fleeting glances of pedestrians who stop briefly, offering polite smiles, then continue on their way. Their interest is momentary, replaced quickly by the noise of the street. You can almost feel the indifference settling around you, as if your music is just another fleeting distraction in the chaos of their day.

For a moment, you wonder if you’re nothing more than a passing blip in their world, unimportant, unnoticed. The thought tightens your chest, and you feel the familiar pressure of needing to prove something, to matter.

Without thinking, the words slip out. “I can’t do that,” you murmur, your hands falling to your lap, as if the weight of everything you were trying to avoid had suddenly landed squarely there.

Min Yoongi’s words slice through the stillness of the moment, his voice calm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of the street.

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” he says softly but with conviction. “You need to make them stop. Not because they think they should, but because they can’t help it.”

He uncrosses his arms slowly, leaning in just a little, his focus shifting from you to the piano. The sounds of the city fade slightly, the words he speaks weaving through the noise with an ease that makes them impossible to ignore.

“Those people… they have their own lives, their own stories, their own struggles.” His voice is measured, thoughtful, but resolute. “They’re not looking for perfection. They’re just living their day—heading to work, running errands, lost in their own worlds. But when they hear music in the street, something makes them stop. It’s not about hearing a flawless performance or a piece from a symphony. It’s about something deeper—a feeling they’re craving, a moment of connection, something that breaks through their routine. They won’t turn away from it. Not when it’s right there, unexpected, raw.”

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and steady. There’s a change in the way he looks at you, something more than just words. You feel the weight of his belief in you, even if you’re not sure you can carry it.

“They’re not looking for the classics,” he continues, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Not the things you’ve been playing. They don’t know the theory, the technicalities, the history like we do. And they don’t care about it either. For them, it’s not about perfect scales or the next flawless arpeggio. It’s about what moves them in the moment. What they care about is the music itself. It’s about what it makes them feel. The realness of it. The way it catches them off guard, makes them feel alive for a moment.”

He steps closer, his presence steady, grounding you even more. “You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be you. And if you can do that, if you can play with your heart instead of your hands… then you’ll see. They’ll stop. They’ll listen. They’ll be drawn to you.”

You bite your lip, fighting to keep the tears at bay, the weight of his words and the shift in your perspective overwhelming you. Slowly, your trembling hands move toward the piano, curling into tight fists as if bracing against the rush of emotions inside you. But despite the chaos within, you try to steady yourself.

For a moment, your hands hover above the keys, hesitant, as though afraid of what might unfold if you press down. But then, with a shaky breath, you release the tension, letting your palms gently settle against the cool ivory.

The first note is tentative, unsure, almost alien in its unfamiliarity. But as your fingers settle into their rhythm, it begins to transform, becoming something more intimate—something uniquely yours. The melody you had written just the night before, born from the deepest part of you, begins to flow effortlessly, as if it had always been waiting for this moment.

Each note falls into place, like pieces of a puzzle you’ve been unknowingly putting together. The sound is raw, unpolished, but it feels more authentic than anything you’ve ever played. The doubt and hesitation start to fade, replaced by a quiet understanding—a deeper connection to the music and to yourself that you hadn’t even known you were seeking.

With your eyes still closed, the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, warm and unbidden, but you don’t want to stop. You want to let it all out, let the music guide you through the mess of it all. You almost reach up to wipe them away, to regain control, but before you can, his hand is there, gently brushing the tears from your cheek with a tenderness that surprises you.

His touch is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s offering you the space to feel everything without needing to stop or apologize for it. It’s a quiet reassurance, a way of telling you that this moment is yours to keep, that you don’t have to hide or break it.

You hesitate for a second, then, with a deep breath, let your hands return to the keys, the music flowing once more as you pour yourself into every note, letting it carry you through the unspoken depths of everything you’ve been holding in.

He watches as the crowd gradually begins to form, their movements slowing, as if the music has gently pulled them from their routines. But he doesn’t focus on them.

His eyes are fixed on you.

Your gaze sweeps over the people gathered around you, but it’s different now. There’s a softness, a clarity to your eyes—like you’re finally seeing the world outside of the tension that once held you back. With each note you play, you become more immersed in the music, the rhythm lifting you as though you’ve stepped into something bigger than yourself.

Then your eyes meet Yoongi’s. Just for a second, but it feels longer. Neither of you moves, frozen in that brief, unspoken exchange. He feels something stir deep in his chest—an unexpected warmth, a mix of heaviness and lightness. The way you smile at him, with tears still glistening on your skin, catches him off guard. It’s a smile he’s never seen before—genuine, full of warmth, and quietly profound in a way he didn’t know you could express.

In that moment, as your smile reaches him, Yoongi knows it’s not just the music that has changed you—it’s the way you’ve let it all go, the way you’ve let yourself be seen. And in a way, that simple smile feels like a victory, something earned, something beautiful, more than either of you could’ve imagined.

The final note fades into the air, its echo lingering like a soft breath. Before you can even fully absorb it, the applause begins, surrounding you like a comforting embrace. For a moment, you stand still, frozen, letting the sound wash over you.

You bow your head reflexively, the gesture one you’ve made countless times before, but this time it feels different. The applause isn’t just for your technique or the notes you played—it’s for you, for the story you’ve shared, for the raw emotion you’ve poured into the music. It’s a recognition of who you are, not just as a musician, but as a person.

He's clapping too, a grin spread across his face from the first note you played. His approval is clear, but there’s something deeper in the way he watches you, something that suggests he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have. It’s a quiet understanding, a shared connection that you can’t ignore.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s not the kind of embrace that comes from wild joy or a long-awaited reunion. It’s quiet, fragile yet intense—like you’re afraid if you don’t hold him just a little longer, he might slip away. It’s not desperation, but a silent acknowledgment of something rare, something precious that’s unfolded between you.

His arms wrap around you slowly, carefully, but there’s no hesitation in the way he holds you. It’s soft, an embrace full of unspoken emotions neither of you are ready to articulate. It’s a moment suspended in time, where everything feels both fleeting and eternal.

His heart raced as you pulled him into a hug, surprise surging through him. Min Yoongi wasn’t one for outward displays of emotion, especially not in public. He preferred the quiet, hidden moments—those stolen glances in secluded places where things felt simpler.

But here, in this moment, something inside him shifted.

It felt strangely familiar, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d held you like this—like the way you clung to him was something his body recognized, a feeling he hadn’t known he missed. The softness of the moment, the way your chest pressed against his, felt almost like a memory, one that had somehow slipped through time and landed here, in this fleeting, tender instant.

Before he could linger on the odd sensation, Yoongi gently pulled away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. His movements were hesitant, as if the vulnerability of the moment had caught him off guard.

He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting away from yours, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t the usual confident grin he wore—it was softer, uncertain in a way that seemed new.

“People stopped,” he says, as though to reaffirm something you already knew. His voice is quieter now, like he’s still finding his balance in the unexpected closeness between you.

“They did,” you reply, your voice sounding foreign, lighter, almost freer than you’re used to. It’s a strange feeling—happiness, maybe even relief—but you can’t quite explain it. It’s as if, for a moment, the world opened up and you were finally allowed to be a part of it.

“I feel like I almost died, but… damn, I did it,” you laugh, the sound almost unsure but full of genuine disbelief. The laughter is light, filled with a kind of innocence and joy that feels completely new, yet strangely comforting.

The tension in your body begins to melt away—your shoulders less tight, your chest not as heavy. Whether it’s the adrenaline or something else, you don’t know, but for the first time in a long time, you feel like you can actually breathe. The weight you’ve carried for so long is easing, and you realize you’re no longer hiding behind the music—you’re letting it lead you. That feeling, in itself, feels like a victory.

“I’m craving something sweet,” you announce, your voice light and spontaneous as you reach for his hand. Without waiting for a response, you pull him along, your steps filled with newfound freedom.

You guide him to a small café tucked away in a corner, the scent of freshly baked pastries greeting you as you draw near. There’s a sense of warmth and comfort here, the simple joy of a quiet moment far removed from the chaos of the performance. Everything else is behind you now, and all that matters is sharing this with someone who’s seen you at your most vulnerable.

With your hand still in his, you glance at him, a smile playing at your lips. “How about this?” you ask, your voice playful, betraying the calm that has settled inside you.

He allows himself to be swept along, a small chuckle of surprise slipping from him as you take the reins of the moment.

His hand remains in yours without him even realizing it, the warmth of your touch sending a subtle jolt through him, something he can’t quite grasp. The moment you tug him forward, he feels it, though it’s not something he can easily put into words. His cheeks betray him, turning a soft shade of red.

He nods in agreement to everything you suggest—what to eat, where to go—even if he’s not sure if he likes it. It’s not hesitation, but the rhythm of this moment feels too important to disrupt.

His mind is a whirlwind, thoughts flying in all directions, trying to catch up with what’s happening in this strange, surreal moment. His heart isn’t faring much better—pounding furiously against his chest, as though it’s struggling to keep up. Yet, amidst the chaos in his mind and chest, there’s a soft warmth he can’t deny.

He wants to be close to you. He wants to understand why everything feels so new, so different now, but for the moment, he’s content to follow you, letting your presence lead him through this unfamiliar terrain. And maybe, he doesn’t need all the answers right now. Not when everything feels like it’s starting to come together, in its own quiet way.

You led him to a quiet booth in the corner, your hands full with the assortment of treats you’d decided to indulge in. You slid into the booth, setting everything down, and the silence that followed stretched between you both.

Finally, you broke the stillness, your voice quiet but genuine. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the food, or for him being there with you—it was for something deeper. For the way he’d helped you see yourself differently, and for the unspoken understanding that now hung between you two like an invisible thread.

You took a steadying breath, as though the words had been waiting for this moment to come out. “I think I finally get it now. I forgot what it felt like to play for myself… to play because I needed to, not because I was trying to impress anyone.”

The realization settled inside you, not as a burden, but as a kind of release. It was a lightness in your chest that hadn’t been there in so long, a part of you that had been lost beneath the weight of expectations. And now, it was resurfacing, like a memory that had been waiting to be reclaimed.

You met his eyes then, your own softer, a little more vulnerable, but full of hope. “I don’t think I’ll forget again.”

You handed him a piece of something sweet, smiling as he took it, his cheeks puffing out like a child experiencing a treat for the first time. You watched him eat, waiting for something, anything, that might break the quiet between you two in a way that felt meaningful. The warmth from earlier still lingered, unspoken but understood.

It didn’t take long before he finally broke the silence, his voice calm but filled with curiosity. “The piece you played… was it yours?”

The question hung in the air, even though he already knew the answer—he could feel how deeply it belonged to you. Yet, the need to ask it still burned in his chest. His gaze didn’t leave yours, trying to decipher your expression, searching for some acknowledgment of the truth in the music you’d shared. There was something raw in the way your fingers had moved, how the notes seemed to resonate through you, not just in your hands but in your very soul.

He wanted to understand. He wanted to know what had made you open up so fully, what had made you play as though everything else had disappeared, leaving only you and your music.

You nodded eagerly, the joy inside you bubbling up uncontrollably. A laugh slipped from your lips—light and unguarded—and in that instant, Yoongi felt something stir within him. He had always been drawn to the piano, to how it spoke, sang, and carried emotions that words often failed to capture. But as he heard your laughter, it felt like something even more precious, than any note played. It felt like a sound that was uniquely yours, a sound that, in that moment, might just become his favorite.

“Yeah,” you said between bites, your voice warm and full of that familiar comfort. “I made it last night. But… it’s like I’ve always had it in me, I just wasn’t ready to let it out. I wasn’t ready to create something of my own.”

You paused, locking eyes with him for a moment, the weight of gratitude filling your chest. Words had never felt sufficient, especially when trying to convey something as deep as this—how much his presence, his guidance, had meant to you. But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to say it again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with sincerity. “I don’t think words can truly express how much this means to me… but thank you. For everything.”

There was no grand gesture, no grand speech—just the simple truth that your heart was full, and you wanted him to know how deeply his support had impacted you. How his belief in you, when you hadn’t believed in yourself, had been the catalyst, the spark that reignited your passion.

You spoke slowly, carefully, your voice carrying the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. “When I walked into your classroom, I felt like I was burning from the inside. Like the fire within me was only there to consume me, to burn me down until there was nothing left.”

Your gaze drifted to your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table, grounding yourself as you spoke. The words felt strange, yet freeing, as if finally giving voice to them allowed some of the heat inside you to fade away.

“But you,” you continued, your eyes meeting his, “you showed me that fire wasn’t meant to destroy me. You helped me see that fire could be used to light something else—something I thought I’d lost. My passion.”

The weight of your words settled in the space between you, and for the first time, it felt like you weren’t just speaking to him but finally comprehending the journey you’d been on. The fire inside you no longer felt like an enemy but a wellspring of strength, something to mold, to nurture, to keep alive. And he—more than anyone—had been the one to help you see that.

He waved it off with a modest gesture, his hand hovering near yours as if offering comfort without words. “I really didn’t do much,” he said quietly, his tone soft yet certain. He wanted to reach out, to still the restless movement of your hands, but he hesitated, pulling back just enough to respect the space between you.

“You just needed a little push,” he added, his gaze steady and searching, an understanding settling in his eyes. “But I could see it from the moment I met you—that your passion was still there, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.”

His words, though simple, carried a warmth that made your heart ache with something unspoken—a quiet reassurance that he had seen something in you that you hadn’t seen in yourself. The spark was still there, hidden beneath everything else, waiting for the right moment to burn again. And somehow, despite his humbleness, he had played a part in fanning that flame.

You smiled at him, the warmth of his words still lingering in the air, but your thoughts began to drift once more. A quiet unease crept in as your mind wandered, unsure of what to do next. The truth you had been avoiding was undeniable now—the conservatory, Ms. Kim, that whole world of structured perfection—it no longer had a place in your heart. The image of the grand stage, the glaring lights, the polished piano, it all felt distant now, like a dream you once chased but that had faded into something you could no longer recognize.

You realized, with a clarity you hadn’t had before, that you didn’t want that anymore. The world of perfection, of expectations, of constant performance—it felt empty now. You longed for something more, something grounded, something raw. You needed to find the music that was truly yours—not a meticulously crafted piece to please others, but a song that came from your heart, unpolished, unrefined, but real. Something human. Something that made you feel alive, not for the applause, but because it was yours. Something real.

“I don’t think I can go back to the conservatory,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. It was as though you were finally admitting the truth to yourself, the weight of it settling heavily in the air. “I don’t think I want it anymore.” You met Yoongi’s eyes, uncertain of the next step, but knowing that this new path was leading you somewhere different, somewhere true. And it felt like the right choice.

Min Yoongi listened intently, his gaze softening as you spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to judge you—he had been in your place not too long ago, when he was a little younger than you. He too had dreams of performing on grand stages, of conquering the classical music world. But somewhere along the way, he’d realized his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Letting go of those dreams wasn’t because they lacked value, but because they no longer resonated with his soul. And he had no regrets about it.

In fact, those decisions had brought him to this point—at twenty-nine, standing before you with a sense of fulfillment few ever experience. He had become what he had always imagined inside—a mentor, a guide for those who shared the same love for music, the same fire in their hearts. He hadn’t just found traditional success; he had discovered something far more meaningful. He’d found a way to share his passion and truly help someone. And that, to him, was everything.

He didn’t feel bitterness toward the times he had fought alone. He embraced them. Those moments, those struggles, had shaped him into the person he was now—the one who understood the weight of loneliness in the pursuit of a dream, and the one who could help others rise from that place.

His smile was sincere, free from regret or resentment. “I get it,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his own journey. “It’s not about going big or following a path that everyone expects of you. It’s about finding where your heart truly belongs.” He paused, locking eyes with you. “And I’m glad you’re figuring that out now.”

His words weren’t just comforting—they were a reminder that growth didn’t always follow the script others had written for you. You could still carve your own path. And for him, watching you do that was just as fulfilling as anything he had ever done for himself.

As you reflected on it, you realized that the piano had been your world, your constant, for as long as you could remember. It shaped everything about you, and you had never really known life outside of it. You had missed out on those typical moments of youth—carefree nights, spontaneous adventures, or the simple joys of growing up. Instead, you’d poured all of yourself into the piano, always focusing on it so intensely that you somehow overlooked everything else.

It wasn’t that you desperately craved those experiences, but in quiet moments like this, you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to do something completely ordinary. To go to a party and not worry about how your performance would be judged, to be reckless without considering practice or perfection, or even to have friends who weren’t also musicians, always viewing life through a lens of competition. The friendships you had at the conservatory were always tinged with that unspoken tension—constantly measuring who was better, who had more talent.

You longed for something as simple and human as being in love. Not just with music, but with someone—someone who could see you for who you were beyond the notes and the keys. It felt almost ridiculous, but the thought had settled deep within you, something you couldn’t ignore anymore. It was something you had forgotten to explore in the midst of all the music.

It felt strange, wanting something so ordinary, but as you thought about it, you realized you were allowed to want it. To want to live and feel like everyone else. You were still young, still learning, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it was time to let yourself experience the other side of being human.

“I think I’m ready to look for something else,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. The words feel strange, yet liberating as they leave your mouth. You hesitate, unsure of how they’ll sound, but there’s a sense of peace in finally saying it out loud. “Piano is my whole life, my first love, and I know that for sure. But I think I’m ready to let it be a part of me, not the only thing that defines me anymore.”

The words linger in the air, and for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel like a betrayal. You feel lighter, as though a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying has been gently lifted. It’s not that you’re giving up the piano—it will always be a part of you. But now, you’re choosing to live for more than just the keys and the music. You’re choosing to let yourself grow in ways you hadn’t allowed before, to live outside of that narrow measure of success and start experiencing the full depth of life.

Min Yoongi nodded, his smile gentle but filled with pride as he listened to you. There was something about the way you were allowing yourself to be more than just the music that came from your fingers. He admired that—how you were beginning to realize you didn’t have to be confined to the expectations of others.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said, his voice low but sincere, wanting to make sure you truly heard him. “Don’t ever doubt that.” His words lingered in the space between you both, firm and full of meaning. He knew how easy it could be to fall into the trap of self-doubt, how easy it was to let the pressure of your own or others’ expectations weigh you down. He didn’t want you to fall back into that place, again.

The conversation flowed softly, warm and comforting, but there was something underneath it all—a subtle undercurrent that neither of you could ignore. The air between you felt lighter, freer, yet there was a quiet realization that this moment, this connection, was reaching its natural end. It wasn’t that either of you wanted it to be over, but more that its purpose had been fulfilled. The path you had shared for this brief moment was starting to branch off in different directions.

You had found the courage to break away from the conservatory’s confines, to reclaim your music as something personal and free from others’ expectations. Yoongi had helped you reignite that inner spark, the fire you had almost forgotten was there. But even as that quiet understanding settled between you, there was a quiet, bittersweet edge to it. The unspoken knowledge that this connection—this shared journey—might not last forever. That the space between you would inevitably widen, as all things do.

Neither of you said it aloud, but there was an unspoken acknowledgment that it was time to let go. Not because you didn’t care, but because you had found what you needed in one another, and now it was time to walk your separate paths, carrying those lessons and memories with you.

You weren’t ready to let him go—not yet. Min Yoongi wasn’t just a teacher or a talented musician who had guided you when everything felt lost. He had become something more—a friend, someone who truly saw you. For the first time, you had someone who understood you in a way no one else had. He didn’t just offer advice; he made you feel like your passion truly mattered again. He had become a constant, a presence you could lean on when everything else felt uncertain.

It wasn’t just about music anymore. He had become someone who, without even trying, made you feel heard and valued. Someone who didn’t judge your doubts, your fears, or your insecurities. He understood them because he had walked through them himself, and that made all the difference.

You felt a weight settle in your chest, realizing that you couldn’t simply walk away from this. You couldn’t just let him fade into the background, a fleeting presence in your life. No, you weren’t ready for that. The thought of losing him felt like one more regret you might never be able to shake—leaving behind something important that you hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

You had to say something. Anything. You couldn’t let this moment slip by, not after everything he’d done for you. Not after how much he had helped you rediscover who you were, who you could be, when you weren’t shackled by expectations.

After a long pause, with the silence stretching between you, you finally spoke up, your voice steady yet carrying a hint of vulnerability. “I want to really know you,” you said, your words soft but genuine. “Not just as the musician, not as the teacher—just you. The person behind all of that. I want to understand you, like you’ve understood me.”

There was a quiet intensity in your voice, more than just curiosity. It was a longing to break past the roles and titles, to see the person beneath the surface, to connect with the side of him no one else saw. You weren’t asking for answers or advice. You were asking for him. The real him.

He gives a small, knowing grin, his lips curving into a smile that feels like a secret shared between the two of you. “You already know me,” he says, his voice warm, almost intimate. “More than anyone, I think.”

There’s a sincerity in his words, and the weight of them settles between you. In the quiet exchange, you can feel it—his belief in your understanding of him. It’s in the way he speaks, the way his gaze softens when it meets yours. He doesn’t think anyone has truly comprehended his bond with music the way you do. You share something rare—a connection that goes beyond the notes, beyond the applause, something deeper and more personal.

In just a few days, it feels as though you’ve mirrored his very essence. His history with music, the struggles, the joys—they resonate with you as if you’re living parallel lives. The way it consumed you both, the way it shaped you, and how, at times, it almost broke you.

For a moment, he’s not just the mentor, the teacher. He’s someone who sees himself reflected in your eyes, and the realization catches him off guard, though it’s also comforting. He hadn’t expected to find such a connection so quickly, but here, in the brief time you’ve spent together, he feels like he’s met someone who truly understands him.

You shake your head gently, trying to brush off the weight of your words as if that might make them easier to say. Your fingers idly pick at the crumbs from the cupcake, a way to keep your hands busy and distract yourself from the growing vulnerability inside. But you know, deep down, you can’t avoid it any longer. The truth has been building, and now it’s finally demanding to be spoken.

“No,” you begin, your voice soft but steady, though the honesty still surprises you. “I want to start from the beginning. I want to know you for who you are, without seeing the musician first. Just you.” You lift your gaze to meet his then, the intensity of the moment settling between you as your eyes lock. Your heart skips a beat, but you hold his stare, unwilling to look away. “And I want you to know me for who I am, too. Not just as the pianist.”

The words hang in the air between you both—fragile, yet undeniable. The tension shifts, as if you’ve both stepped into new territory, where it’s not just about the music anymore. It’s about knowing each other without the roles you’ve both worn, without the expectations tied to them. You’re asking to be seen beyond your talents, beyond the stage.

It’s a quiet request, but it feels like everything. You’re not just asking to be noticed for more than the music; you’re asking for real connection. For the first time, you realize you’re ready to have someone truly see you—not as the pianist, not as the performer, but as you, just you.

Yoongi’s silence stretches on, but it’s not awkward. It’s a silence that holds the weight of shared understanding, a quiet that speaks volumes. He’s taken aback by your words—not in a negative way, but in a way that makes him reflect on something he hadn’t really considered before you came into his life.

For so long, he’s been defined by his music, by the role of the pianist, the teacher, the performer—by the roles others saw him in. But never by who he truly is. And as your request lingers in his mind, something stirs within him. Maybe, for once, it would be nice to be seen as more than the musician, more than the teacher, and to be understood for who he really is.

He thinks of all the people who’ve admired his talent, his skill, his performances, but never asked to know him as the person behind it all. The man who has always been more than the persona he’s built. He realizes, too, that he’s never truly been able to simply exist with someone—not because of what he does, but just because of who he is.

He takes a breath, steadying himself before a soft, genuine smile forms on his lips. It’s a smile that feels like a small offering, one that says more than words ever could. Then, in a simple, quiet gesture, he raises his hand towards your face—an unspoken invitation to truly begin anew.

“Let’s start as strangers,” he says, his voice calm, but there’s something different in it, something new and uncharted. “Hi. My name is Min Yoongi.”

And in that moment, it’s as if everything shifts. It’s no longer about titles or expectations, no longer about the roles you’ve both played. It’s just two people, meeting for the first time—not as the musician or the teacher, but simply as who they are.

And somehow, it feels like the beginning of something real, something that could change everything.

‎‎‎ ───────୨ৎ───────

[redrose10]

Can you write a friends to lovers Yoongi with prompts 26 and 49?

I’ve gotten a ton of requests and I’m so happy about that! It’ll take a few days to get them done, but I’m working on them.

I hope this one is okay!

#26 It was you the whole time

#49 I don’t want to screw this up

Warnings: None

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Blue or purple?”, you asked holding up two different dress options. Your long time best friend Yoongi sat on your bed carefully looking over each choice. “Umm purple. It really makes your eyes pop”., he said pointing at the floral dress. You smiled as you quickly hurried off to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Normally you would be a nervous wreck getting ready for a first date, but this wasn’t just any first date. Yoongi also had a date with some woman he’d met at work who also happened to have a friend that was looking for a date so somehow the four of you were now going on a double date. When Yoongi had brought up the date your heart skipped a beat thinking he was going finally ask you out only to be disappointed when he mentioned the other woman and you going out with her friend. And being the good friend that you are you agreed. Maybe her friend would be really cute and nice and you can finally let go of this silly crush you’ve had on Yoongi all these years.

“Y/N are you ready? We’re going to be late.”, Yoongi called from the living room. Hurrying up you grabbed your sweater and purse and met him at the door.

“Wow you look really pretty”., he said.

“Oh thank you!”

He reached for the hall table grabbing a beautiful bouquet of flowers. You had to remind yourself that they weren’t for you and he wasn’t your date no matter how much you wanted that. He held the door open for you as you smiled and walked silently to his car.

The restaurant was beautiful. He made a good choice. Yoongi’s date and her friend were already sat at a table waiting for you two. His date was beautiful and sweet and smart and perfect. Her and Yoongi looked great together. Her friend while definitely handsome didn’t seem very interested in you. He barely acknowledged your presence which made the jealousy and hurt bubble up when you watched Yoongi give his dste her flowers and pull her chair out for her. He was attentive as he listened to her talk about her life while your date didn’t even bother to ask you your name.

Yoongi and his date walked over to the bar to get another drink leaving you alone with yours. Curious as to what was so important that he couldn’t put his phone down for ten minutes you looked over to see him texting some woman who had sent him a photo of herself dressed in a barely there bra and some vulgar words included.

You decided you’d had enough of being treated like that and grabbed your things before walking past the bar. Yoongi grabbed your arm asking you what was wrong.

“It just not working out between me and him. I’m going to head home.“, you managed to choke out.

“Okay let me get my keys. We can go.”

You shook your head, “No don’t worry about me. Enjoy your date.”

He tried to stop you again but you were too quick already navigating through the sea of people.

Just as you exited the restaurant you felt the first few rain drops hit your forehead before the skies opened up soaking you.

“Great! Just great!”, you shouted as you began the walk through the parking lot.

Due to the rain and thunder you didn’t hear the footsteps running up behind you. Only noticing when someone grabbed your arm startling you. You were ready to have to defend yourself until you recognized the face.

“Come on Y/N, Lets go home.”, Yoongi pleaded.

Feeling cold and wet and having no fight left you agreed following him back to the car waiting for him to open the passenger side door for you.

Once in the car he cranked the heat and began the drive back to your apartment.

Once you were warmed up you broke the silence, “I’m sorry for ruining your date. Hopefully she lets you take her out again. I can even apologize to her myself if you’d like.”

Yoongi thought for a moment before speaking, “No it’s okay. I already told her that I didn’t think it was going to work out.”

Shocked you turned to him, “What?! Why?! You seemed like you really liked her. You even did the little nose scrunch thing you do when you think somethings cute.”

“I did the nose scrunch thing when I saw you do your little happy dance after tasting the calamari.”

“Oh.”, you felt your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

He continued, “Besides, I’m kind of already in love with someone else. So I’ve been trying to ignore my feelings and look for love elsewhere but I’ve realized I can’t keep doing that.”

Being the dutiful best friend that you are you agreed, “You should. You should go tell her how you feel and that you love her.”

Yoongi chuckled, “I just did.”

Feeling the car come to a stop you turned to look at him, “Me? You love me?”

“Yes Y/N, it was you the whole time. Ever since the first day I met you I knew I loved you. I was too afraid to say anything because I don’t want to screw this up. I thought I’d rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all. But watching you on a date with that jerk, seeing him ignore you and treat you like that made me realize that I want to show you how you should be taken on a date. I want to take care of you. I want to buy you flowers and take you out to dinner and end the night by kissing you in the rain. I want you to be mine Y/N.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face as you nodded, “Of course I want that too. I love you.”

He breathed a sigh of relief before quickly exiting the car and jogging over to your side. He opened the door reaching for your hand and pulling you out into the rain.

“What are doi-?”, you questioned but you were silenced as his lips met yours. You both were getting drenched in the rain, but neither caring because you were together.

[ilys00ga]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐓.𝟐

➞ pair: yoongi x f reader

➞ synopsis: where you meet him during your best friend's wedding. can a heart beat again after breaking to pieces?

➞ genre: best friend's brother!yoongi, actress!female reader, bookshop owner!yoongi, angst, kind of hurt/comfort, there's also some fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn.

➞ warnings: mentions of cheating, heartbreak, reader is going through some deep shit, failed past relationship, alcohol consumption (drink mindfully and responsibly (not me saying this when I don't even drink lmao)). this is PURE fiction!

➞ A/N: I wanna start by saying thank you to the one or two persons who requested another part of this fic. as I mentioned before, I had no intention or inspiration to write more of it, but I'm glad that yall forced me into coming up with this (jkjk). I don't KNOW how and what , but I WANT to write more parts of this. so, in the meantime, enjoy this and expect something to be posted in some few months lmao. I had to rewrite this a hundred times, I kind of don't wanna proofread it ever again 😭 so pls ignore any mistakes or questionable points (🙏🙏🙏!!!!!!). love <3

➞ tags: @viankiss + @parkjennykim + @acquiescence804

★ MASTERLIST.

Ethereal clouds blanketed the sky above the town, giving a gleam of light every now and then as they played a game of hide and seek with the sun. The crisp wind bit the skin of your face, carrying the scent of freshly wet concrete in every direction it went. the world was vivid in color around you and underneath your feet. As per always, nothing could beat the delight of walking down the street shortly after a round or two of rain.

as you make your way down the sidewalk, you reach a shopwindow displaying a collection of book goodness. The huge sign right at the top of the storefront read 'SNOOZE', and you wondered what kind of significance it carried for it to be the chosen name of the shop before you.

not wasting any more precious time, you decided to pay a visit and see if any book would call out your name as soon as it spots you, and lure you closer to fan its pages and listen to their story.

The first thing that welcomed you as soon as you walked into the place was a radiating warmth. the air was sweet-scented with a mix of wood, paper, new and old books, multiple perfumes and a mouth watering smell of both coffee and tea. It was almost too overwhelming, but the atmosphere soaked your heart with so much comfort almost immediately that it left you speechless.

The shop was on two floors. The first one was largely specious. Every wall was loaded up with books neatly lined up from top to bottom, and planted everywhere were tables presenting neatly organized books. Some people were scattered around, talking in hushed voices or just silently browsing. Others you could see chilling on the second floor, where a coffee bar was. It was not as spacious as the one underneath, but it was commodious enough for some extra small couches and chairs here and there.

you started walking around the lovely aisles, taking your time as you scanned through them. your finger ran down spines, and your nose inhaled the sweet, dearly loved smell of paper books in.

At the heart of your wandering, piano notes rode the air inside the shop, rushing as they slipped between shelves and making their way to your ears. it tugged a smile on your face, the smooth melody that sounded somewhat familiar, and you stalked its source with sheer curiosity.

There, when you finally made it, you found the man you met at your best friend’s wedding a couple of months earlier, seated on the piano bench, focused. Yoongi was his name. Yoongi, Soyoon’s older brother, who walked around with a box of UNO cards in his pocket. such a memorable person.

He looked slightly different than the last (fist and only) time you saw him, though. His hair was shorter, pushed back with a pair of sunglasses resting on his head. He also had sidecuts, and some ear piercings. totally different from the other day.

perhaps the "performance" went on for about two minutes more, u couldn't tell, but soon he had his hands clasped on his lap and smiled, satisfied. Before you could walk away, Yoongi turned and his eyes immediately fell on you. ‘oh’, he whispered as his eyes widened in surprise, and you cracked a faint smile.

"didn't expect to see you again." he spoke first, standing up and approaching you.

"Me neither. I was losing hope in playing another round of UNO with you again."

"Well, about that.." scratching the back of his head, he bit his lip sheepishly and confessed, "I kept a box in my pocket for days but then lost track and didn’t think we’d see each other again.."

"Too bad I can't beat you today.." you scrunched your nose teasingly.

"we can play another time?" he suggested, tucking his hands into the pockets of his dark pants and relaxing his board shoulders.

"Sure, why not." you averted your eyes from his for a moment before meeting them again with a small smile.

Neither of you said anything for a short moment. it wasn't exactly awkward—or at least not from your end—in fact, something deep inside kept eagerly nagging, pushing you to say something and keep pulling strings of conversation from the man before you. so, you decided to comply and chat up with a hint of hesitance hanging from your teeth, "You work here?"

"oh, yeah. with a friend of mine." he answered, "is there anything specific you'd like?"

"no, I’d just discovered the place so I was walking around."

"I see… coffee? or do you prefer tea?"

"Coffee is good."

"Alright, come with me." He led you upstairs, told you to take a seat, and started preparing two cups for the both of you. Truthfully speaking, the cozyness of the store caught you off guard. really. It didn't feel like a shop, no, it felt like a private reading space in the comfort of your own house. For a moment, you felt sad as you wondered whether it was a painfully underrated place or not. It would've been such a shame if a place like that one wasn't appreciated enough, you thought.

a stretched out arm placed a cup in front of you. looking up, you were reminded of his presence once again.

"there you go," he said and sat across from you.

"How's the situation here?" you inquired, fingers hugging the warm mug between your hands.

"pretty good. We started recently, but it's already going well."

"I see." you nodded your head and took a sip, "Associating readers and bookworms all day must be nice."

"It's fun, sometimes." he hummed, "Are you one?"

"a bookworm? not really, no. I mean, I do love reading but I'm almost always busy filming so.."

"filming…?"

"oh, yeah. I'm an actress. a very not well known one, at that." you chuckled.

"That's cool." you could read elements of genuine interest off of his expression. you weren’t sure why, but it made you smile.

"you think so?" you asked.

"Of course I do. acting has always been interesting to me."

The two of you exchanged bits of comments and opinions for a few more minutes. it wasn't until you glanced down at your wrist watch that you realized it was time for you to leave.

"But you haven't picked a book yet," he insisted when you got up and bid your goodbyes.

"there were too many good ones, I really couldn't choose."

"Wait, come with me." you trailed along behind him as he headed downstairs, until he came to a halt and showed you a tall bookcase. written on the very top was a big “BLIND DATE WITH A BOOK”. Each one of the books in it was wrapped in the same gray paperwrap and had words scribbled on it. after a quick glance, you could tell that they were short anonymous letters.

"People drop mystery books here all the time. see if you find something that stirs your interest?" Yoongi proposed.

Doing as he said, you went through the notes, reading each one carefully, until one grabbed your attention.

“for the mourning soul,

harried and frayed at the edges,

this is a hug from me to you.”

It read.

“Good choice.” somewhere to your left, you could hear Yoongi softly muttering.

"baby, please listen to me!" he pleaded, hand tightening around your arm to prevent you from walking away.

"What more do you have to say? I saw everything with my own eyes!" your voice cracked as you held a sob in, trying so hard to hold yourself together and not break down in front of the man that just broke your heart with no care.

"it's not what it looks like! I love you, why'd you think I would lie to you?!"

and all of a sudden, every word known to man vanished from the top of your tongue. your brain went blank, your face frozen. all you could muster was a faint "...you.."

“Cut!” the director’s voice rang out and sliced its way through the scene.

Everyone on set looked at you with knitted brows as he walked up to you, pulling you aside. you shift your weight from one foot to the other, mentally preparing yourself for whatever remark he was intending to deliver your way.

“__, we’ve done intense scenes like this one before. I know you can do better.” he crossed his arms, eyebrows inching closer to each other as he spoke.

“I'm sorry, sir. it's just so ha-"

“How hard can it be to express and demystify being cheated on? have you never been cheated on before? just conjure that picture up, then translate and convey it. it’s not that hard.” he rolled his eyes and instructed with a sharp tone. it made your stomach twist again and you felt sick, almost as though those pair of strict eyes grew an arm and bunched you right in the chest, hence your aching bottom lip as you chewed at it and looked down at your feet.

and with a timid voice, you answered, “I know, I'm sorry, I will try my best.”

“right.” was all he muttered before he walked away, announcing a ten minutes long break to the whole crew.

it took everything within you not to walk up to him and scream at his face until your throat bled and burned with an old rage. you really wanted to do that, but you didn’t. you couldn't. so you just stood there and watched the room move like nothing had been said.

A guy walked in. He hastened to reach the director and whispered something in his ear. another guy came up and handed you a cup of coffee. you thanked him and put your mind to the drink, savoring its bitterness as it washed every corner of your mouth.

some minutes later, your phone beeped with an incoming message:

from Saera <3: There’s something i think you should know. Let's meet up when you’re done.

Planning it all step by step was what the universe had done. the director suddenly called it a wrap, and the room was moving quicker than before.

“Here’s your bottle, miss.” a blond bartender said with a sweet grin on his face. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a necklace sitting comfortably between the partially exposed pecks of his chest—a sight you were sure you didn’t see a few minutes ago since the first few buttons of his shirt were definitely not unbuttoned.

You muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ and opened the bottle of your favorite alcoholic drink, filling the empty glass you were clutching with the other hand and taking a decent sip. it burnt as it washed down the walls of your throat, to your chest and spread all over your system.

“Oof, I really needed that.” hissing, you threw your head backward.

Over the past couple of months, that bar came to be a comfort zone for you. when the emotions you tenderly carried in the palms of your hands overflowed and raced down your arms, reaching your elbows to then drip like heavy raindrops by your feet on the floor, you rushed your way to this pub to pat it dry.

Maybe it was the coziness of its vintage interior decor presented to the visiting eye that pulled you in. or the quiet atmosphere that lured every presence that steps into the place with curious eyes, welcoming it with a warm embrace and a gentle smile. or the hushed voices of customers spending their time in various of ways and feelings, one sitting alone and sipping on a huge glass of beer with a grim face, another sitting lifelessly with barely opened eyes and a bunch of empty glasses stacked up on the table before them, a couple with tinted cheeks sharing whispered love between each other and some elderly people just hanging out here and there.

The cocky bartender was somehow always on shift whenever you showed up. He seemed to love shamelessly hitting on you with that large smile of his, but Instead of paying him any attention, you fix your eyes on the stacked up bottles and glasses behind him, shining with reflections of soft yellow, and politely smile back every single time. That didn't seem to wind him up, though.

A thick steam of thoughts fogged your mind up as you sat on one of the high red stools lined up at the counter, facing the room with your back and consuming one glass after another.

A soft knock on the wooden counter to your right pulled you out of your wandering thoughts. your back stiffened and your head snapped up. Then you saw him, once again, Yoongi smiling down at you, and he ever so softly said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

He didn't have his sunglasses above his head, you noticed. his fringe fell on his forehead, and he didn't have the piercings on, you noticed that too. Amber light bulbs beamed gold on his pale skin, going perfectly right with the black silk dress shirt he was wearing.

"Are you stalking me?" you said with a thick, slurred voice.

he tilted his head, still smiling, and pointed, "this bar is two blacks away from the bookshop. I like to come here often."

you didn't say anything further—maybe it was just the alcohol, or maybe it was something you couldn't confidently put your finger on, but there was a voice that kept praising his face in the back of your head and you just sat there, listening, observing, red-cheeked, droopy-eyed, motionless.

Yoongi nodded towards the seat right next to yours and muttered, “can i?”

"o-of course!" you spat an answer out, pressing your eyes shut and facing away from him. maybe drinking too much wasn't the best idea that night. or maybe it was that you should've paid more attention and recognized the very familiar street beforehand? either way, you felt too unstable to function in front of another human being at that moment.

"You look troubled." was the first thing he said after the batista had come, served him the drink he ordered and left again.

"ah… just tired."

The man didn't say anything for a while. The frown he immediately noticed on your face when he spotted you just earlier ran a hundred questions in his brain, however, at the very tip of his tongue laid a question he really wanted to voice out ever since the two of you had met at the bookstore, but he just couldn't.

After giving it some thought, he gathered some strength and decided to just ask his concern away.

“that thing you told me about the other day,” he started, carefully picking his words, and you tried to listen as attentively as your fogged up mind could, "does it still hurt?”

At first, you couldn't understand what he was referring to exactly, not until you thought back on the two times you two had met before.

he watched your pointer finger, the one you'd been gliding along the rim of your glass freeze. He didn’t speak, neither did you. it seemed like neither of you was breathing for a few seconds. The air in the room was getting colder, and so were the tips of your fingers as they hung above and barely touched the rim.

Gulping the saliva that gathered on top of your tongue, you contemplated whether you should provide an answer to his question or just ignore it like it was never asked at all. This was a question no one had ever asked you since the entire cheating situation had happened. it was always ‘are you okay?' or ‘Did you move on?’. something of the sort. Not once did anyone wonder whether it still stinged your heart every time the image of your ex popped up before your eyes or not. not once did anyone ask if the scene still haunted you after all these months or not.

But it’s not like you were mad or pointing accusatory fingers at anybody. the pain was yours, and only you shall bask and drown in it. only you shall figure out how the fuck to get the hell out of that dark pit and heal from it.

It was just something that you yourself were too caught up in the hurricane of your grief and bitterness to even ask your own self, ‘does it really still hurt?’, ‘Are you getting any better?’, 'are you still stuck?', 'what if you're stuck there forever?'

It took a long moment before you could manage a proper reply to that stirring query. until you uttered a small ‘he died’ loud enough for him to hear.

From the corner of your eyes, you could see him lifting his head, yet he remained silent. you rawly added, "the asshole died in a car accident like nothing had happened at all... tell me," you paused to lift your tremling hand and rest its palm over your chest, right where you heart was beating fast, " how should I mend what’s been ruptured in here now..? Why is it even still hurting..? Why am I mad..? I don't understand. Do you..? I…”

Yoongi took his time to answer, humming then absent-mindedly nodding his head before speaking again, “it takes some time.”

“how do you know that?” you inquired again, lifting your head to have a look at his side profile.

“I know how it feels to be abandoned by someone so special, at the very least.”

“you got dumped?” you blurted.

He let out a breathy scoff, lightly scratching at the skin under his left eye with flushed cheeks.

“did you really have to say it that way?” he hissed playfully and wet his lower lip, eyes pinned on yours, “but yes, my ex left me to chase after her dreams.”

somewhere deep in those dark orbs, you could catch a glimpse of something sorrowful, but it quickly vanished as he attempted to smile and then looked away.

“I guess we’re both losers, then.” you downed the three quarters full glass in one draft. The room was spinning. you were feeling gradually more light-headed.

“We are not losers just because we got our hearts broken.” Yoongi, on the other hand, didn’t sound that buzzed yet. his voice got deeper, and his words stood steady the more he talked.

“Then what are we? If not a loser, then what does being cheated on or abandoned for some worldly goal make you?" tears started welling up from deep inside, but even in your dizzy state, you couldn't let them out. not at that moment, not with Yoongi some inches away from you. you gulped, and with a trembling voice, you muttered, "being stuck in one square while they move on with their lives and build castles for themselves, then have the audacity to die like nothing had happened at all, what does that make you?”

“a lover. being betrayed by a loved one despite all the unconditional love you offered makes you somebody who loves so sincerely. a wretched lover."

you allow his words to set in, analyzing them briefly and pondering before letting a snort out.

“That's even worse.” you said, bitterly.

Yoongi smiled, equally bitter as you, "turns out we're actually more similar than I had thought."

a ‘do you need anything else, dear?’ popped your little bubble up when the bartender showed up again, not once glancing at the man sitting right next to you as he addressed all of his attention towards you.

“no, we’re leaving.” came a sharp answer from Yoongi, and when you glanced at him you saw that his face held a stiff expression, one that was very different from the wide smile and crinkly eyes it was displaying some minutes ago.

The bartender turned his head towards him with a flat smile, then excused himself to serve some new customers.

“we’re leaving?” you tilted your head with furrowed eyes in confusion.

“yeah. you look gone as hell, and it’s getting late.” he started getting up, “i’ll give you a ride.”

“That sounds about right.” absently nodding your head, you stood up as well, and he guided you out of the building.

The door to your flat beeped once automatically unlocked, and just as you stepped in, you were faced with Saera. she stood there with her hands on her hips, eyeing your drunken state, unsatisfied. her shoulders lowered, and her brows rose as soon as she caught sight of Yoongi standing right behind you, then said: “you two..”

Yoongi began explaining the situation briefly to her, scratching the back of his neck as he stuttered on his words and blushed.

“she's not that wasted. All is good. Just put her to bed.” he finished his summary and hummed, satisfied with himself.

Before Saera could say anything, you grumbled an “I can take care of myself just fine.” and walked up to your room with unsteady steps, waving them off.

“and I'll go.” Yoongi mumbled, quickly walking out with a ghost of faint red still remaining on his plump, milky cheeks.

[kawaikisses]

m.list ; Reading list.

Updated. Jan 22, 2024.

Note : I read k-pop idols x reader/ orginal female character fics, so this list is organized keeping that in mind, I do not personally have any issues with other genders, this is just my preference. Thankyou. If you hate unnecessarily, sincerely, no fucks will be given.

(everything is organized by alphabetical order)

↬𝐁𝐘 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄.

angst .

fluff .

smut .

↬𝐁𝐘 𝐀𝐔’𝐒.

artist au .

arranged marriage au .

assassin au .

baker au .

bartender au .

BDSM au .

best friend’s brother au .

best friends to lovers au .

best friend’s sister au .

boyfriend au .

camboy au .

camgirl au .

camp counselor au .

CEO au .

chef au .

childhood friends to lovers au .

club au .

college au .

coworker au .

crime au .

dad au .

doctor au .

dancer au .

detective au .

divorce au .

enemies to lovers au .

established relationship au .

exes to lovers au .

fantasy au .

farm au .

father au .

friends to benefits au .

friends to lovers au .

fuckboy au .

fuckgirl au .

forbidden au .

gamer au .

god au .

hitman au .

horror au .

husband au .

hybrid au .

idiots to lovers au .

idol au .

king au .

lawyer au .

mafia au .

magic au .

medical au .

musician au .

neighbours au .

noona au .

one night stand au .

photographer au .

pirates au .

professor au .

prince au .

rich au .

road trip au .

roommate au .

royalty au .

second chance au .

secret relationship au .

sex worker au .

single parent au .

social media au .

songwriter au .

soulmate au .

spy au .

superhero au .

supernatural au .

tattoo artist au .

teacher au .

unrequited love au .

vampire au .

werewolf au .

wife au .

↬𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒.

kim namjoon .

kim seokjin .

min yoongi .

jung hoseok .

park jimin .

kim taehyung .

jeon jungkook .

ot7 .

↬𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄.

drama .

hurt/comfort .

magic .

mutual pining .

mystery .

romance .

slow burn .

thriller .

age play .

crack .

Note : please let me know if any of the links are not working. Thankyou.

Note : since Tumblr only allows 100 links per page, so this list will be continued in another page, which is linked down below.

↬masterlist continued .

[violetsiren90]

What the Moon Saw

Pairing: Yoongi x f!Reader

Genre: One-shot; non-idol AU; friends to lovers; young love; summer nights, angst/fluff/smut

Summary: Having been with each other through thick and thin, you and your childhood friend, Yoongi, realize that nobody knows how to say goodbye.

Listen to: "Nobody Knows" by The Lumineers

Drabbles: Stolen Tides; Beacons Ashore; The Lighthouse Keeper; Under the Hunter's Moon

Content Warnings: 18+ (minors dni); allusions to domestic abuse; divorce of parents; cigarette smoking; infidelity (not between main couple); kissing; hickeys; making out; hand jobs; oral sex (female receiving); loss of virginity (female); moments of body insecurity; unprotected sex; cumming inside; cockwarming; characters are ADULTS at the time of their sexual encounter; LOTS of emotions

Author's note: I moved. Like, a block away from the beach, and the views and the vibes have me ALL up in my feels. I wrote this in two nights and then sat on it. I wasn't sure if I was going to post it or just keep it in my heart because parts of it are so personal to me. BUT, here it is. I want to give inspiration credit to @orchidyoonkook , because I will never ever be able to write young love or Yoongi without being influenced by the beauty that is Under the Willow Tree. 💕 If anyone chooses to read this little love story of mine, I hope it brings you something wholesome!

If no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

    You inhaled deeply, taking the salty air into your lungs as you gazed out over the cliff side and across the rippling blue that stretched on and on until it met the soft pink glow of the horizon. Your eyes tracked the tide lapping at the smooth sands. You slipped off your heels to meet the cool pavement, but you could feel it already - the soft golden grains molding to meet your steps. These shores hadn't borne your footprints in over a decade, but here you were, drawn back again by the hypnotic crash of the sea and the lonely call of the gulls. It felt as though you had never left. You leaned over the railing of the rickety staircase that wove its way down the cliff side into the sand and scree. Your gaze trailed down the steps, one by one, until you saw it, jutting out halfway down: the lip of a ledge in the rock face. Your breath caught in your chest. Old, familiar feelings of a time gone by washed over you. The years rolled back like clouds from the sun in the western sky.

You were nineteen.

You shivered, drawing your knees up and hugging them to you as sat on the thick woolen blanket you had laid over the cool stone of the ledge. Even on a summer night like this, you should have worn something more practical. But you had worn your cotton sundress with the cherries. He had once told you that you looked like the main character in that dress, and it had been your favorite ever since.

You watched the moon dance on the dark water and thought about all it had seen. It had been watching the little alcove from the beginning. It had seen you the summer after your first year of middle school, wrapped in a blanket with book between your hands, as you took refuge from the emotional turmoil that shook your house nearly every night leading up to your parents' divorce. It had seen the boy one night, wandering the beach with a cigarette and busted lip, trying to smoke away the tears in his eyes. It had seen the boy climb the stairs, only to discover his favorite hiding place was already harboring another runaway. It had seen you look at him - skinny limbs in a jacket and ripped jeans not lanky on his small frame, tussled dark hair, round face, little bleeding pouted lips, dark sharp eyes wide with surprise - and consider that he was likely the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. It had seen him offer you a cigarette which you refused. It had seen him ask you for a light, which you didn't have. And then it had seen you become friends. Best friends. It had watched you become all that the other truly had in the small, beautiful, painful world of a child. And now it would watch him amble up the beach one last time to find you there.

Yoongi. He had been so upset when you told him that you were leaving for college, but he had tried his best not to show it. He was always like that, keeping things deep inside. You had to wait and watch and listen and coax them out. You could always find the right time to do it, when he felt safe to let you. Most nights, though, it was you pouring out every little thing in your heart. Yoongi loved it when you did that. He would listen with the softest little smile and warm eyes, creasing in the corners, as he watched your hands move with as much animation as your voice when you spoke. His nearly-silent breathy laugh would come like a breeze off the sea and waft around you, lifting your spirits and cleansing your soul. His rare, full smile spreading in breathtaking beauty over his face, pulling his upper lip away from his gums. There were the good times, and the bad ones. On hard nights you would hold each other in silence, letting the beat of the other's heart and the steady undulation of the tide carry you through to the dawn.

You remembered the first time you had awakened in his arms after such a night. The light had just started to stream over the tops of the cliffs, painting the water in rose gold. You had shivered, feeling the dampness of the cool salty air in your hair. And then you had looked up and seen him there, holding you, still fast asleep. His face was angelic, little pink lips just parted, chest rising and falling with the swell of his breath, and you swore you could endure anything life threw at you if the first thing you saw each day were his dark lashes resting gently on the apples of his cheeks. Yoongi had finally stirred and blinked down at you, just gazing silently - the little warm smile in his eyes rather than on his lips. In that moment, something had changed. In the weeks that followed, you thought you had never felt so many things at once.

You felt giddy. You felt a little sick. You felt like you could fly.

You were in love.

You were in love and you had very nearly worked up the courage to do something about it when you saw it - that horrid little purple bruise right below his ear. You had asked him if his father had done it and he had been confused at first. But when you brushed your fingers so softly over the mark, his eyes had widened and he had recoiled, pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure it from your view. He had insisted that he was fine and not to worry. But worry you did, all the way up to the day you realized what the little bruise really was. Then your worry morphed into something different. You felt sick again, but this time it felt like a burden. You had chided yourself for being so stupid. He was beautiful and sixteen, of course he was involved with girls - girls that weren't you. Your heart broke. You pieced it back together with the succor of his friendship, and, soon, you started seeing other boys too. But you never let them give you purple bruises. You didn't want them from their lips. 

As the seasons went by, you remained tethered to one another. Regardless of friends or suitors who would come and go, you knew each other in a way that no one else could. A way that didn't require words. Laughter bubbled up without effort or restraint. Fights ended in tears and forehead kisses and never lasted more than a few moments. Never past parting. Until one day a few weeks ago when he had told you that a boy you were going with was seeing another girl. Yoongi had never liked your boyfriend, and so you had reacted badly, gotten defensive and let yourself be angry with him for telling you. You had snapped at him to mind his own business. When he had insisted that you were his business you had said no you weren't, not in that way. He had gone quiet. So quiet. And then he had left. And he hadn't come the next night. Or the night after that.

You were so angry and anxious, and you told yourself you wouldn't wait for him another night, so you stayed home for the rest of the week. Then, on the third night away, you had tucked yourself into bed only to imagine Yoongi waiting for you, alone in the darkness. You had whipped off your covers and gone to find him in your pajamas. When he had seen you he had jumped up, throwing his cigarette aside, and crushed you in his arms. He had hugged you from the other side of the railing, not even waiting for you to climb over, then lifted you to stand before him on the ledge where he had enveloped you in his arms again. You had tried to apologize, but he wouldn't let you. And then you told him what you had been dreading to tell him all summer: you were leaving. He hadn't reacted. He had just held you in silence. But there was something different in him now, something that had his eyes trained immovably on the horizon. Something that wouldn't let him look at you. Something that distracted him from all you had to say as his thumbs brushed softly over your arms. He had looked at you so strangely before you had parted that night.

Now you were meeting one last time before you would watch the little coastal town and all its hurts disappear in your rearview mirror. You needed a second chance and this scholarship might be your only shot. Your reverie broke as you noticed a figure shuffling down the waterline in the bright light of the waxing gibbous. The figure sprung nimbly, with practiced steps, up the stairs, and lightly vaulted the rail, landing with a soft thud, catlike, a few feet from where you sat. He stepped forward, standing over you as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He was wearing tight khakis, white tennis shoes, and a plain white tee under his green military jacket. With a smoke tucked behind his ear and that little smirk on his lips, you thought he might be cooler than Steve McQueen.

"Got a light?" he asked coolly, shoving the pack of Marlboros back in his pocket. You rolled your eyes.

"Of course not, Yoongi. And why on earth do you always ask me that when you've got one anyway?"

Yoongi smiled to himself as he brought a lighter to the little yellow-tipped cylinder between his lips. It was a secret kind of smile, the kind that made you want to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth. But tonight wasn't for fighting, even the bickering kind. He eased himself down beside you with his signature careful grace. You sat in silence, gaze trained out over the water. While you were looking elsewhere, he relaxed, and you tracked his movements in your peripheral vision. You would do this sometimes, especially when he was particularly guarded. He had always been bad at eye contact, but if you gave him a little space he would let down his walls, and you could read him like a book. Just now, he had let his gaze settle on you. Smoke hissed through his lips, his mouth hanging open just a little in that way it did when he was lost to his thoughts. His eyes roved over you in a way that made you mouth go dry. You swallowed. He suddenly shifted his gaze, coughing a bit.

"I like this dress," he offered, like an apology.

"I know," you murmured with a smile.

"Yeah?" he questioned, brow furrowing, as he took another drag. He was quiet for a beat before pressing out another question. "Paul headed out east too?"

"I broke up with him," came your answer, but without a smile this time.

  "Yeah?"

    "Oh come on, Yoongi," you bit out, "You knew that was going to happen. That's why you told me!"

His jaw ticked ever so slightly.

    "You know that's not true. He was cheating on you. I couldn't let you be in the dark about it - get hurt by another one of these assholes who don't deserve your time in the first place."

You sighed, frustration rising unbidden again as Yoongi casually hurtled the unspoken walls you had erected to make things easier.

    "What I deserve is my business. I don't go chastising you for letting random bitches suck on your neck and god knows what else so that you don't feel lonely."

The remark had been soft but laced with venom, and you had regretted breaching your own resolve against negativity the moment the words had spilled from your lips.

    "Random..." He stared at you intently, surprise and confusion mingling with another indiscernible expression in his eyes as they traced over your features. You were trying to think of a way, any way, to salvage the conversation when he huffed out a laugh.

    "You did know what it was!"

    "What?"

    "That hickey you asked about sophomore year."

Your stomach flipped.

    "How do you even remember that?" You blustered in incredulity.

    "How do you?"

    He was staring at you knowingly with those achingly beautiful dark eyes that always saw you. It was one of the things you loved most about him. But right now it was terrifying. Right now you wanted to escape, only, there was nowhere to go. So for a moment, just a moment, you didn't hide anymore.

    "Because," you swallowed, trailing your eyes back up to his, your voice shaking a bit as you whispered, "I remember everything."

A beat. Two. You didn't make a disarming jest, or a hurried qualification. You didn't even blink. In a flash as quick and heavy as a summer storm, years of yearning filled your eyes like intangible tears, holding his face in your gaze before casting it back out over the sea. Yoongi had froze where he sat, eyes trained immovably on you before he suddenly stood, tossing his cigarette and cursing as he took a step toward the edge, weaving his fingers through his hair.

"What?" you asked, almost defensively.

He didn't turn around, but you could hear the emotion in his voice, his head bowed as he wrestled with the words.

    "Nah, that's not fair. You're leaving...You're leaving and you're gonna make it even...even harder right now?"

Turns out you weren't the only one who had been building walls with invisible bricks. You jumped to your feet.

    "Oh, so this is my fault? You've been telling me my whole life to get out! You convinced me to apply to the Ivy Leagues! You spent the last weeks pushing me away! I don't understand what you want from me, Yoongi!"

He turned toward you, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes on the ground.

    "A clean break," he said lowly, "Not from you...for you. I just wanted you to run, no guilt no pain, and not look back."

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you shook your head.

    "That's not how it works though. I was always going to look back. Whenever I was frightened or lost or uncertain. Whenever I woke up in the morning or closed my eyes to sleep, or laughed, or...or felt so much joy I didn't know what to do with it. I was always going to look back, Yoongi," You took a deep breath, "I was going to look for you."

Hot tears slipped down your cheeks as you grabbed his arm and pressed your wet face into his shoulder. You could feel his body shake with little sobs.

    "Don't," he croaked out, "don't look for me."

    "Sorry," you huffed a tearful laugh into the fabric of his sleeve, "I don't think my heart will listen to you. Pretty rough deal when it's yours after all."

You had tried to say it like a joke. It had come out like a promise.

    Yoongi stilled. Everything stilled. For a moment, it was as if even the sea and the sky and the moon held their breath. He let his hands fall from where they covered his face. As he lifted his head and turned, you dropped his arm, thinking for one horrible moment that he meant to push you away. But he didn't. He reached for you, and gently, firmly - like every move he ever made, like every word he ever spoke - slipped his hand around the nape of your neck and pressed his mouth against yours.

    You gasped softly against his lips.

    Sweet, methodical, insistent. He slipped his tongue against your bottom lip and you tilted your head to slot your mouth against his, deepening the kiss as his tongue brushed languorously against your own. He tasted like mint and cigarettes and him. You could do this all day. A little dagger pierced your heart at the thought that you only had tonight. You stumbled back, tugging him down beside you onto the blanket. You pushed him to his back and slipped onto his lap, leaning down to reconnect your lips with his. He chuckled into your mouth, his cheeks still wet with tears. 

    "Slow down," he hummed.

    "No," you murmured in simple defiance, kissing along his jaw before dipping to press your mouth to the soft flesh of his neck.

You licked softly, experimentally, along the side of his throat, and his fingers tightened against your waist. He tasted like salty skin and the alcohol of that cheap musky cologne he wore and Yoongi. You leaned back, supporting yourself with hands on either side of his head as you looked down at him.

    "Can I?" you asked with a shy smile

    "Hm?" he hummed, large, lithe hands massaging your waist.

    "Leave a mark?"

His eyes squeezed into little crescent moons, and his mouth pulled up into a full smile he couldn't repress. He chuckled again, reaching up to brush his palm over your cheek, and nodded, tilting his head to the side to expose the creamy skin of his neck. Your heart hammered in your chest as you leaned down and placed an open-mouthed kiss to his throat before sucking until you had pulled a low, deep groan from him. You pushed up again, surprised at the sound, new and lovely, to find him flushed - his blown pupils darkening his eyes, and a little wet patch of smooth skin growing rosy against his throat. You felt a thrill rush through you, making you tremble. You leaned down and marked him again and again, pulling sweet moans from his lips until his neck and collarbones were littered with the proof of your mouth. You lifted your face to kiss him again, but after pressing his lips to yours twice, he pulled back.

"One more," he whispered, taking your hand from his face and guiding it down to the slight firm swell of the top of his left pec.

His eyes played over your face as you felt it softly against your fingertips - his heart. In a valiant fight for your composure, you pressed your eyes shut and buried your face in his chest. He ran a hand over the back of your head soothingly. You raised your face to meet his gaze again, choking out a little sob at the depth of its gentle affection. You slipped your fingers to the collar of his cotton tee and stretched it down and to the side, revealing his bare chest. With reverence you pressed your mouth to his skin, fulfilling his request.     

No sooner had you raised your eyes to his again than he was pulling you against his lips and rolling you to your back. His weight sank into you as your mouths moved together and you thought, maybe, under his warmth was the only place you ever wanted to be. Your body responded to him seemingly of its own accord, your legs weaving around the backs of his thighs as a thrumming ache intensified at your core. As he moved to kiss your neck you found your hips rolling up, seeking relief for the sticky ache at their center, and you were met with a firm knot in his groin that pressed just where you were neediest. Your high-pitched whine was a sharp contrast to his low growl into your shoulder. It was intoxicating - his sensation, his sound, and you undulated against him over and over to slake your want on his growing hardness and hear his breath come quick against your ear. He began to rock against you in return, and soon you were whimpering into his neck, beads of sweat cooling on your forehead against the night air as each rut of his hips became overwhelming and not enough.

    "Yoongi, please," you begged in a breathy moan, lightly squeezing the back of his neck and turning your damp forehead against his soft cheek.

He pushed up to look at you, brushing away the little hairs clinging to your brow. He looked as needy as you, but a little uncertain.

    "What is it?" he asked. You knew he knew. You leaned up and kissed him chastely before letting your head fall back against the blanket.

    "I want you," you murmured, suddenly barely able to look at him as the words formed on your lips.

Yoongi dipped to press another kiss to your mouth before sitting up and back on your thighs, and gently tugging you up with him. You noticed the bulge straining against the front of his khakis, and he winced slightly as he wiggled to adjust against your legs. He took your hands in his, that little smile tugging at the corners of his pink lips, tongue darting out lick at them as he considered you thoughtfully. Impatient, you pushed his jacket off his shoulder, which he fully shed and cast aside, and ran your hands over his cotton-clad chest. His muscle jumped when you grazed down over his stomach, which you thought must be as soft and lovely as the rest of him.

  "Are you sure you want this to happen right now, with me?" he asked tenderly. You looked up at him, your brow pinched in question. "Your first time?"

    You scoffed, your face heating as you looked away, brushing bits of sand from the blanket.

    "How do you know if it's my first time?"

His little smile spread into a grin.

    "Because I know," he offered, a bit smugly.

You toyed with the hem of his shirt.

    "I'm sure," you murmured. And then you looked up at him. "Have you ever..."

    "Yeah," he responded, almost like he was sorry, as he glanced down and took your hands in his again. He bit the bottom corner of his lip. "I don't have a condom."

You felt your heart pounding as the concept of him taking you where you sat became increasingly real.

    "So pull out," you offered nonchalantly, hoping you sounded far more experienced than he knew you were.

He nodded. You snaked a hand between you to dance your fingers over the strain against the crotch of his pants. His hand flew to encircle your wrist and still your movements. He took a deep breath.

    "It might hurt you at first. Maybe the whole time," he said, his thumb brushing in a pendulum motion over your arm. You nodded.

    "I know. I don't care."

He smiled again, regarding you for a long moment. 

    "Okay," he said, nodding and licking his lips before taking your jaw delicately between the rounded pads of his fingers. "But you have to promise me one thing."

    "Hm?"

    "You still have to leave in the morning."

You heaved a sigh. Oh, Yoongi. You thought you might cry again, so you nodded, pulling him down over you once more.

    "Promise me," he murmured against your lips.

    "I promise," you breathed.

    You kissed slowly, greedily, learning each other's mouths and mapping each other's faces and necks. At some point he dipped below your collarbone to drag his lips along the tops of your breasts. Your hand flew into his hair and he looked up at you, dark eyes seeking permission. You nodded, bottom lip clamped between your teeth as he tugged down the stretchy bodice of your sundress to reveal a simple beige bra that clasped in the front.

    "It's not sexy," you remarked apologetically.

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and dipped to kiss the tops of your breasts as his fingers found the clasp.

    "Shhh, it's just the wrapping," he whispered as he snapped the garment open, letting your breasts fall into view as they pushed aside the fabric cups that had confined them.

He cursed under his breath as he brought both hands to your tits and kneaded them gently, sliding your pert nipples in the spaces between his fingers. You mewled, arching your back to press your chest up into his grasp. Before you could truly revel in the feeling of his hands plying your supple flesh, they were gone, but your whine of protest was cut short by a sharp keen as his mouth replaced his fingers. He suckled and nipped at one bud and then the other, and each time he released one with a pop, you were certain you had been rendered temporarily unconscious. Soon he was sitting up and smirking down at the panting, writhing mess of you beneath him. You saw him grimace again as he adjusted his stance, and you reached for his zipper, only to find your hand caught in his.

    "No yet," he chided lightly, a twinkle in his eye, "I have to make you cum."

You drew your arm back and cast it over the top of your face, suddenly shy at his remark.

    "To get you ready for me," he explained again in a murmur as he pushed your dress up to your rib cage.

He traced his hands lightly over your naked waist and you shivered. He moved to his knees, pushing your legs to either side of him. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pink cotton panties, when you suddenly felt yourself sitting up, your dress falling back over your midriff. You were a sight - wild hair and your tits half out, still panting for breath while worry painted your features. Yoongi pulled his hands away and sat back, confusion in his widened eyes. 

    "I don't shave," you rushed out, "I know some girls do, but I've never tried. And...I don't know, I'm kind of a mess down there right now..."

Yoongi's face softened and he leaned forward to press his forehead to yours.

  "I don't care," he whispered. You huffed out another sigh.

    "But...but what if you...don't like it?"

    "I know I will."

    "How?"

He bumped your nose with his, swallowing again as his hand found yours.

"Because I love you."

He only let the words hang in the air for a millisecond before he was crashing his lips into yours again, passionately, as if it was the only way he could convey his conviction.

He loved you. You could have died. But he was pressing one of the kisses you would always remember into your lips like an oath, so you didn't. And then you let him bare your skin and lay you down and tell you that you were beautiful. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you felt your heart believe him. How were you to leave in the morning when his soft, warm words felt like the sun?

    He ran his hands over your sides and thighs, dipping to trail slow, deliberate kisses down from your navel until his chin brushed the soft, curly hairs of your mound. Your breath caught in your chest as the cool air hit fresh slick dampening your sex. He leaned back again, regarding you with warm eyes, and took your hand in his, placing it over your lower lips.

"Do you touch yourself?"

    You stammered. He had asked you as simply as if he were inquiring about your favorite flavor of ice cream. With effort you admitted that you did. He stroked over your hand.

"Show me how. What makes you feel good."

You nodded slowly, feeling yourself tremble a little as you moved to stroke your middle finger in beckoning motions over your swollen clit. The motion that should have been almost automatic and familiar felt new and lewd under his gaze. As you dipped to gather more arousal from your entrance you watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat and his hands tighten where they gripped your thighs.

    "You're soaked," he murmured as he stooped to press a kiss to your belly. Then he did something that would be seared into your brain for all eternity: he scooped up your hand and brought it to his lips, sucking your sticky middle finger into his mouth. You gushed at the sensation of his lips and tongue, wide eyes locked on his as he slowly let your finger slip free.

    "You want to know how you taste?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before humming, "So fucking good."

    "Yeah?" you asked breathlessly, propped up on your forearms to watch as he laid down between your legs.

  "Mhm. Sweet. Like honey."

He kissed into your pubic hair, slipping one of his long fingers to trace over your clit the way you had showed him. You gasped as you watched him work you up, something inside you growing taut like a bowstring. And then a kind of pleasure you had never imagined, the kind that made you want to melt and scream, rushed through your trembling body as a single finger pressed slowly past your entrance while his mouth found your clit. You found your hips bucking to meet his thrusts as he pressed in a second finger. You felt a slight sting at the stretch, but the exquisite pressure of this knobby knuckles caressing your walls overwhelmed any pain, and when he pressed the pads of his fingers to massage a spongy patch of muscle, you cried out, gripping his dark locks. 

    "Yoongi!" you moaned as he repeated the motion, and when he took your clit between his lips to suck you came.

You came hard and in waves, rolling your hips into him until you were clamping your thighs shut at the raw sensitivity of overstimulation. Yoongi sat up to rub his hands over your shaking thighs and heaving belly before leaning back down to kiss you and return your spirit through his lips from the astral plane.

    "You did so good," he cooed, "Came so easy for me."

    "That's good?" you asked between pants. He chuckled into your neck.

    "Mhm."

    "It felt good, Yoongi, really good." He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, and then mumbled into your skin.

    "You still want to go all the way?"

    "Yes," you whispered, pulling his shirt up his back and running your hands over his bare skin.

Yoongi sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it to lay with his jacket. He was slender and milky, as you had expected, but his shoulders were surprisingly broad, and his upper chest firm. The soft swell of his belly was dusted with a trail of delicate dark hairs leading down from his navel. You reached instinctively for the button of his pants, and this time he let you. Trailing the zipper down, he helped you shed his tight pants and boxers, sighing in relief as he freed his erection. You bit your lip as your hand trailed over the velvety skin of his shaft. Even this part of him was beautiful, you thought - not overly long but thick and proud with a pretty vein and a smooth tip glistening with precum. You had been so consumed with drinking him in that you only now noticed the little needy whimpers falling from his lips as you stroked him. You squeezed a little firmer, pumping him with more confidence.

    "Like that?" you asked, unable to look away from the sweet sight of his face as his eyebrows knitted and his head tilted back.

"Yeah, just...no, no, I won't last," he groaned, his hand stilling yours.

When he met your concerned gaze he reached up to stroke your cheek.

"Feels too good," he murmured reassuringly, then he guided you back down on the blanket, balling up his jacket and slipping it under your head.

He lowered himself carefully over you, skin to skin, as he kissed you again and again, his right hand toying with your breast and trailing lower to caress your clit. You could feel the heat rising in you again, and an aching want inside growing deeper and hungrier with every shock of pleasure. When he trailed his fingers through your folds to find you thoroughly wet he leaned to the side, gliding his length between your lips, his smooth tip brushing over your bud. You cursed, fingers digging into his back and he huffed a little laugh, eyes sparkling down at you.

    "Dirty girl," he chuckled, before kissing the tip of your nose. "Are you ready?"

You felt a squeeze of trepidation in your chest, but you pushed it away.

    "Yes," you assured him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

For a long moment, he just stared down at you, the same look in his eyes as the morning you had first awakened in his arms, but so intent - as if he was trying to commit every feature of your face, in this moment, to memory. Finally breaking his gaze, he glanced down between your bodies, aligning himself with your entrance. His eyes flicked back up to you as he slowly, slowly breached your core. When he had pressed in past his tip you felt the searing stretch he had warned you of. You closed your eyes, drawing in a sharp breath.

"You okay?" came is worried voice, "Want to stop?" You shook your head.

"No, just do it," you panted through the pain, "I want it to be you."

You pulled him down to press your mouth to his. Every kiss between you seemed to say something. This one said that you trusted him in a way you would never trust another.

He was so gentle. Pressing in slowly, giving you time to stretch around the thickness of him, kissing you sweetly through your whimpers, until he was fully sheathed inside you. Tears filled your eyes and trickled down your cheeks. You were so full of him.

    "Why are you crying?" he cooed, touching his forehead to yours.

Your hands clutched his back as you raised watery eyes to his.

"Because I'm yours, Yoongi. Yours first and no one else's." He buried his face in your neck.

"Take me, Yoongi," you whispered desperately into his ear, "Take me like I'm yours."

You felt him let out a tiny sob against your skin and then he started to move. He kept a slow pace at first, carefully gliding against your tight walls, unaccustomed to his presence. You could feel him jerk and twitch as he moved, and thought he must be restraining himself. You found the worst of your pain had passed, and all you wanted in the world was to make him cum.

    "Don't hold back," you hummed as you rolled your hips to meet his thrusts.

He didn't need you to tell him twice, instantly setting a quicker, sharper pace that had his balls slapping your ass and his pelvic bone pressing to your clit with each forward snap.

    "You're so fucking tight," he mumbled, a dazed look beginning to overtake his features, "You feel so good, baby. So good." You wove your hands into his hair, pulling him down to kiss him as you breathed in every curse, whimper, and moan. And then he was looking down at you with dark, wild eyes.

    "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart, where do you want me to cum?"

You didn't have to think.

    "Inside," you answered breathlessly.

    "But I'm not..."

  "Please, cum inside me, Yoongi. Please," you whimpered, tempted to wrap your legs around his waist - your desire for him transcending every fear of consequence. But you wanted to give him the choice.

He raised himself up on his elbows, his thrusts coming impossibly harder and more erratic, and then he came. You watched him in exaltation as he threw his head back and cried out, emptying himself inside you. So beautiful, you thought, with his hair clinging to his brow, his chest heaving and flushed, and his face drawn in the throes of his release. You did wrap your legs around him then, and he collapsed, his head falling to your breasts as he gasped for breath. You tangled your fingers into his hair, caressing his head. You were swollen and sore and messy, and yet the thought of him abandoning you was unbearable. And the moon saw it all.

It saw you stay each other's as long as possible. It watched you both try to hide your tears as you pulled on your clothes. It watched you fight desperately, and fail, to put your heart in words. It watched him silence you, and hold you, because you didn't have to say it. He knew. It watched you fall asleep in his arms one last time.

You opened your eyes. The gulls were crying and the pale morning sunlight was spilling over the tops of the cliffs. The sea was soft and plashing and cerulean. It was the most beautiful of the ninety-three mornings of summer. But you didn't notice - all you saw were dark lashes on the apples of soft cheeks. You watched his breath rise and fall as the sun tipped over the horizon in the east, the dew trickling down your face as salty as the sea.

When Yoongi's eyes fluttered open they met your red ones, and he pressed is forehead to yours only for a moment before pulling you up to stand.

"Get outta here," he whispered shakily, hands still clutching your arms and brow still tilted into your own.

"Come with me," you choked tracing your hands over his chest.

"I can't leave her with him."

"I know." Your fingers traced over his heart and the little bruise you knew rested under the cotton fabric.

Yoongi wept.

"Go," he whispered, squeezing your arms. You nodded weakly.

"Go, goddamn it, go!" he cried, as you shook with sobs, then he crushed his mouth against yours.

Time didn't stop, you didn't have any - so you stole every second you could.

And then you kept your promise.

You shivered as a zephyr sprang off the water to whip around you, disrupting your thoughts. You tugged at your blazer. It had been a long time since you wore a sundress with cherries.

It was time to let them go, the little girl huddled in a blanket and the boy with the bleeding lip. They had held your hands for so long. They deserved to be free. It was time to let them go, so you did.

With a deep sigh you cast one last wistful glance back over the great blue expanse as the sun sank into the sea.

The moon was just a silver slip in the sky that night, but it saw. It saw before you did, as you turned to go, the breath catching in your chest when a low, soft voice behind you asked,

"Got a light?"

-Fin-

[kawaii-leilei54]

Unforgetful Summer

Crush! Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, becoming of age, fluff, crack, swearing, smut, angst, mentions of anxiety

After graduation, jungkook, y/n, and their friends decide to have a unforgettable summer before going their separate ways.

A/n: some themes maybe from the C-drama : When I fly towards you (my favorite c drama ever) mixed with "Our beloved summer" (K-drama) I recommend listening to this playlist while reading! Enjoy :3

Unforgetful Summer

Character intro:

Y/n : (19) a student, likes books and the beach, like to hang out with friends and can be adventurous, but shy.

Jungkook:(19) also a student, was in soccer for 4 years and was on the student debate team

Namjoon: (19) student, top of his class, was on the basketball team and loves books way more than y/n, has a small crush on park minsoo (a girl at school)

Kim seokjin: (19) was the captain of the debate team (won every time) likes gaming and has a horrible sleep schedule

Min Yoongi: (19) was in the basket ball team and loves the library and stays uplate too but reads BL books (and writes them) instead of sleeping but makes up for it by sleeping all day.

Jung hoseok:(19) is the shy one of the group like y/n but likes going outside and doing things, it's a bit anxious and insecure but loves his friends more than anything, is very sassy when least expected.

Park Jimin:(19) is hoseok’s best friend, is way more sassy than hoseok and doesn't care what anything thinks, (like seokjin) he is confident and flirtatious and has kind heart.

Kim taehyung:(19) bougie but very humble, he helps out with volunteer work and visits kids in the orphanage on his time off, he hopes to go to college when he graduates and become a caseworker

I don't own any of BTS and this all strictly FICTIONAL!!

Chapters: Loading..

Chapter 1: Set me free

Chapter 2: For the summer

Chapter 3: Mask off

Chapter 4: Love yourself first

Chapter 4.5 : Groupchat leaked

Chapter 5: He likes who??

Chapter 6: Vacation and spilled emotions

Chapter 7: Enough

Chapter 8: The truth untold

Chapter 9: We been knew

Chapter 10: FINALE

Epilogue: Memories

[niarnoen]

YoonMin Canon Compliant

mini list of canon compliants yoonmin fanfics because i love the trope

to fall in love by agustvolcano

lenght: 68k additional tropes: fake/pretend relationship , friends to lovers, bickering, mutual pining short summary:  yoongi and jimin pretend to date so yoongi can experience what "falling in love" is all about, not thinking maybe the other will fall as well.

you can hear it in the silence (you’re in love) by raplinelover

lenght: 4,6k additional tropes: flirting, first kiss, fluff short summary: after doing a vlive together and trending on twitter for unintentional flirting, jimin and yoongi decide to confront how they feel about each other.

흰 여름 ('White Summer') by dawnstruck

lenght: 24k additional tropes: slow burn, idiots in love, fake/pretend relationship vibe but not really short summary: jimin and yoongi have to kiss for an mv. and deal with the fallout.

Mutual Vulnerability by kinghongjoong

lenght: 19k additional tropes: friends to lovers, falling in love short summary: yoongi comes across an article titled 'to fall in love with anyone, do this'. jimin wants to try to see if it is true. this is how the two fall in love.

The 100-Day Love Challenge by jeosheo

lenght: 19k additional tropes: friends to lovers, idiots in love short summary: for a variety show challenge, jimin must tell yoongi every day for 100 days that he loves him

[jemshopes]

Cooking Lessons || Yoonjin

--Yoonjin Fake Dating AU

“Yoongi-yah, he’s not going to take you back just because you learn how to make a decent bowl of kimchi stew.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Relationships aren’t fixed with food. If you really want him back you need to make him jealous.”

* * * 

Yoongi has never thought of himself as one of those pathetic, desperate people who fall apart the moment their boyfriend breaks up with them, but it turns out he’s exactly one of those people when his boyfriend of five years leaves him, his parting words a cruel stab at Yoongi’s abysmal cooking skills. 

Yoongi doesn’t know why those particular words stick with him, but he finds himself at Kim Seokjin’s dorm room a week later—Seokjin being a friend of a friend who Yoongi has only met a few times at off campus parties and on the odd occasion when Jimin has had to stop by Seokjin’s dorm to pick something up, but who Yoongi has always liked spending time with and who is quite a talented cook—asking him for cooking lessons, either to prove his now ex-boyfriend wrong or to delusionally attempt to get him back. Seokjin rightly tells him that their relationship problems—their breakup—cannot be fixed by Yoongi learning to cook. Yoongi's ex left him for a multitude of reasons far bigger than his mediocre cooking. If Yoongi wants his ex back then he has to think far bigger too. Seokjin's plan—although perhaps just as delusional as Yoongi's—is far bigger. It's utterly ridiculous. And it just might work.

“If you really want him back you need to make him jealous,” Seokjin says matter of factly, crossing his legs where he lounges in his desk chair like a bond villain. All he’s missing is a fluffy white cat to stroke. 

“How am I supposed to do that?” Yoongi asks. He just wants some cooking lessons, so he can crawl back to his ex on his hands and knees and show him he’s improved and grown.

“Pretend to date me,” Seokjin says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We'll make a show of it and he’ll see what he’s missing and come running back to you.” 

“I'm not pretending—that’s the stupidest idea I've ever heard.”

“My idea is brilliant. No one wants a pathetic loser, Yoongi-yah, and if you learn to cook just so you can beg him to take you back because you’ve changed then you’re going to be one pathetic loser. And I can’t be friends with pathetic losers. And we were just becoming friends.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Because faking an entire relationship is what cool people do?” 

“No,” Seokjin says. “It’s what geniuses convince someone to do when they’re on the verge of becoming pathetic losers. People love things they can’t have, Yoongi-yah. It's why you want him back so badly. Right now he knows that if he snaps his fingers you’ll come running back to him. We need him to think you’ve moved on and that you’re happy and that you’re now a functioning human being.”

“This is ridiculous. Why did I even come here?”

“Because I'm brilliant. That's why. Pretend to date me and he’ll see what he’s missing and you’ll have him back in no time. And, bonus points, your parents won’t have a chance to start pestering you to start dating again.”

Yoongi has never heard such an absurd idea in his life, but seeing Seokjin’s smile and hearing Seokjin’s logic it’s hard to say no. 

“Fine. Whatever. How do you pretend to be dating someone?” 

“You stop frowning at me and start pretending you want to kiss me instead.”

* * * 

Or in which Yoongi’s boyfriend has recently broken up with him and he’s desperate to get him back, so he tries to enlist the help of his best friend Jimin’s friend Kim Seokjin, only for Seokjin to concoct a ridiculous fake dating plan that might just lead to Yoongi developing feelings for someone he never thought he would.

Somewhere between trying to make his ex boyfriend jealous, holding Seokjin’s hand, staring into his eyes, drawing him close, and letting Seokjin put his hands in his back pockets, and the many conversations they share, Yoongi begins to struggle to look at this relationship as just a fake one. When Seokjin kisses him one day in full view of his ex, Yoongi knows he should find the kiss weird. It’s his friend kissing him, not someone he’s attracted to. And yet he finds himself forgetting entirely that they aren’t really dating in that moment. He finds himself almost sad that they aren’t. He finds himself kissing Seokjin with more passion than he’s ever kissed his ex-boyfriend with. 

“Whoa,” Seokjin whispers, pulling back. “Way to commit to the bit.” 

They’re both flushed and breathless. and Yoongi can feel embarrassment creeping through his veins. Seokjin's lips are swollen and it takes every bit of willpower Yoongi has not to stare at them.

“Sorry, I just thought… I thought…”

Seokjin's eyes flicker to something over Yoongi’s head, however. He leans in and kisses Yoongi's cheek and says in a rather loud voice. “I'm going to the bathroom, Babe. Meet you in an hour?” 

Yoongi frowns. “Wh—“ 

Seokjin pokes him meaningfully.

“Oh, yeah, see you. Have fun in the—bathroom, I guess?” 

Yoongi barely has time to collect himself before his ex-boyfriend walks up to him to strike up a conversation. 

“Are you dating him for free cooking lessons or something?” he asks Yoongi jokingly.

Yoongi's ex is kind of an asshole and overhearing some of Yoongi’s conversations with him prompts Seokjin to ask questions, which start conversations of their own between the two of them. 

“Why do you want him back anyway?” 

“I-I don’t know. He's just… I… I love him. He’s been there for me when I needed him.” 

“Yeah, but whenever you two talk you look kind of miserable afterwards.” 

“Of course I do, he hasn’t asked me to take him back yet.” 

“He always says things that kind of put you down.” 

“That's just his sense of humour. I do it too.”

“Really? I've been hanging around you non-stop for almost a month now and you’ve never put me down.” 

“Well… I… it’s just…” 

They talk about many things. They share their hobbies and their aspirations for the future. Seokjin even teaches Yoongi how to cook, although it happens spontaneously one evening when Seokjin comes to Yoongi’s for dinner so they can work out a plan for tomorrow when they’ll see Yoongi’s ex again at the university fundraiser he’s participating in. Yoongi asks Seokjin on the phone what Seokjin feels like having for dinner. And Seokjin laughs and says he’ll bring dinner, don’t worry. And when he shows up he’s got two grocery bags. 

“We’re cooking a decent meal. I've seen the way you eat. And you must be sick of takeaway.” 

“We?” 

“Yes. We. You and me.”

That night Seokjin shows Yoongi how to chop vegetables correctly, how to fry onions without burning them, and how to properly prepare a decent meal. And he does it all with a smile and gentle words of encouragement. They cook, they eat, and they plan for tomorrow. Tomorrow they’re going to pretend to have an argument in earshot of Yoongi’s ex. It will give him the perfect excuse to comfort Yoongi, to begin winning him back. But Yoongi can’t help feeling a twinge of reluctance as they rehearse what they’re going to say to each other. But he pushes that reluctance aside. They have work to do and tomorrow, hopefully, he’ll have his boyfriend back. Nevermind if Yoongi has begun to think about someone else. 

The plan works. Yoongi's ex comes to comfort him and he asks Yoongi to get coffee with him. Once coffee is over he suggests dinner next week and Yoongi agrees. At dinner Yoongi begins to feel small. He doesn’t like his ex’s sense of humour. Or maybe it’s not humour. Maybe it’s just insults. He doesn't like how his ex talks about Seokjin. Most of all he doesn’t like how his ex’s mouth feels against his at the end of the night. He tastes like smoke and he kisses too hard. And he suggests they go back to his place as though he assumes Yoongi will agree immediately. 

“Um, actually, I-I think I’m going to go home,” Yoongi says, breathless, and in the wrong way, from their kiss. “Tonight was great. But… we should take things slow.” 

“Since when have you ever wanted to take things slow?” his ex scoffs. 

“Wh—since now. I don't know," Yoongi says in a small voice, eyes prickling.

“You’re really not coming back with me?” 

“I—no. no," Yoongi says, drawing himself up to his full height. “Thank you, but no.” 

His ex huffs irritably and gets into a taxi. “Whatever.”

Yoongi finds himself on the curb holding back tears. Usually when he cries, he goes to Jimin, but he hasn’t told Jimin about any of this and suddenly it all seems so stupid and humiliating to admit what he’s been doing for the last month. So he goes to Seokjin.

“Hey, how did the—Yoongi-yah, what happened?” 

Yoongi stands in Seokjin’s doorway, his face puckering as tears streak his cheeks. “He just puts me down all the time, like you said,” he whimpers hoarsely. “I didn't want to go home with him tonight and he basically called me easy and said I'd never not wanted to go home with him before.”

“He's an asshole. Come here. Come in. It’s okay.” He draws Yoongi into his arms, into the safety and familiarity of his dorm room. “You’re not easy.”

Yoongi cries embarrassingly loudly. All the tears he hasn’t cried since their breakup. all the tears he should have been crying instead of pouring his energy into trying to make his ex jealous. “I feel so stupid.” 

“Everyone's stupid sometimes. It’s okay.”

Seokjin lets him spend the night. Or, more accurately, insists he spend the night on pain of death. He makes snacks and they watch a film together on Seokjin’s laptop, eating popcorn and nachos and sweets. The worst thing seokjin does is chew extra loudly for a few moments to annoy Yoongi. 

Afterwards Seokjin makes them a very late dinner because Yoongi had hardly eaten anything at the restaurant his ex had taken him to. And they talk and eat and laugh. 

Yoongi takes a shower. As he’s washing his hair with Seokjin’s shampoo, he finds himself thinking that somehow his time with Seokjin tonight has felt like the date he’s been envisioning his ex taking him on. Something perfect and soft and intimate. So when he has towel dried his hair and changed into some old, loose clothes that Seokjin has leant him, he sits on the edge of Seokjin’s bed and looks at him until Seokjin looks up from his phone. 

“Stop staring at me.” 

“I'm not staring. Who—who’re you texting?”

“This guy I met at a party,” Seokjin says. “He’s pretty hot, so I thought I'd give it a try seeing as we’re over now. I mean, unless you want to give it a go for real?” 

Yoongi blinks, a little laugh leaving him. “Y-you’re joking, right?” He doesn’t mean it to come out like that, as though he can’t imagine them ever dating for real. 

Seokjin chuckles and looks away. “Yeah.”

They sleep in the same bed that night, but Yoongi feels miserable for the next few days. He and Seokjin are friends now, but suddenly friendship doesn’t seem like enough. 

Yoongi spends the next week at Jimin’s apartment, wallowing in depression and letting Jimin wrap him in blankets and tell him what a prick his boyfriend was. And how he’s sure Yoongi could work things out with Seokjin and be very happy with him. 

That’s when Yoongi tells Jimin everything. The fake dating. Falling for Seokjin. Not knowing what to do now because Seokjin isn’t interested in him romantically. He expects Jimin to reprimand him or yell dramatically that Yoongi should have told him—how could he leave him out of the most exciting thing Yoongi has ever done? But Jimin listens and then he smiles and he says simply, “Go shower and put on something sexy. We’re going to a party tonight.” 

“I don't want to go to a party.”

“It's not optional, hyung. Now put on some jeans that make your ass look phenomenal. We’re going out. I have a plan.”

Two hours later, they leave Jimin's dorm room, heading towards a party that Jimin knows for a fact Seokjin will be attending. Yoongi's stomach has tied itself in several knots. Jimin's plan is simple. Go in. Find Seokjin. Tell him how you feel. Yoongi hates this plan. Yoongi thinks it's a terrible plan, but Jimin is persuasive and Jimin is pulling him into a house that's vibrating with the force of the music thumping inside of it, a house packed with people and smelling thickly of alcohol. Jimin is craning his neck, handing Yoongi a cup of beer. 

"Drink up, it helps with the nerves," he tells him, grinning. And then, "Oh, look!"

And there is Seokjin. Standing in the corner talking to another man, laughing with another man. Probably the man who he had been texting the night Yoongi slept in his dorm room.

Yoongi turns and leaves the house, wiping away tears. He hears Jimin calling after him, but at some point those calls stop and there's just silence as he makes his way back through the quiet, pretty much deserted part of the university's grounds. Then another voice is calling out to him, footsteps echoing behind him, a hand taking his arm and pulling him to a halt. 

"Hey, I saw you at the party," Seokjin says. "What happened? Why did you leave?"

Yoongi sniffles. "I just thought I could go out and get a guy, but it was all too much for me," he says, smiling softly. 

Seokjin's skin is flushed from running and his hair is messy. He stands before Yoongi, looking like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. 

"Yoongi-yah, you can't rush these things," Seokjin says. "It's okay to need time." 

Yoongi sits heavily on a bench, shaking his head. "I keep thinking about how much time I wasted on him. And what a prick he was to me. And how all I ever did was waste time wanting him to be what he wasn't. I wanted him to help me learn how to cook instead of complaining about it, you know? I wanted him to just appreciate me and not put me down all the time. I wanted him to, like, put his hand in my back pocket and hold my hand when we walked around together. And I wanted him to stay up half the night talking to me about stuff we wanted to do in the future. I wanted him to care about my hobbies. I-I wanted..." he trails away momentarily as Seokjin sits beside him, listening intently. "I just... I wanted him to kiss me like you kissed me. L-Like he cared it was me he was kissing."

Seokjin's eyelids flutter and he looks away suddenly, his mouth opening and closing. He looks back up at Yoongi, but still he seems to have no words. 

So Yoongi kisses him, tasting alcohol, but not caring because his whole body warms when his lips are pressed to Seokjin's. 

He barely registers how it happens, but they're stumbling up the stairs to Seokjin's dorm room. Yoongi's back is against the door as Seokjin tries to unlock it and kiss him at the same time. They're inside and the door is closed and Seokjin is sitting against the headboard and yoongi is in his lap, their bodies moving together with each kiss, hands fumbling at shirts and belts. 

Abruptly, Seokjin pulls out of the kiss. "Wait. Wait. I... I don't want you to think I'm doing this because I think you're easy or something. I want you to know I like you. I've liked you since the day Jiminie introduced us. I don't want to just sleep with you. I want you to be my boyfriend. for real this time." 

Yoongi hadn't expected this, so for a moment he's as utterly speechless as Seokjin had been before yoongi kissed him. 

"I... I want to be your boyfriend too," he whispers, letting his hips roll against Seokjin's lightly, sending tingles up his spine. "For real this time."

[giventae]

I'm with you

A flesh-eating, brain rotting disease has infected every corner of the planet. Towns are abandoned, cities up in flames, and finding others who have not been contaminated is practically unimaginable.

With no electricity, sparse food and dwindling hope, Yoongi and Jin only have each other, but that's all they need to keep going.

“No matter what.” Jin held Yoongi’s hand, looking into his eyes. “We’re together, and we’ll keep fighting to survive.”

[vantewanderlust]

dimple | KTH & MYG

Yoongi can’t escape the sting of those words. No matter how many times they echo in his head, they remain incomprehensible. How could she say she doesn’t love him anymore? They were supposed to be forever, weren’t they? A decade together, the wedding just weeks away… But she’s gone, leaving him with nothing but questions and a shattered future. 

Just as he’s on the edge of a breakdown, there’s a knock on the door. He opens it to a man—blonde hair, face flushed with fury. Fury he recognises too well.

In a matter of seconds, Taehyung, the man standing before him, offers him a vacant room in his apartment. 

Yoongi, heart heavy and mind spinning, says yes. 

What else is there to do when the world has gone completely mad, except go mad himself?

✧.* Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Yoongi;

✧.* Warnings: roomate au; fluff; romance; eventual +18; explicit language; eventual smut; taehyung is bissexual; yoongi is bissexual; non-idol au; friends to lovers.

✧.* Theme song: Dimple by BTS.

"You hide but only appear when you smile Where did you come from? Don't lie, I know you're an angel What are you?"

Prologue.

“I don’t love you anymore. I want to be with him.” 

Words.

Knifes.

Daggers.

Heartbreak.

Words.

They replayed in his mind, over and over, as if they were an endless loop he couldn’t escape.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly, mocking him with each second that passed, each one driving the pain deeper. He should’ve been excited, planning their future, preparing for the wedding that was just weeks away. 

But now, all he had were the fragments of a life he thought would last forever.

What a fucking misery.

She had been everything to him—the love of his life, right? Or was she the person he had loved the most until now? He couldn’t really tell. Not anymore. 

They had shared so much, built so many memories together, all leading to this moment. 

She was gone. 

Just like that. 

With another man.

How could she do this? 

How could she just walk away from him so easily?

He stood up, his legs unsteady, as if the ground beneath him no longer felt solid. His eyes wandered to the framed photo on the shelf—her smiling face, their hands intertwined, the promise of forever in her eyes. It mocked him now, a cruel reminder of what he had lost.

He tried to think of something—anything—that made sense, but his mind was clouded with confusion and pain. 

What had he missed? 

What had gone wrong? 

They were happy, weren’t they? 

They had talked about marriage, about growing old together. 

And now? 

Now, she was with him. 

Whoever him was.

Yoongi dragged a hand through his hair, a frustrated growl escaping his lips. No matter how many times he replayed that conversation, the words were still there, searing into his soul.

She had left him.

And he didn’t know how to make sense of it.

The house—her house—felt like a suffocating prison. 

Yoongi’s eyes scanned the space, the walls feeling cold, sterile, and too quiet. He was supposed to be gone in days, but the weight of it all pressed down on him, relentless and overwhelming. 

He thought he could handle it. 

He thought he could walk away with some semblance of control. 

But there was nothing—no direction, no plan, no idea where to even start. 

He was standing in the middle of a life he didn’t recognise, and he couldn’t breathe. 

The irony was maddening. 

He had money, enough to stay somewhere else, to find a new place, but it didn’t matter. The thought of apartment hunting in Seoul, where the market is more a maze than a system, filled him with a dread he couldn’t shake. 

He couldn’t just throw himself into it like some desperate search for a fresh start. 

Nothing felt fresh. 

Not there, not at that moment. 

Not without her.

The air felt too thick, suffocating, as if he were trying to breathe underwater. 

Every plan he might have had for the future had crumbled, leaving him with the cold reality of being lost in a city that had never seemed more alien to him.

Just as he thought he might collapse under the weight of it all, a sharp knock echoed through the house.

His head snapped up, heart racing, as though the sound had yanked him out of the fog clouding his mind. He stumbled toward the door like wading through mud.

He was exhausted. 

When he opened it, a man stood on the other side—blonde hair, his face flushed with what looked like fury. 

The stranger glared at him, his eyes wild, almost desperate.

“I need to speak with Minjun.” He demanded, his voice tight with urgency.

Yoongi blinked, disoriented. Minjun? The name didn’t register. He didn’t know the man. 

But the tension radiating from him, the way his fists clenched at his sides, all of it screamed trouble.

Without thinking, Yoongi’s hand tightened around the door handle. For a moment, everything froze. His mind raced, and instinct kicked in, sharp and defensive.

“No one by that name lives here.” Yoongi muttered, his voice rough with exhaustion as he started to close the door.

The man stepped forward, his anger flaring like a live wire. “Don’t lie to me.” He snapped, his voice rising. “I know he’s here. I know he’s…”

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed. 

This wasn’t his problem. 

He didn’t owe this guy anything. 

And the last thing he needed was to get caught up in someone else’s mess. 

“Get lost.” He growled, pressing hard against the door.

The man stared at him for a long moment, his eyes burning with frustration, before he moved.

Yoongi barely had time to react before he barged in, a force of raw fury shoving the door wide open. The stranger stumbled forward, eyes blazing, and for a moment, Yoongi froze, unsure whether to step back or hold his ground.

“Where the hell is he?!” His voice was sharp, full of accusation, as he scanned the room frantically. “That bastard has been hiding in here, hasn’t he? I know what’s going on. You think I don’t know? He’s been screwing his secretary and now he’s hiding out here like some coward!”

The words struck him like a slap, his mind racing as the pieces began to fall into place. 

Minjun. 

That was his name.

Right.

Obviously.

Yoongi’s stomach churned, the silence between them thick and suffocating. 

The man’s rage filled the room, but all Yoongi could feel was the bitter taste of betrayal rising in his throat.

“Minjun’s not here.”

Yoongi hesitated, his mind spinning, before his lips parted, and he forced the truth out. “I... I’m the fiancé…” The word felt foreign on his tongue, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. He swallowed hard, and with a bitter laugh, he corrected himself. “Ex-fiancé. Of his... secretary.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unmoving. 

The man froze, his posture stiffening as realisation dawned on him. 

The rage in his expression flickered, like a flame struggling to hold on before it finally began to dim. 

A suffocating silence followed, stretching endlessly as neither of them found the words to break it.

To break even more their broken hearts.

“Minju’s not here.” Yoongi repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, the words sounding more like an admission than an answer. 

An admission of the pain.

For a moment, it felt like all the tension had drained away, leaving only exhaustion and the quiet ache of shared betrayal. 

Yoongi exhaled deeply, dragging a hand through his hair as the full weight of everything he’d been avoiding came crashing down on him.

“I don’t know where they are.” He muttered, finally breaking the silence. His voice sounded worn, even to himself. “Anna and Minjun… God knows where they’re staying. All I know is, they’re not here.” He glanced around the room, the space that had once felt like home now reduced to a unfamiliar shell. “The only person in this house is me. And I’m just… trying to figure out how to pack up my life and get out of here since this is her place.”

He paused, his words catching in his throat as the reality of his situation settled in, heavy and immovable. “I don’t even have anywhere to go.”

He couldn’t stop.

He was saying it out loud for a stranger to hear.

But he just couldn’t stop.

The man standing before him kept watching, his posture rigid but his expression softening, if only slightly. 

The fiery anger that had consumed him minutes ago had disappeared, replaced by something quieter, something hesitant. 

He crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing as if he was turning over an idea in his mind.

“I have a spare room.”

What?

“Excuse me?”

“Look.” He continued, his tone begrudging. “This is probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, but…” He hesitated, visibly weighing his next words before finally pressing on. “I’ve got an extra room at my place. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

Yoongi blinked, thrown off guard. “You’re offering me a place to stay?”

“I guess I know what it’s like to have your life ripped out from under you.” He shrugged. “I’m not saying we’re going to be friends or anything, but you need a place, and I’ve got space. Take it or leave it.”

Yoongi stared at him, the offer hanging in the air like a lifeline he wasn’t sure he could grab. 

His instincts screamed at him to say no, to refuse out of pride or sheer disbelief. 

But the truth was, he had no options. 

Actually he had, but he didn’t want them.

He just wanted to sleep.

To rest.

To cry.

And maybe, just maybe, being around someone who understood even a fraction of what he was feeling wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Yoongi finally exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

“…Alright.” He said, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’ll take it.”

The man nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Good. Pack your stuff. I’ll wait.” He turned toward the door but paused before stepping out. “By the way… I’m Taehyung.”

“Yoongi.” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Taehyung didn’t say anything in return, but there was a faint flicker of something—understanding, maybe—in his expression as he stepped out, leaving Yoongi alone in the quiet house. 

The silence no longer felt quite as suffocating as it had before.

What else is there to do when the world has gone completely mad, except go mad himself?

[loveisnotovertae]

Love is Not Over

Love Is Not Over

✏️Taehyung x OFC ✏️Friends to Lover AU 🛑 Rated 18+ 📖WC: 1997 ⚠️Mentally abusive and controlling ex, stalking, mention of anxiety cheating, COVID, drinking, drunk hookup, masturbation, oral, accidental marriage, accidental pregnancy⚠️

Mae always wanted to go to South Korea and visit all the places her Aunt and Uncle used to tell her stories about. So after catching her fiancè cheating, she did just that. Her two month trip turned into a permanent stay thanks to covid lockdown. A friendly neighbor turned best friend, who just so happened to be part of the biggest music group in the world. A drunken night that changed her life forever.

Chapter 7

“Mae, can we come in?” Kimberleigh’s muffled voice asked through the door.

Mae finished hanging up the towels she’d just used before opening the door to her room. With a wave of her hand she ushered her three best friends in to sit on her bed while she continued to put her wet clothes up so that they could dry.

“Are you mad?”

“No, why would I be mad?” she scrunched up her face in confusion.

“The guys showed up early. Veronica pushed your ass in the pool.”

“Hey, that was an accident.” Veronica argued.

“But you still did it.”

“I’m not mad at anyone.” Mae chuckled and joined her friends on the bed. “I’m just still in shock.” she admitted.

“You aren’t the only one.” D said, taking a sip of her drink. “You should have heard the noise that Kimberleigh let out when Jungkook stepped out of the car instead of the delivery guy.” she laughed.

“I was just a little surprised is all.” Kimberleigh said, picking at the imaginary fuzz on the blanket.

“Among other things, judging by the purr that came out of you.”

“You purred?” Veronica asked with a hint of amusement.

“Hey at least I didn’t tell him to fuck me senseless!”

Mae and D sat at the head of the bed and watched the two of them argue while they shared the glass of wine D brought in. They thought about stopping them when their volume went up so that the guys wouldn’t hear, but they were too entertained.

“Taehyung saw the pictures of me in the lingerie that we took in Colorado.” Mae spoke over the two women.

Veronica and Kimberleigh stopped arguing and looked at her.

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? A lot of people have seen your pictures.” D shifted on the bed to look at her.

“But I don’t know them and I don’t care what they think of me.”

“Mae, did you think the guys would judge you?” Kimberleigh asked.

“A little, yes.” She answered truthfully. “Every time I wanted to tell them all I could think about was how Tyler would react.”

“Mae sweety, none of those seven men are like Tyler.” Veronica placed her hand on Mae’s leg. “Even with us not knowing them that well, we can tell.”

“I know. It’s just that he’s still always right there in my stupid brain.”

“Is that why you haven’t been with anyone? You’re afraid you’ll end up with another Tyler?”

“Kind of, I mean, I didn’t make the best decision with the first one. What if I fall for another one like him.”

“You won't.” D said bluntly.

“You don’t know that.” Mae looked at her friend.

“I do, we all do. You aren’t the same person who fell for Tyler. You’ve grown a lot these past three years, you’ve become your own person who knows what they want.”

“And we won't let you.” Kimberleigh added. “Even if it means taking another fifteen hour flight here to kick your ass. Plus, I doubt any of the men you have in your life now would let anyone hurt you. Especially Jimin and Taehyung.”

Mae snorted when Kimberleigh said Taehyung's name. “I doubt Tauhyung would care who I dated.”

“Jimin’s right. You two really do have blinders on when it comes to each other.” Veronica laughed.

The four women stayed in Mae’s room and chatted a while longer. They completely forgot about the four men in the house until Jimin showed up at the door, to make sure everything was ok.

“Well if this isn’t something out of a dream.” Taehyung said, from the hallway behind him when he saw the four women on the bed.

“Oh, speaking of dreams,” Jimin stepped further into the room. “Are you going to tell..”

“Nope, not going to happen,” Mae got up from the bed and cut him off before heading toward the door. “I am not going to tell any of you.” She said over her shoulder.

Mae stopped in the doorway when Taehyung gently grabbed hold of her arm. “Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m ok, no need to worry.” Mae answered, giving him a small smile.

“Oh my god it’s Taehyung!” Veronica’s hand immediately covered her mouth when she realized she’d said that out loud.

“Mae, is there something we should talk about?” Taehyung smirked, tilting his head trying to see Mae’s face. He still had a hold of her arm and he could see the blush creeping up her neck as she stood frozen in place.

“I’m so sorry Mae, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” Veronica said from the bed.

Mae turned her head toward Taehyung. “Can you please let go of my arm?” she asked softly not looking at him.

She gave him a soft thank you when he did and headed toward the kitchen. The moment she entered, Yoongi handed her his drink, which she quickly finished.

“What the hell was that?” Mae asked with a cough.

“Whiskey.” he answered standing up to make himself a new one. “Do you want another one?”

“Something less strong would be nice, please.” Mae sighed when she sat down. “I’m not trying to get shit faced.”

Yoongi laughed and poured her a glass of wine. “Sounds like you might need to.”

“What the hell did I miss?” Jungkook asked, carrying in some more takeaway.

“Another one of Mae’s deep dark secrets was just revealed.” Yoongi answered handing Mae her glass.

“I’m guessing they figured out that Tae’s the one she’s been dreaming about?” Jungkook said, causing her to choke on her wine.

“How did you know?” she asked, wiping some wine from her chin.

“Mae, did you know you talk in your sleep sometimes?” Jungkook asked.

“Yes.” Mae whined and put her head on the table. “Thank you for not saying anything.”

“It wasn’t my place to tell.” Jungkook shrugged and then placed the food on the counter.

After she’d somewhat recovered from her embarrassment, Mae helped Yoongi and Jungkook reheat the food that the women ordered earlier. The group of eight sat round and chatted while they ate. Yoongi told them that Seokjin, Hoseok, and Namjoon didn’t come with them because something came up at the last minute. But he assured them that Seokjin was planning a big dinner for when they got back to Seoul so that they could meet the rest of the women.

“Where are we sleeping?” Jungkook asked with a yawn.

After dinner the group moved to the patio to enjoy the night air while they finished their drinks and chatted.

“There are two rooms and the couch that aren’t being used. “ D pointed out. “The beds are pretty big so someone could always share a room.”

“Jimin can share my room.” Veronica said, sitting up straight. “I mean, if he wants to.”

“Maybe we should get to know each other a little more before we share a bed.” Jimin laughed at her bluntness.

“I’ll share a room with Mae.” Taehyung looked at her with a flirty smile.

“Like hell you will.” Mae said after recovering from choking on yet another one of her drinks.

“Why not? D said the beds are big. You could have your side and I could have mine.”

“Not happening, Taehyung.”

“What’s wrong, Mae? Are you scared you won't be able to control yourself?” Veronica said with a laugh looking at her friend who was currently giving a death glare to the man sitting across from her.

“How did you figure out it was Tae she was dreaming about?” Jungkook asked Veronica.

“Can we please not talk about this?�� Mae sighed and leaned her head back.

“It was actually pretty simple.” Veronica said proudly and turned toward Jungkook. “See, when Jimin asked while we were in her room, she started to blush instantly. Now, we knew it wasn’t him because she told us it wasn’t, so that only left one other male that it could possibly be.”

“How did you know she wasn’t lying about Jimin?” Yoongi asked.

“Oh, Mae was a terrible liar growing up so we know all of her tells. She’s gotten better at hiding things, thanks to her ex, but if you knew them, you’d be able to spot them too.”

Taehyung watched Mae as the others continued to talk. He noticed the change in her every time someone mentioned her ex. He didn’t know much about what happened between them, only that he wasn’t good to her. If anyone was watching her like he was, they would’ve seen the flicker of sadness in her eyes before she corrected it.

“I’m going to head to bed.” Mae said, standing up. “It’s getting kind of late and I’m exhausted.”

“Mae,” Kimberleigh’s concern made her turn at the sliding door. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” She gave her a small smile and said goodnight to the group.

Mae took her time getting dressed. She wasn’t really tired, even after the busy day they had. She just needed some time alone. Especially after hearing how good she’d become at lying since being with Tyler. It wasn’t something she was proud of, all the lying she had to do, to herself and to the people around her.

“Would you like the left side or the right side?”

“Jesus!” she yelled when she exited the bathroom and found Taehyung sitting on her bed.

“No, Taehyung. But close enough.” The smile he had on his face fell when she didn’t react. “What’s wrong, Mae?”

“I’m just tired, Tae.” she sighed and plugged in her phone before putting it on the nightstand.

“Mae, I’m not an asshole,” he reached up and grabbed her arm, getting her attention. “I can tell something is wrong. You can talk to me, you know.”

“I’m not usually picky about what side I sleep on. So, I guess I’ll take the right side.” she said, changing the subject.

Taehyung let go of her arm and watched her walk around the bed to turn off the light and shut the door. He waited until she was in bed before he got up.

“Where are you going?” Mae asked as he walked towards the door.

“I’m going to the couch.”

“But I thought you were sleeping in here?”

“So now you want me in here?”

“I didn’t say that.” she pouted.

“But you don’t want me to leave?” He asked playfully, trying to get any kind of reaction out of her.

“I didn’t say that either. I only asked where you were going.”

“You are a confusing woman, Mae.”

“No I’m not.” she said, a little offended. “You are a confusing man.”

“I’m going to sleep on the couch because it seems like you need some time alone.” Taehyung admitted. “But it’s good to know you’re ok with sharing a bed.”

“Think whatever you want, Taehyung.” Mae said, rolling over and snuggling further into the blankets.

“Goodnight, Mae.”

“Night, Taehyung.”

“Oh and sweet dreams. Try not to dream of me.”

Taehyung laughed and quickly shut the door when he saw her arm shoot out of the covers and grab one of the pillows. He laughed harder when he heard it hit the door and she yelled “asshole”.

“You really do like her, don’t you.”

Taehyung’s laughter stopped when D popped up in front of him.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Because everyone else can see it.”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about her. She only sees me as a friend, nothing more.”

“I’ve known Mae almost her whole life and I can promise you she doesn’t.”

“D, we just met so I’m going to say this as nicely as possible. You’re full of shit.”

D laughed at his words before turning to walk away. “The only shit I’m full of is the truth. I put some extra blankets and pillows on the couch for you. Goodnight.” She said before going up the stairs.

[jhsplus]

Cheonsa ( 이천사 )

Preview

— summary ; she was an angel craving chaos, adventure, and they were demons seeking peace, a quiet home. how much more could they ask for? a lot, apparently.

— pairing ; ot7!ceo!bts x fem!entrepreneur!oc

— genre ; hurt/comfort, angst, romance, strangers to friends to lovers, business,

— word count ; 491

— warnings ; none

— side notes ; this was a quick little write of a preview but i can’t wait until i find enough time to write out the rest of the series!! i love it already 🤭

— series playlist ; cheonsa

⋆.ೃ࿔*

“You have some toothpaste on your lips, unnie.” Hanuel giggled, pointing at the woman who had entered the kitchen connected to the living room. “You’re such a messy brusher!” She taunted, laughing as she tuned out the cartoon playing loudly on her iPad.

Solji snickered, wiping the white paste off the corner of her mouth with her index finger before sucking on it. “Yeah,” she looked at Sunmi who hid a grin behind her hand, “i forget what i’m doing sometimes and get it everywhere.” She chuckles as Jongdae walked into the kitchen behind her. He winked at her, lightly tapping her behind as he went past.

Sunmi grimaced mockingly as she stared out of the large window, her face resting against her open palm. The penthouse was high above the settlement of the city of Seoul, curtesy of being two famous and well-looked-out-for entrepreneurs. They traveled quite a lot, having fun with one another while doing their job and Sunmi was left rest assured of her daughter’s situation as Jongdae took care of her whenever they went on trips across the globe. The day before they had arrived back in South Korea after touring Dubai, a beautiful wealthy country where the rich were kept well fed due to the oil percentages underneath their grounds, Sunmi had finally realised how much she travelled for work, but not herself. It really changed her prospective on her life in general.

A bored hum left her pink lips as the corners of her mouth twitched downward. The life she lived was prosperous, beautiful, full of good times, and hardships (leaving her sister behind, not staying in one place for long — besides for vacation or relaxation time — and so on), but there were faults in this life she lived that she couldn’t press her perfectly, recently manicured nails (done up in Dubai, of course — nothing like self-care to bring her spirits up) on. She craved an adventure, something more than this schedule she had; it was almost like her life was a chore, not a life.

Seol Sunmi needed a change, and quick.

“Noona, we should get a ferret.”

Not that kind of change.

An idea popped up in her head as she looked at the two adults conversing in the kitchen, smiles and small, short laughter shared between the two. Sunmi glanced at her daughter, who’s doe eyes were entranced by the flashing colours and squeaky voices of the characters on the small screen of her iPad in front of her.

She smirked, eyes darting between her best friend and her boyfriend.

“Hey, Hannie,” Sunmi grinned, gazing down at the small girl who stared up at her, “You wanna go on an adventure?”

Hanuel jumped up, her mother grabbing the iPad before it could drop to the floor, and chanted. “Adventure! Adventure! Adventure!” She shrieked in delight.

Solji gave the girl a look, whereas Jongdae made eye contact with Sunmi, who raised her eyebrows as she motioned to Solji with her eyes. He huffed.

Yeah, and an interesting adventure it will be.

[idkjustlovingbts]

Absolutely loved this story

Countermelody (M)

Chapters

01: Dissonance (12,483 words) | read on ao3 02: Tuning (21,189 words) | read on ao3 03: Syncopation (21,819 words) | read on ao3 04: Modulation (23,006 words) | read on ao3 05: Harmony (21,628 words) | read on ao3 Total Word Count: ~100k words

Summary

This new city has already invigorated your tired bones and shy heart. The people here seem kind and exciting. All sorts of interesting silhouettes are always shuffling about, and you write little stories for each person who passes you by. Even the stationery shop next door is warm and inviting, and you’re grateful that Mr. Kang offers you the manager job on the spot. But you get a funny feeling about things when he shows you the boxes in the back, the ones marked with red tape and the name MIN YOONGI scribbled on top. You wonder what makes this customer particularly special. You don’t know that the process of finding out will make you question why you ever moved here in the first place.

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Genres: Y’all know me by now right? / get ready for some E2F2L / Fluff / Smut / Humor / Angst / Producers!Yoongi, Hobi, Namjoon / Songwriters!Yoongi, Hobi, Namjoon / Shopgirl!Reader / Musician!Reader / Competition and Rivalry ooh / Adulting: What Is It? / Friends: How do You Make Them? / this is my first fic wit the rapline front and center / but the other guys show up / Jin’s your brother-in-law, that’s fun / aaaaahhhh let’s see how it goooooes

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Content Warnings: Expect the usual soft and hard smut eventually, people saying some mean things, and just existential crises abound, especially as it pertains to figuring out what life is supposed to be all about or whatever, but also some tasty ARMY in-jokes

Author’s Note (Feb 2, 2022): Thank you to @asemutiful​ and Yoongi Flavored Mint Cloud for translating the fic into Russian on ficbook.net! Check it out here!

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini​ @missbickerbocker​ | countermelody @adventuresinwonderlust @min-yus @dearbambideer (taglist now closed!)

Adding some amazing artwork done by @purplehearts1996​! Here are some mood boards for each chapter, plus some beautiful title art!

01: Dissonance: “A good boy?” you echo. “Frankly, sir, he seems to be a bit of a dick.”

02: Tuning: “I’m a producer,” he tells you straightforwardly, his smooth baritone smile fading into a soft but serious pout of determination. “I produce.”

03: Syncopation: “Are you fine with me… touching things?” he asks.

04: Modulation: “Did you try?” he growls. “Did you try without me?”

05: Harmony: “What do you think about turning Suran’s debut song into a duet?”

Title Art

[ilys00ga]

hellooo, ur blog is such a comfort for me <3 ! can i request yoongi meeting reader who’s quite literally the same person as him. he could’ve met the reader through one of the members trying to hook them up. “you two are so alike it’s scary, i think you’d be a match made in heaven”. so yoongi agrees..eventually. but when he meets the reader, it’s horrible! their similar personalities clash in the worst way possible. it’s pretty funny to everyone, because they totally thought they were in matchmaker mode?? the two constantly talk about how they couldn’t stand each other, so it surprised everyone when yoongi just admitted that he’d and the reader had been dating for a few months after their first meeting. loll

A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN.

pairing: yoongi x reader.

genre: fluff, i tried to make it funny loool, best friends to lovers, non idol au (?), non idol!yoongi, non idol!jimin, non idol!namjoon, jimin is the dramatic bestie and namjoon is just the very supportive friend that's happy to be there.

warnings: this is pure fiction and English is not my first language.

A/N: okay so, there was also this one ask I got from @parkjennykim that says: "Hiiii ❤️ hope this finds you well. Could you write a fluffy bsf to lovers with yoongi? Theres hardly any of those out there 😭 i need some fluff ive been too deprived and depressed".

I thought these two were similar so I decided to merge them, I hope that's ok for both of u :). thank u sm for sending these reqs, I really appreciate it and I hope u enjoy this read. do not hesitate to send more if u want to !

ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

“I'm sorry, WHAT?!” Jimin, who’d been slouched on the couch with his head leaning against its rolled arm, sat up straight and goggle-eyed as soon as he heard what Yoongi had said.

The latter only rolled his eyes, not surprised one bit at his friend’s dramatic reaction. In fact, he expected it to be so much worse, but he guessed the younger one was just too tired that day for all of that. “don’t be loud.” he hissed and crossed his arms.

“hyung, are you serious?” Namjoon asked from where he was sitting with his chopsticks hanging in the air near his mouth as he too was stunned by the eldest’s statement.

“why the hell would i lie and say that me and __ have been dating for almost two months now?” Yoongi muttered through narrowed his eyes. "TWO MONTHS- woah, this is crazy. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” The youngest of the three covered his face with his hands and heaved a big, disappointed sigh.

“Seriously, why is he so annoying today?”

Namjoon chuckled as the older continued side eyeing their dongsaeng, “hyung, he’s just really happy for you. I too am.”

“I’m very happy, yes, but, hyung, how could you hide such a thing from me? I literally helped you grow the balls to ask her out.” Jimin whined and slouched back down on the couch with a growing pout, “I've been waiting for you two to get together for months.”

It's true, Jimin was a man on a mission ever since he’d noticed the insanely similar character traits when you and your (now) boyfriend met for the very first time. two individual human beings but the exact same patterns and edges. on a large scale, talking to you always felt like talking to Yoongi and vice versa.

It was like a game to him. It made him buzz with excitement, reminding himself every now and then to keep a close eye and count all the similarities you two shared. not that it was hard to notice to begin with: having almso the exact same taste (especially in music), always sitting silently when being around other people and speaking little amounts of words when necessary, getting flustered and smiling shyly when being complimented, being chill and too soft to scold or yell at anyone (most of the time), having that same slow tone in your voices whenever you talk, having random bursts of energy or playful teasing despite the cold facade both of you display, getting so talkative when it comes to topics and things you’re so passionate about, being very honest but never too rude or offensive about it, being the most hardworking people jimin has probably ever met in his entire life—something that nevers fails to admire about the two of you.

You and Yoongi were so similar, even your bad habits and red flags matched. When setting your mind on finishing a task—say a project for example—you’d wear your bodies out for the sake of completing it, even if it meant you’d stay up several hours late during the night. and when mad or during intense clashes and arguments, you would put thick walls between you and the other person, ignoring and shutting them out until you're human enough to confront them. sometimes it’s too hard to even apologize, instead, you’d slowly start approaching them as if nothing had happened at all.

“No wonder you two ended up together, you’re basically a match made in heaven.” Namjoon nodded his head as he munched on his food, as if approving of his own statement.

“i know! and the way you wasted your time pinning on each other was killing me.” being the biggest shipper of your pair, Jimin huffed as he spoke with a very serious tone.

“how did you guys even make it?” namjoon asked.

“We hit it off right after the first date.” Yoongi answered with a shrug, acting as nonchalant as ever.

“you mean the date i had set for you?” it was jimin who asked this time, and when Yoongi nodded in confirmation, the younger groaned and buried his face into the couch, “hyung, you are seriously the worst.”

“hyung, you both are coffee addicts, take her to a new café this time!” Jimin suggested with a huge grin on his face. after finding out that you two secretly liked each other, he spent weeks pressuring Yoongi to confess his feelings for you. He couldn’t believe that his hyung finally obliged after many “no”s and “I don’t like __ that way.”s and “we’re just friends.”s. it was getting really annoying.

YG: “Can we hang out tomorrow? as two people wanting to know each other.”

ME: “Are you asking me on a date?”

YG: “yeah?”

ME: “okay :)”

that was the conversation you had with him the day before he took you on a cute café date. The place was impressively good, but the date was the complete opposite of that. Nothing bad happened, yet sitting down with someone you’ve known for a good period of time and have shared good amounts of vulnerability with in that intimate context was too unpleasant. Both of you struggled to find comfort and normality in the heavy awkward silence that fell on the table. and everytime he would try to play it off and throw some joke or normal piece of conversation that he found appropriate for a date, you two ended up laughing int your sweaty palms because of how ridiculous the whole situation was.

“stop laughing!” Yoongi exclaimed while his shoulders shook, giggling.

“I'm sorry, I'm trying!” you wiped at the corners of your eyes.

"Just act like this is a normal hangout.." he had said after a short moment.

"We're literally on a date." you reminded him.

“right..”

The “date” didn’t last long, and the two of you ended up at his house. eating popcorn on his couch and watching your favorite series of movies together.

Later that night, he asked, “so, what are we?”

“whatever you want us to be.” you answered with flushed cheeks.

“I like you..” he whispered, eyes never leaving the TV screen acroos the couch, "more than friends should like one another."

“Great, ‘cause I'd be sad if you didn’t like me back.” you whispered back, never daring to glance his way even for a split of a second.

“Wait, does that mean I won the bet?” Namjoon suddenly spoke, making Jimin kick him lightly on the shoulder from where he was still lying with a sour frown, and toss a few dollars he had grabbed from his wallet at the smiling man's extended palm.

“Did you two seriously make a bet on my relationship?” came a sharp question from Yoongi.