Looking For Some Good BTS Angst? You Should Definitely Check Out @jiminrings .

Looking for some good BTS angst? You should definitely check out @jiminrings .

I've been reading their writings since yesterday and I'm in love. So excited for their future works♥️

fifth wish

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 18k

glimpse: jeon jungkook, world-class socialite and nepotism baby, should be out every night to celebrate while he’s at his prime. why should he fake-date his bodyguard instead?

alternatively, jungkook regularly throws coins to wishing wells with only one desire in mind — to get rid of you.

[ angst, unrequited love (at first), emotional constipation, jk is Very Frustrating to be with, so much pining, the constant repetition of the notion that one must amount to something to be deserving of love, rlly wholesome fluff, mentions of blood n injuries, whole 360 redemption arc dw i am not evil ]

notes: i’m back :) this belongs to the take five universe (take five feat. yoongi, nine to five feat. jimin) n although it’s a completely different jungkook, it’s still on the same vein!! thank u for waiting for me <3

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even replying to this post sends me over the moon :)

Keep reading

Pranking & Pouting

Anon request:

Some more pouting Jungkook please.  

Wordcount: 4.1K

Description: Reader decided to do the wiping my boyfriend kisses prank on Kookie during their vlog much to Kookie’s annoyance, also they go shopping for Christmas décor.

 Youtuberreader x gamerJK

Warning: Fluff, poutingKookie, slightly possessiveKookie 

Keep reading

Okay, just imagine yourself lying on the bed while Jungkook gets ready to film the run bts challenge on TikTok. He didn't tell you that he'll be changing the choreography so you except full on sexy mode and think to yourself how tf you're gonna control yourself when you see his facial expressions and the dance routine.

The moment he starts dancing you just stare at him for a few minutes before full on laughing your ass off rolling on the bed. Jungkook tries to keep a straight face but gives up in the end and after finishing the video, he jumps on the bed tickling you and joking about how you were trying to distract him from work.

You're just trying to escape his grasp, succeeding after a few mins and just standing near the bed imitating his moves which makes him red faced while he laughs heartily and suggests how you guys should make one together.

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

I suddenly came up with this idea and now I'm feeling lonely 😭

Gif Credits: @jung-koook

the second time | myg

✰ pairing: yoongi x reader ✰ warnings: smut (18+, minors DNI); fluff; f2l; lots of sarcasm; a mention of alcohol; burnt food; mentions of being broke; an allusion to namjin that i’m dying to make into a spin-off drabble ✰ word count: 4.2k oooops! ✰ note: i accidentally stress-cooked hotteok this week. hence, this fic. i had fun with this one hehe enjoy~

—

Yoongi’s not picking up your calls.

He always picks up your calls. 

Well, maybe not always—there have been a couple of times you called him an hour or two too early in the morning, or in the middle of one of his English classes, or when he’s neck-deep in producer mode—okay, so he frequently doesn’t pick up your calls. More often than not, you resort to spamming him with a string of nonsensical texts instead, dissecting every meaningless detail of your day. From the shih tzu you saw on your walk to work to the gangly teenager at the salad place who never remembers to leave the olives out of your order to the stupid kiosk at the subway station that keeps eating your cash. You’ll get a noncommittal response later, at some unholy hour, that you'll read through squinted and bleary eyes the next morning: Sounds rough. Wait, you didn’t actually say that, did you? Please don't tell me you got caught hopping the subway turnstiles, I don't have money to pay any fines for you right now. (He does, but it's been years since you finally started making enough money to fill your T-money card and stop breaking the law. Old habits die hard, you suppose.)

At least once a week, though, he'll make sure to call you back. Usually on his drive from the office back home, and you know he spends the night often in his studio, but he does go home every few days to wash the grease out of his hair and change into clothes that don't smell like he's been sitting in them for four nights in a row. He might be a workaholic, but he's not a total heathen.

This week, there's no call. So you stew in a way that is utterly unproductive, a mix of resentment and anxiety and wondering if that offhand comment you made last week about him being a little too busy for you lately hit a nerve. And when you're stewing, there's only one thing to do: make a complete disaster of the kitchen.

"Okay, really," Seokjin says dryly, extraordinarily unamused at the sight of you elbow-deep in a mixing bowl. He pinches the bridge of his nose at the sight of flour sprinkled all over the counter, all over the floor. A little bit of yeast, too, scattered over everything for good measure. In your defense, it's like they make those packets hard to open on purpose. "What could you possibly be making at 10 PM on a Friday?”

"Hotteok." You grit the word out between your teeth, channeling all the strength you can muster in your noodle arm toward the lump of sticky dough. 

"You do realize the heat is on way too high?" Seokjin carefully treads around the pile of flour and wrenches down the knob on the cooktop. "And we're out of vanilla—“

“—yah!”

“—sorry, sorry, Namjoon was over last week and we ran out of anju, so." Seokjin raises his hands in the air defensively, a truly pitiful sight. As if you'd hit him. You might be nearly a foot shorter and lack muscle in every part of your body, but he'd fold like printer paper the second your fist connected with his borderline-skeletal frame.

"Beer does not go with vanilla ice cream, dicklick.”

"That's a new one. Also, that's a lie and you know it."

You just shoot him a glare. "Just pick some up on your way home."

He's clearly heading out for the night, dressed cute in a blue button-up and black jeans that stick to his thighs just right, his hair styled nicely enough to look good but messily enough to make it look unintentional. "Who says I'm coming home tonight?"

"Okay, ew. I do not need to hear about my brother's sex life."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, little one," he sing-songs, pulling you in by the shoulders and planting a decidedly unwanted kiss directly on the part in your hair. You squirm, aim a kick toward his shin and miss. “I’m going out, probably staying at Namjoon's after. Him and a couple of the other guys."

"Like I said, I do not need to hear about my brother's se—"

"Byeee!" he calls, waltzing out the door. 

You sigh. You know they're a tight-knit group—your goofy but secretly responsible older brother, the responsible but secretly goofy Namjoon, Hoseok with the ever-sunny disposition, and Jeongguk, the one who exists (as far as you're concerned) solely to be their court jester—but you've had your long-held suspicions about something more brewing between Seokjin and Namjoon. No matter how vehemently Seokjin insists on avoiding this particular topic.

Avoid. That reminds you, where the hell is Yoongi?

You tap your phone awake again, flour smearing across the screen, only to find that your notification center remains resolutely empty. No reply, no call. Nearly a week of radio-silence. 

You can only recall one time in the last nine years Yoongi's given you the cold shoulder. It was that time you'd fucked around on his fancy new laptop and accidentally deleted an entire month's worth of work on some debuting artist's upcoming single. And even then, the ensuing silence had mostly been due to him working his ass off to recreate everything from scratch, so immersed in his task that he hadn't had the time to return your inane calls—primarily voicemails full of tear-soaked apologies begging him for forgiveness, vowing to never lay a hand on his equipment ever again for as long as you lived. You shudder at the memory of your own groveling.

And you haven't done anything nearly as bad this time. Not that you can recall, anyway. Naturally, you're panicking.

Hence, the hotteok. You're absolutely shit at cooking, always at Seokjin's mercy when it comes to avoiding malnutrition and scurvy, but this, you can manage. It's nearly impossible to fuck up, because the instructions are right on the box, and anyway, there's nothing not to like about the doughy, syrupy, nutty end product. You scoop sugar into the flat of your hand, pinch the edges, throw the resulting dough balls seam-side down into the ripping hot, greasy pan. You remember that you're out of vanilla ice cream, and you're thinking about screaming into the freezer just to get all this needless tension out of your body when the doorbell rings.

Seokjin. Probably coming back for his keys. He's always after Namjoon for forgetting stuff—most notably, leaving the new wallet that he'd just purchased on the counter at the Louis Vuitton store—but he's been known to be a little scatterbrained, too, so you fling open the door, mouth already open to rib him.

It's not Seokjin. It's Yoongi.

Yoongi only graces your doorstep once a year, which at its core is a testament to how you became friends in the first place: You wore him down. Insisted on sitting next to him in every general education class (all of which, conveniently, you shared with him), showed up to his dorm in the mornings to wake him (at ten AM) with a bitter iced americano from the cafeteria, dragged him to lame dorm parties and forced him to make nice instead of hiding away in his room (a single, amazingly) like a pale little creature of the dark. He was powerless against you, too sleep-deprived at all times to resist your demands.

It's not all one-sided, though. Okay, so you do put in about eighty percent of the effort in this friendship, but you're fine with that. Fine with letting him slink in and out of your life as he pleases like some haughty street cat, so long as he responds to your missives once in a while. And he does reciprocate your affections, albeit in his subtle Yoongi way. Quietly dropping off haemul-jook at your door when you're sick, making you playlists full of songs he thinks you'll like. Sending you quotes from a book that he's reading. Inviting you over once in a while to meet his other friends, and making sure there's a cold citron soju in the fridge with your name on it (literally, written in Sharpie on a post-it) when you do. (Paying the fine you’d been issued after you got caught jumping the subway turnstiles one too many times.)

It's so violently unlike Yoongi to appear here, at your shitty little not-funded-by-a-bigshot-producer's-salary apartment complex, that you just blink for a second and take him in. Typically Yoongi outfit: oversized bomber jacket, beanie pulled low over his eyebrows, silver hoops glinting in his ears. He looks exhausted, gray shadows lingering under his eyes, but that's nothing new. 

"Forgive me. I'm trying to figure out whether I'm hallucinating or not," you say finally, recovering enough to step back and let him in.

"Ha-ha. You act as if I've never been to your place before."

He literally only comes round once a year.

"You literally only come round once a year. What, is it my birthday? Chuseok? Ooh, is it Hangul-nal?"

He doesn't comment, just wrinkles his nose. "Is something burning?"

"Oh, shit. Fuck.” You turn and bolt back toward the cooktop. You slide your half-melted rubber spatula under the dough and flip it over, and Yoongi saunters up behind you just in time to snort at the sight.

“It’s burned,” he points out. Unhelpfully. You elbow him away from your pan and slide the blackened dough onto a plate. Okay, so it is possible to fuck up hotteok. “How in the world do you manage to fuck up hotteok?”

“I had an unwelcome house guest,” you begin dramatically, clasping your hands together at your chest. He just rolls his eyes, already braced for your performance. “You wouldn’t believe this guy, Yoongi, he ignored my texts and calls for a whole week and then dared to disgrace my doorstep with his presence, all while my dear old brother fucked off to God-knows-where to get his back blown out, leaving me, a starving damsel in distress, all alone in this cold, cold apartment…”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Yoongi bites back a smile, nodding at the remaining lumps of dough lined up on the counter. “Would you just hurry up and fry them? I’m starving.”

“They’re not for you,” you snap, placing two of the lumps down on the nonstick. “Only friends who don’t leave me on read for a week get my hotteok.”

“You don't have other friends.”

“Rude!”

He doesn't even dignify this with a response. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back and starts roaming around, resembling nothing so much as an old man taking his morning stroll around the retirement home.

You live to push Yoongi’s buttons, to get a rise out of him purely for your amusement. In college, you’d interrupt his intense study sessions just to make him peel tangerines for you; as an adult, you would do the same if getting to Yoongi didn’t entail getting past the Secret Service-level security at his company’s building. You don’t take many things seriously, and it delights you to no end to clash against Yoongi’s dry, reserved nature with your own uncontrolled levity.

But you can sense that he isn’t just here to snag the fruits of your laughably pathetic labor, and it worries you, though it takes you a second to realize what’s so off about him. 

He’s fidgeting. Twitchy. First, he cleans up your mess. Then, he’s picking up the box with the instructions only to put it down again, eyes glazed over. Opening and closing the freezer. Plucking a penis-shaped magnet (a gag gift from Seokjin's last trip to Europe) off the fridge and turning it over and over in his hands. You’ve seen Yoongi restless before, moving around aimlessly just to get his energy out, but never like this.

When he starts casually opening your cutlery drawers, idly humming some tune you vaguely recognize, you finally lose it.

"Alright. Tell me what's on your mind."

"Hmm?" he murmurs, but one glance at his face tells you everything you need to know. The tips of his ears burn red as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn’t. As if he's been exposed.

"You're puttering," you point out, trying to keep the accusatory tone at a minimum. "And don't even think about lying to me or I'll disembowel you with that vegetable peeler you're holding."

He looks down at his hand and starts a little, as if he didn’t realize he’d been holding it. He hastily puts it back in its place and bumps the drawer shut with his hip. “You have quite the imagination.”

“Yoongi. Seriously. To what do I owe the displeasure of this visit? Also, where the hell have you been?”

“I—uh.” He swallows, and you can see the nerves playing out on his face, can see him shrink under your searching gaze. “I had something to tell you. Didn’t want to say it while you had a weapon in your hands.”

You put down the knife you’ve been holding—someone needs to quality-check your work, and you’re not sure you can handle Yoongi’s blunt criticism right now—and turn to face him again. “Oh my god. Let me guess. You got fired. You got someone pregnant. You won the lottery, and you’re donating all your fabulous riches to me because I’m two months behind on my half of the rent. You adopted a corgi and you’re naming it after me. You—“

“I’m in love with you. Wait, you’re behind on rent?”

What the hell? “Hilarious,” you say, voice flat, and you whirl back to face the pan where the last two hotteoks sizzle in a puddle of oil. But something about his words makes something flicker in your chest. A long-dormant, beaten-to-near-death, extremely repressed something. You’ve just decided to pretend you didn’t hear it when—

“I’m not kidding.”

You turn to look at him again. He’s gone beet red, looking almost apologetic, hands toying with the zipper on his jacket. Avoiding eye contact like it’ll burn him if he looks at you. 

For only the second time in your entire life, you are speechless in the presence of Min Yoongi.

So you don’t say anything for a moment, busying yourself with finishing up your hotteok—patting off the excess oil with a paper towel, arranging them on a plate, grabbing a pile of napkins from the counter and nodding toward the two bar stools. Wordlessly, Yoongi slides into one and you slide into the other. It’s easy. Routine. Reminds you of all the nights Yoongi couldn’t fall asleep and would call you awake at two AM to take you to the twenty-four-hour diner just off campus. Reminds you of the nights you hung around at his place after all his friends left and he made naengmyeon for you, just because you had a nasty craving and begged for it.

Almost makes you forget why the two of you are sitting in silence.

“You could say something.”

He’s not eating his hotteok, just holding it in both of his hands like a heat pack. It’s adorable—his hunched-over posture makes him look like a little kid. You can’t stand it.

“Sorry. Just trying to figure out whether or not this is a bit,” you respond. Oddly enough, you can’t look into his eyes, either. 

“It is not a bit.” Yoongi exhales a sigh. “Honestly, have you ever been serious for one moment in your entire—“

“Since when?”

“What?”

You sink your teeth into the hotteok, let the syrupy, nutty sugar wash over your tongue. “Since when.”

You don’t have to elaborate—he knows what you’re asking. After so many years, he’s like an extension of your brain. A calm, rational appendage to your unwieldy chaos. “Oh. Uh, I don’t know. Is it gross if I say since the day I met you?”

“Yes.” You will your heart to stop flailing like a fish out of water.

“Then, since yesterday.”

You snort. You eat another hotteok.

“Sorry.”

You huff a laugh, and the weird energy between you has been eased just enough that you’re able to look at him again. 

He’s already looking at you. Hotteok still uneaten in his hands, dark eyes gone vulnerable, tender. Your first instinct is to vomit. Your second one is to kiss him silly, right on those soft pink lips you can’t stop staring at.

“You still haven’t told me why you left me on read,” you murmur. 

Your molecules have been entirely rearranged and your world has been flipped upside down and everything you thought you knew has flown straight out the window, but you don’t really care. Not when Yoongi’s looking at you like that.

“I tried going on a date. On Monday.”

You choke on your next bite. Yoongi quietly fills a glass of water and slides it over to you, stream of consciousness unbroken.

“She was nice. But she wasn’t you, and that bugged the shit out of me. So I didn’t answer you because I was trying to work out why I couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire time I was with someone else.”

In any other circumstance, being this privy to Yoongi’s deepest emotions would prompt you to gag, shove him away and tell him to get a fucking therapist instead of spilling his guts to you. You and Yoongi might be polar opposites in some ways, but feelings make both of you shudder with discomfort, make both of you feel chills down your spine. 

Now, though, you’re just quiet. Unsure what to say. Lost, in uncharted waters.

“You don’t have to feel the same way or anything.” He clears his throat, lets his eyes float aimlessly off to nowhere. “Just... wanted to tell you. I don’t know. Do with this information what you will. Hey, should you really be eating this much sugar at 11 PM—“

You kiss him. He still hasn’t eaten his hotteok, but he tastes sweet anyway. 

For the second time in your life, you’re kissing Min Yoongi. You’re glad you made it to number two, because it’s so much better when it’s not in a musty dorm room and neither of you are too drunk to remember it and you won’t wake up the next morning alone and tangled in some stranger’s duvet in the hallway, but in your own bed. Preferably with Yoongi in it.

Ideally, you won’t have to pretend that you don’t remember this moment for the next eight years or so.

What took you so long? What took him so long?

But, oh god, you should probably be thinking about this a little bit more. Thinking about whether or not your deeply rooted and long-suffering need for Yoongi is worth putting years of friendship on the line. Thinking about what might happen if one day, your mind tells you that you don’t love Yoongi anymore. Thinking about how truly and spectacularly depressed you’ll really be when you can’t regale Yoongi with another dissertation-length Kakao about the stupid kid and the stupid olives at the salad place.

But then he makes a noise right into your open mouth, warm hands gliding over the bare skin under your sweater, and your mind goes numb. You break apart for air.

“Bedroom.” You say it at the same time. 

God, you’re so glad he knows you the way he does.

Your room is… okay, it’s a little gross, and if Yoongi weren’t so busy helping you out of your sweatpants and t-shirt, he might be on your ass to clean once in a while, honestly, how do you live like this, when was the last time you touched a vacuum, but his lips are currently busy sucking a mark just beneath your jaw. You whimper as he kisses down the column of your throat, between the valley of your breasts.

And then his lips are nowhere at all. You open your eyes—he’s hovering over you in a form-fitting shirt that accentuates muscles you hadn’t even known existed, jacket discarded somewhere on the floor by your bra.

“You’re sure? About this, I mean,” he says, eyes dropping to a random spot on the comforter.

Christ. You could kill him, but your heartbeat goes haywire again. “Yoongi, I’m completely sober and naked, and if you don’t get something inside my pussy right now—“

He kisses you again, just to shut you up, separates only long enough to shed his pants and peel off your underwear. You shudder as his fingers ghost around your folds, teasing.

“Yoon—oh my god.” You cry out as he plunges deep, strokes even deeper, summons a flood of wetness. His thumb circles your clit, pressing just right, and you think you might have died and gone to heaven.

He grunts into your ear. “Yeah? You like that?”

“Keep going, shit,” you pant in return, tugging him down by the back of his neck, desperate to taste him. Pleasure ripples through you, rushes to your core with every thrust of his hand, building up into something utterly overwhelming and all-consuming. His other hand comes up to roll your nipple, and it finally sends you over the precipice—back arching into him as you moan his name into the air, bursts of pleasure sending every nerve ending up into flames.

It’s so dumb, and the thought almost makes your orgasm evaporate, but you’re so glad Seokjin’s not home tonight. You don’t realize you’ve said it out loud until Yoongi huffs a laugh, sliding his fingers out of you and sitting up.

“I can’t believe I made you come and all you can think about is your brother. Jesus, way to kill—“

His words break off into a soft moan, because you’ve pulled down his boxer briefs and grabbed his half-erect cock, warm and flushed dark. You squeeze it gently—it barely fits in your hand—and he groans, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. It might be the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.

“Lie down,” he murmurs, and you oblige, opening your legs. He groans again, pumping himself at the sight of your exposed core. Fishes around in the back pocket of his abandoned jeans and comes up with a condom. “Fuck, I can’t believe I waited this long to say something.”

He lines up and pushes into you. It hurts a little—it’s been years since you got any action, and you try your hardest not to think about how humiliating that is—but it’s good. He knows what he’s doing. Knows you. He presses a gentle kiss just below your right eye, and the tenderness of his touch is foreign, but in some ways, it feels as if nothing has changed at all.

Yoongi making time for you, completing you where you fall short, soothing your raw feelings with his unbothered, measured calm. You getting to witness a side of Yoongi that no one else does—the soft side, how he cares for others when he thinks no one’s looking—and accepting him exactly as he is, irritating workaholic tendencies and ghosting and dry humor and all. It’s exactly the same as it’s always been, but better.

He starts thrusting slowly, as if to savor this moment, looking down at you like you’re both familiar and completely new. Your breath emerges in short moans as he starts moving faster, chasing his peak, his cock nudging your pleasure point just right.

He fills you, fills in all your empty spaces. He always has.

“Yes, Yoongi,” you whine breathily, your voice so different from how it normally sounds with him—unfiltered and biting and sarcastic—that it stuns even you, for a moment. “Right there.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he grunts into the crook of your shoulder, pinning you down by the hips. “Pussy was made for me.”

You let out a strangled moan at his words, feeling another high quickly approaching even though you’re still drained from the last one. “You’re perfect,” you sigh, reaching down to rub circles on your clit, but he’s already there, his fingers creating sparks that you feel everywhere. “Fuck, I’m about to—“

“Me, too,” he pants, plunging in and out of you so hard and so fast that you cry out again. Skin slapping against skin, the wet sounds of him entering you, your heels digging into his back—it’s all so much, in the best way. “Come with me, love.”

Love. He’s called you that before—mostly cheeky, snarky, when shooting back a sardonic response. It’s obviously different now, charged with an affection that makes your heart feel lighter. The thought of getting to love him like this, fully and freely and openly, sends a second orgasm tearing through you.

“Fuuuck, Yoongi,” you groan, guttural and deep, hands gripping tight to his firm shoulders. Your walls flutter around him as you come, and it sets off his own—he moans as his dick twitches, abdomen caving in, pressing messy kisses into you.

It’s not until he’s softened inside you, pulled out and disposed of the condom, and come back to bed to lie down beside you that you start to panic. Again. And then—

“I didn’t eat your hotteok because I’m afraid you might have poisoned it, to be honest. And not even on purpose.”

You smack him so hard in the shoulder that he yelps. You’re absolutely in love with Min Yoongi.

𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓗𝓸𝓶𝓮🔞❤🔗🐾:

➡"I don't mind at all."

Idol!OT7 x Hybrid!Reader (Yoongi x Reader focus in this Drabble)

.｡.:✽ It started off as a business arrangement, a simple act of calculated activism to gain public favor and to help a good cause- who would've thought they'd all fall in love with you, and keep you for real?

-> Or alternatively: you seek out Yoongi and end up making biscuits.

.｡.:✽Genre: Hybrid AU, Romance, slight Angst, Fluff, Adult themes none in this drabble!

.｡.:✽Other Tags: tooth rotting fluff and lots of love

.｡.:✽Story type: Drabble Series

.｡.:✽Wordcount: less than 1k

.｡.:✽Masterlist: Click

..............................................｡.:✽:.｡.............................................

Yoongi has been battling to find back into a regular sleeping schedule for what seems like years at this point. It's not as simple as laying down and shutting your eyes- but it's been getting better these days.

It's quiet in his room where he intends to take a short nap, before the blankets move and mattress dips in from the weight of something- or rather someone- making their way next to where he's trying to rest on the couch.

He doesn't need to open his eyes. He's not even in the slightest alarmed. He knows it's you.

It's always you.

You're slowly making your way to lay down next to him, before you boldly move his arm to sneak underneath it and into his embrace. You take a bit to get comfortable, as always trying out multiple positions before you're satisfied with how you lay. Your hands find the fabric kf his shirt, fingers digging into the material before you bring your hand into a fist- just before letting go and smoothing it out again over his stomach. Your head is laying on his chest, calm breaths escaping you without noise, while your chest is quietly rumbling with purrs. The action of your hand is lazily but firmly repeated.

Grabbing. Holding. Letting go. Repeat.

Yoongi chuckles.

His hand finds your tail, let's it run through his palm from the base until the tip slips from his fingers- then he repeats it, just to grin at the way it smacks against the couch every time it escapes his hand.

"Are you tired?" you wonder, and he shrugs, not giving a clear answer. Sometimes he simply doesn't have one he can give you- you've come to learn to accept that, and simply work with what he offers. Yoongi sometimes reminds you of a cat hybrid as well. He doesn't need verbal explanations sometimes. It's odd.

But so are you.

They smell like home.

You push your face into the crook of his neck, running the tip of your nose over the skin that's not covered by his shirt. He smells nice. Everyone always smells nice. It's cause you love them- and they love you too.

"Everything alright?" Yoongi asks, and you don't answer either now, tables turned it seems, because this time you're the one who doesn't have the answer. You're not sure what's it with today, but somehow you just feel off. Like the day is going both too slow and too fast, not enough time to so something valuable, but too much time to waste around.

He runs his palm over your back. From the base of your tail up to the middle of your shoulders. Once. Twice. Then it rests on your bare arm. His thumb draws circles on your skin.

"Do you mind if I nap here with you?" you ask, and he chuckles again. You like that sound. It reminds you of the first time you met. How much warmth his eyes had held for you right away, even though he didn't even know yet that he'd end up as your partial owner- and lover- down the line.

"I don't mind at all." he answers, and you smile, hands grabbing the material of his clothing again. It makes him grin, brightly so, his hand squeezing your arm for a second before he pulls you closer. You agree in an instant. Yoongi is always warm. You like napping with him. "Are you making biscuits?"

No one knew back then, but it happened after all.

His hair had been shorter back then. Natural black. His face was a bit younger. He matured since then- not much visually, but mentally.

"I can't help it." you apologize a little embarrassed, well aware it's no proper human behavior. You know they all don't mind those quirks you have. But old habits die hard. Sometimes you still fall back into the way you've been taught.

"It's cute." he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your had before getting comfortable again. Yoongi doesn't use petnames much, and he has a hard time voicing out affection. But the way he acts speaks loud enough. "now sleep." he mumbles, and you nod quietly, eyes closed as well now as you try and join him in sleep.

Your hand still grabbing his shirt.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━