[ UNEDITED]

*sexual imagery ahead*

[ YOONGI'S P.O.V. ]

Friday

I snort awake when a light finger nudges my shoulder. Glancing up, one eye squinted, I stare over at the body that towers above me.

The woman giggles. I smile a tiny bit—sleep fills my expressions. "Terin you scared me." I sigh in a breath.

With an adorable hop, the woman unties the hotel's bathrobe. Nudging her knee to mine, she massages my shoulders. "Don't you think you've worked enough for today?"

"I've been here with you for the past two days Terin," I sigh out, leaning into my chair frustrated. "Sure its been long hours...but still haven't been able to put nothing together."

"It can't be that hard," she snorts, sitting on my lap. I allow her, tracing my finger by her naked side before looking back at my blank notebook. "You're already massively successful. At this point, your fans would drool over anything...just have someone else write shitty lyrics for you."

"Shitty?"

Terin grins, kissing my lips before nuzzling her nose with mine. "Yes babe, it's not like your fans are intelligent enough to understand the depths of your lyrics...just hire a writer to scribble out words about sappy shit; they'll eat it up."

"I can't just do that...assistance in writing, sure. But hiring someone just for the sake of my laziness or writers block? I don't think so," I grumble this out, slightly annoyed while I refrain from defending my fans.

"Alright alright," she soothes, knowing she's struck a nerve. "Come to bed with me...keep away if nothing is coming to you yet."

I stare at my pen, I stare at my notebook. Then I stare at the woman on my lap. It takes me a second, but I nod—following her to the bed I've slept the past two nights.

Saturday

She's in my arms. Terin. She sleeps naked against my nakedness. I can hear the humming of her heart close to my chest, yet I don't feel my heart race in match of hers. Instead of feeling the warmth, I see it. I watch her sleep. She's beautiful, she's sexy. So sexy.

My phone rings. It buzzes on the bedside table and Terin's petite body shifts sleepily away from me. With a numbing arm, I move away from her, lay to my side, and arch for the phone that rests lazy on my ear.

"Hello?" I moan out, rubbing my eyes as I shift to sit on the bed.

"Bitch." It's Nanami.

I smirk, "Good morning to you too."

"It's the fucking evening you moron."

My stomach drops. My eyes widen. I suddenly can't breath as I hold to see the time on my phone. Squinting eyes catching the small numbers, I'm in shock when the phone comes back to my ear. "I—"

"I knew it!" Nanami chimes, irritated, "You've forgotten to go and help your wife."

My teeth grit. I glance over at Terin, the hotel room I lay in, and then back at the ceiling I swore towards earlier. "Let's not call her my wife..."

There's silence on the line for a second. I feel my heart starting to race for reasons outside of romance.

"But like..." Nanami speaks again, I roll my eyes as she finishes, "...bitch...she is your wife. Would you like me to send you a dictionary in the next package?"

I ignore her advances, feeling as if the guilt within me forces crankiness to sprout. "No need."

"Whatever angry-pants, at least remember to pick up the package I'm sending in tomorrow."

"What you get me this time?"

"Not for you," Nanami giggles, "For your wife. I got her a few things—well, in a way it benefits you as well."

"She's got a name, just call her from her name not—"

"Bye byeeee~" Nanami scolds me one last time before completely shutting me off.

I end the call.
I stare at my screen.
I'm confused over why there aren't any missed calls or texts from you—
Has she forgotten too?
Guilt.
She must've, right?
Guilt.

"Everything okay?" Terin shuffles, sleepily cuddling towards me.

"Y-Yeah," I purse my lips, try not to tense when she kisses me, and put my phone to the side again.

I kiss her back. I kiss her and my heart leaves from racing, but my cock springs in alert as she breathily moans when I hover over her the second time today.

Sunday

Terin: I miss you already, come back quick. I have a little surprise for you. 😍

I nibble my bottom lip while reading this text. Over and over, I reply with an, 'Okay 😊' before knocking on the door that awaits me.

My phone moves to my back pocket. I wiggle to handle the huge box at my hip, and then I knock again. Your voice rings in my ears, cute and excited as you rush towards the door.

The nibbling at my lip intensifies, and I have to play a forced smile when you open the door to greet me.

"Well if it isn't the flaking stranger!" You chime, cocking your head to the side and glaring at me playfully.

With the extending of my hand I pop the box out. "I come with gifts from a friend. She's ordered for us to not open yet, not until—"

"Let me guess," you chime, puckering your lips and wiggling your tongue in your mouth. "Not until our famous honeymoon everyone—apart from us—seems to look forward to?"

"Yup." I watch how big your smile is as you steal the box from me, before rushing to place it away on the couch.

I close the door behind me. My eyes are in awe, my lips are parted. The side-smile I make is real, potent. "The place looks beautiful."

"Well thank you!" You coo over your shoulder, walking back over towards me, "I got everything for the kitchen set, have the long white walls behind the television marked and hammered—" my eyes follow your fingers that point about. "Have my room partially ready...and well, yours is almost done too."

My head snaps over at that. "W-Wha—"

You smile, nudge my side with your elbow before reassuringly shaking your head. "Don't worry about standing me up yesterday, there's a reason I didn't bug you...I'm not mad."

"You aren't?" I breathe out, shoulders slumping.

Guilt.

"No of course not," you laugh, moving towards the kitchen to grab water and toss me one. It was a thing now.

I fumble. Barely able to catch the bottle as I say, "I just thought you forgot with me, I—"

"I didn't forget," you sigh, leaning into the marble kitchen counter, "I just figured I'd give you the space you needed...especially since everything seems to be going so fast with adjustments."

"Which is why you didn't call?"

"Yes," you drink your water. "Plus I understand how stressed you are about trying to get songs on paper...I know loads about needing space for writing."

Working. She thinks I was working yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that. I feel shit. I feel so much shit. I'm barely standing, clenching the top of the bottle in my hand.

Guilt.
I can't even look at your face when I ask, "...Then would it be okay if I miss out on today as well? I've been feeling slightly sick."

I lie and you fall for it. Eyes soft, you worriedly ask, "Is everything okay?"

I swallow pride. "Yes, I'll uh," I lick my lips and start to walk backwards. Just as fast as I came, the faster I run away. "I'll stop by tomorrow and help you for sure."

Your brows are deeply knit, your body moves from the counter, and you wish to tell me goodbye but I'm already out in the hall—planning to disappear once more.

Wednesday

—and I did. I disappeared for 3 days. Perfect right? Not so much. The stress ate at me more than the guilt at this point...

"Kiss me."

I smile. I can't tell if it's a forced smile or genuine one—I haven't known to notice the difference anymore.

I kiss the woman in the shower with me, deep and fast. I smirk when she breathily whimpers at my ear, legs curling around my waist tight. "Yoongi Yoongi," Terin continues to say. Over and over and over again.

I can't seem to get enough of it.

This night,
I end up with:
Empty pages in my notebook,
But a satisfied yearning for sex her hot body regulates for me—
Mind unfulfilled, body pulsing with success.

Thursday

I'm with the boys.
Namjoon is back,
His girl is missing—
Everyone is so tense.

I worry for Namjoon. I worry for Jin. I worry for Hoseok, but I worry for all but me. I don't think about myself, my situation, nor have I thought about you for a long while. I avoid it. I avoid you.

Saturday

Terin orgasms, her thighs squeeze my temples. I smirk at her lips, tasting her in. "Yoongi!" She screams, I don't get tired of it. I sometimes wonder if I ever will.

Sunday

I'm trying to write.
I get nothing done.
Terin sits on my lap again, distracts me and kisses me.

I kiss her back. I kiss her hard and fast. For some reason, I fuck her hard and fast, unlike before, I have the bed creak 'til a slight spring breaks by her head.

She giggles.
I holler in laughter.
Our sweaty bodies fall to the ground of the hotel where I finish the job.

Tuesday

"Join me in the shower, will you?"

I swallow hard. My shirt is off, my underwear barely on. I'm about to go under the shower with Terin but freeze when seeing the first text in a while—the first from her in a while.

You: I've finished painting your room.

I grab my jeans. With furrowed brows, I leave you on 'read' for a moment as I pull to button my jeans back.

The nibbling on my lower lip is back when seeing the bubbles pop on the screen. You're typing—you're trying...

You: I'll be painting the guest room tomorrow.

My eyes soften.

"Yoongi, hurry before the water gets cold," Terin scolds, giggling giggling giggling—she's always giggling.

Staring back at the screen when you finish your last text, it takes me a nudge to notice that I've been leaving you on 'read' this entire time.

You: hello? 😂 I can see you reading this, you aren't slick.

My fingers work fast.

Yoongi: Sorry, I was writing...multitasking.

You: 😊 I'm glad you're getting stuff done.

The nibbling at my lip screws at me, making me feel as if I break open and bleed.

Yoongi: Thanks.

The bubbles pop back. They disappear. Then they're back. Then they disappear again. It's as if you're shy to write what's next, and there are flutters at my stomach. My gaze softens further, blurring my vision for a moment—just a moment.

You: Would you like to maybe stop by and help tomorrow?

I blankly stare at that.

Yoongi: Would you like me to?

The hesitant bubbles are back. My heart breaks a little at this conversation through text. One that makes me conflicted on all ends of any spectrum.

You: Maybe.

I lick over my lip.

Yoongi: Did you want me to last Monday?...When I had said I'd come?

You: but you didn't

I notice the lack of punctuation, the lack of caps. I blink, I stare, my thumbs freeze for a second. I don't know what to type to that.

It's as if you panic. It's as if you don't want me to know you're upset, or confused. You type, quick and without hesitancy this time.

You: You know what? You're probably busy, it's okay. Forget about tomorrow, just focus on the work you have to do.

I didn't know how hard this would be. I didn't know how insulting this would feel. I didn't know I could unintentionally play with someone this bad, but I stay in denial and work the effort of doing something I never thought I could.

I hold my shirt I previously tossed away, I shout a 'work emergency' over to Terin who pops her head out of the curtain, and then I rush out of the room.

Shirt on, belt struggling to get on. I work towards the elevator while fixing my jacket, hair, glasses and mask. When I'm in the elevator and moving down, I look back to your texts, read them over and know what I'm about to do is needed.

I call you.

It rings a few times. I'm anxious and unable to breathe properly as I tap my foot uneasy in the boxed space.

It rings it rings. Then it stops ringing and before you can even open up a greeting, my voice breathlessly says, "I'm coming tomorrow."

"Y-You don't have to, you—"

"I'll be in front of your door at noon tomorrow," I say this in demands, determined as I wake into the lobby of the hotel I've grown familiar with, "...then we'll head to the building where we can both work."

"Are you sure?" Your voice is soft, it is hesitant. And I know that you doubt me for lying or standing you up again. That only makes what I say next easier to spill.

"I'm sure."

Wednesday

Like promised, at noon, I stand in a black bomber, black jeans, but whiter than white tee that drape down past my jean's buttons. The boots I wear are new, my hair is messy and undone as I have it hidden in the cap I wear—the cap I wear backwards, revealing my forehead that glistens in the light of the hallway I stand in.

I knock.

Your steps are less excited to rush over and it's strange to see the changes to your behaviour around me. You open the door, look surprised, and then you finally smile. It's cute how you lean into the door, like a shy teen staring at their crush in a crowded school hallway.

"Can I?" I gesture to entering, the curves of my lips easier than ever when seeing how genuinely relaxed you seemed to get—happy to see me.

"Yes," you nibble at your lower lip and I wonder if I've caught that on from you or if you've caught it from me. I walk in, look for changes in the home and find many. It's beautiful, it's spacious, it's white, rich, with clean glass—it's everything a newly wed would want.

When you walk in front of me and give me a mini tour of all the changes you've made, I finally stare at you. You're in a white shirt as well—a dirtied white shirt with paint slapped in inches around certain ends. Your shorts are made of silk, they're a navy blue, and hold little dandelions in patterns around. I smile at how beautiful you look, from the clothing, to your messy hair, to the slight paint streak that brushes and splatters at your cheekbone.

"The place looks great."

"I know right," you smile over your shoulder before ushering towards the stairs.

"You staying for the big reveal?" you tease and I roll my eyes.

"I'm here aren't I?"

"For how long exactly?"

I smirk, small. "Until we've finished the guest room."

Your chest moves for a breath. I can't tell if it's a sigh of relief or I've mistaken an entire expression. Watching you nod, showcase an approved sensation, you skip steps before me in excitement that ignites fast. You're back. You're smiling again, you're laughing, and you're waving your hands so my feet don't drag so lamely on the steps.

Once I reach the top, you take me to your room. I see how neutral the colour setting is, how fluffy your pillows look, and how your wooden desk holds loads of books, textbooks, and your laptop above it. The screen is lightened, your Word-documents are displayed, but I focus on nothing more when you close the door and squeak, "Now for your room!"

I feel my heart flutter when you attempt a shoulder dance. Holding the sleeve of my bomber, you skip over with naked feet—careful with my shoes that can hurt your toes. Standing by the door, you purse your lips from smiling too hard as you turn at the knob and open.

I glance to your face, then finally the room. My room.

It has a bed, dark sheets, a carpet so my feet don't get cold. There's a large metallic desk by the window in the room, and I can see down to the beautiful street. It's a room that's bigger than yours, a master room, and my breath is caught in my throat as I step in and touch the glass of the closet door that remains transparent. The painting is a nude yellow and I wonder why you've chosen such a colour. Before my lips can part to ask, I freeze when noticing a familiar mirror.

My mirror. Mine from home, mine that holds letters words and phrases from the past. There are sheets, not even one seems to be missing. All are in the same position I left them, now here, in front of me. I swallow so fucking hard.

With a jump, your hand that creeps over to my bomber has me jump. I tear my eyes away from the sheets, the mirror, and then to your gentle face. Watching your lips move as you whisper at me, you keep distance but make sure to slowly have your hand meet mine—hesitant you are, but sure of yourself you also are.

"I've also got the Tupac poster," then you laugh, "But I kept that for myself since I loved it so much. Hope you don't mind."

My brows furrow. My heart is going mad. I don't know what to say so I just speak my mind without thinking, "Why'd you do this?"

"I know you've got an issue with your past...I know you—for some reason—you hate those lyrics, that mirror..." your hand officially makes it into mine as you squeeze, "But I figured since you've helped me work through some of my insecurities involving love, I'd help you with yours; your love for music."

I feel my upper lip quiver. I'm not mad at the gesture, I frankly don't know how to feel.

"Thanks."

"You don't like it?"

I gulp down air, "N-No, I didn't say I didn't it's just—" my nose crinkles as I look back at the mirror. What I see staring back at me is my own dark eyes, as well as your soft ones standing close by me. "It'll just need a fair bit of getting used to."

"That is if you ever stay a night over," you sigh, slipping your hand out from mine and moving to exit the space.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to leave the beauty of a space—a whole space just for me. For me. I smile, I finally smile genuinely as I follow you out of it. It's hard but I do so as I close the door and stare at your back at distances towards one final room.

"You say that as if you wish for me to stay?" I tease, wishing to see more of a smile of your face.

You give me a pathetic one as we enter the guest room. I see the walls, I see the floors and I see the untouched inches of colourless walls. This being the only room that looks like a mess, I stare over at the rollers, the pink paint, and the sheets of covering that protect the furniture all around.

"Before we start—"

'Mhm?" you bend and start to pick at the bucket of paint for moving.

"Why yellow?" I smile, hands in my pockets and head tilted back in curiosity.

You stare away from my eyes, work to set up and usher for me to take my shoes off. Throughout all the ordering around, I obey and wait for you to clarify. When you do, I'm rendered speechless all over again.

"You seem to stress on your writing a lot," you shrug slow, loading up paint into the carrier pressed to the corner. "I thought the pastel-shade would keep you motivated and happy once unconsciously around."

I slowly take my socks off, side-glancing over from the ground I kneel at once looking over at you preparing. You speak these words easy, as if caring for me and my mind is a second-hand job needed to be fulfilled.

I'm silent throughout it all.

With a snort, you extend your hand and bring me off the ground. Tossing me an extra apron, we get ready. "And I thought the cheery colour could help with the anger-issues you've got going for yourself lately."

I try not to smile at that, tying the back of my apron before joining you by one unfinished wall. You sit on a stool while I stand next to you. Your hands already grip and roll paint to the walls. I see the pretty pink and admire the way the shade bounces off the wall and luminates your face. The sun peering in through the window doesn't help the beauty you shape either.

"I thought I married a passive-aggressive airhead, not a thoughtful sweetheart."

I can see from the corner of my eyes, your mouth tilts upward. I grin before shyly facing the paint that drips off my brush. Inching to the corners that you miss, I fill in the lines of pink.

It's silent for a long while.

If I was counting, I swear it would've gone to 20 minutes and over.
I like this, I like you when we're both quiet.
Not in an offense way, no no no not at all.
I like how it's not awkward when we're like this—
I like the thoughts I get,
I like that you allow me to see, feel, and think them.
I like us quiet.

"Did you know that pink used to be considered the most masculine colour?" your soft voice breaks in suddenly. We've finished one whole wall, we've barely talked, but now our shoulders are both comfortable and slouched around another.

"Really?" I ask, staring at the strokes I make.

You nod, moving your loose strands of hair away from your eyes with the back of your hand. You're no longer on the tool but standing close by me. We're both close, arms brushing one another's, but neither of us care. Your apron is off, my bomber is off. We paint.

"It would symbolize power and strength."

"I can see why," I whisper, staring at the vibrancy of the colour. "No matter how dull you try to make it, it shines still."

"I never used to like the colour when I was younger."

"And now?" I ask.

You smirk, "Still hate it."

I smirk, "Makes perfect sense." I'm sarcastic, but I guess you enjoy that as you seal your mouth from smiling too large.

"I don't necessarily like the colour, but I respect it."

"Respect it?"

You nod, sighing and sulking as you take your roller away from the wall. "Yes. It's got history."

"I see," I chuckle, watching you move around me with a skip as you arch to get inches I grow lazy to tip-toe and reach. You do it, so I stand back to watch.

I'm not a pervert that glances at your legs or ass, nor am I a shallow soul that stares at how obviously beautiful your features seem. For right now, I catch how perfectly you get the parts I miss, and ask the questions that matter; questions to know more about you.

"I'm guessing you learned the history of colours through higher education?" I tease, chuckling when you stick your roller out in warning.

"Don't mock my degree."

"What was it again? Wasteful Studies?"

"Women Studies."

"That's what I said, Wasteful Studies." I grunt when you elbow my ribcage hard. Wincing, I still manage to chuckle as you start painting again. I follow, starting to dab paint in corners myself.

You're quiet again. This time I don't want you to be so I ask, "What made you choose such a course."

I hear a sigh escape you. "Being babied, trapped, and forced to obey to my parents all my sheltered life, I wanted to learn about woman who were the opposite."

My brows knit. "The opposite?"

"Brave," you whisper and my eyes move sad to the side of your tired face, "Loud, aggressive—for the right reasons since protest and change have never been present without a mess in this world."

"You probably learned about remarkable women..."

"Truly did." There's a reminiscing smile on your face.

"You may not hold similar attitudes to the one's your read on, but I can tell from the words you write that they've influenced you to be strong." I easily say this. I easily compliment. It is then I notice how easy I can compliment you on your character, but struggle to compliment on your physical beauties.

"In what ways?" you stop painting for a moment, looking over at me with tenderness.

"Intellectually, the research and data in your published book was fascinating to me," I shrug, dabbing more of the wall while I spoke, "...and the fact that, by the age of 24, you managed to buy yourself a home, run a stable business through self-publishing, and build an academic following? That's amazing and shouldn't be taken for granted."

I'm too busy with the pink, the splatter, and the one annoying corner I must stretch to reach for, that I barely notice how wary your exterior gets; there's a granted smile that slowly moves to your lips however.

"You read my book?"

I hear the quiet question and nod without hesitation, "Of course I did."

The fluttering of your heart I don't hear or see or feel.

"In what world does publishing a book mean anything for anyone but me?"

I grin, "Are you fishing for compliments now?"

You try not to smile. "Maybe."

With a light laugh, I move away from the wall, step back a few steps and look at the outer scale. "You may not have been on the streets protesting for the ability to vote, or the hatred towards sexual oppression, or the abuses and violence for women—but you've built a community, you've made valid points, and you've made your mark on the world in the slightest way."

Your head tilts, examining me. I wink over at you, placing my paintbrush down before slumping lazily on your stool. "I mean, I wasn't fully aware of everything I am now...take me as an example for your accomplishment. I learned a lot from your words and hope to continue learning when you get a second one out."

You stare away from me. Your toe caresses the back of one leg, and your watery eyes look to the ground. You painfully chuckle, and I'm no longer amused happy or chilled. I part my lips and go, "Shit, why're you crying, did I say something wrong I—"

"No no," you blink back tears, sigh and move to paint more of the wall that is finished. "It's just amusing how I've come so far and yet..." I understand now. I understand the tears, the sad smile, and the distraction you try to play out.

"I find myself to be a strong man myself...I've done a lot for myself."

You nod.

"But around my parents, I'm belittled, I've got no backbone, I can't say no."

You nod slower this time.

"So, trust me, I get it. But I'm learning slow to not have that obvious weakness get the best of me and tarnish all the rest of me that isn't cowardice, that isn't weak and repeatedly angry...you should work on it for yourself."

I try to sigh and breathe but stop when seeing the way, you glue your eyes to mine. Your eyes narrow, watery they still are, but no longer as sad. "Did you just..." you trail off, holding back smiles.

I roll my eyes, "Yeah yeah, I'm tired of blaming you for the entirety of what happened between us."

"You're being a little too sweet." You laugh, "You doing alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Did you hit your head somewhere?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Did you eat? Maybe your sugar is low."

"Cut it out."

"Here, have some of this," you pucker your lips and make sounds as if you're calling out for a cat. Offended yet amused, I play around and move to shift away from the brush you hold close to me.

"Don't you dare."

"Honey don't fight it," you launch at me and I dodge.

With an ongoing on guard, I take hold of my own brush and hold defense. Paint flies and splatters at your shirt, causing you to gasp. I mimic a terrible evil laugh before hearing you squeak and rush over to pain my back. To much shitty-degree, you paint the entire spine of my back, staining my white shirt I had managed to keep clean throughout this whole process. Gasping, with wide eyes, I charge over with nothing but determination as I fight you.

Grabbing you, I'm smiling when hearing you squeaking and giggling in my arms. But I manage to have most of the paint I hold to splatter hit your face, your neck, and some of your hair.

You whack the brush out of my hand.

I laugh loudly by your ear.

You wobble, shaking with exaggerated joy yourself before arms wrap around me. I feel it, I feel the hug, and the hands that held your hips now hug you back. Holding you in the arms that taunted earlier, we catch breath, laugh still, and don't realize such an embrace until we wobble, like penguins glued together, towards the back wall that is still so wet.

My back leans on to it. You snort by my ear when I cuss, wishing to move off of it, but the sudden tap of my nose to yours when your head strips away from my shoulder has us both shut up immediately.

I'm no longer laughing or smiling,
You're no longer laughing or smiling.

My hand cups that small of your back, fingers gentle yet scared to move away.

You stare at my eyes, then my lips, then my eyes again. It is clear I do the same from the way my chest explodes against yours and I wonder if you can feel how hard the ringing starts to fasten. Can you feel it? Why can I feel it? Why is it so fast?

I'm losing my mind, I'm losing my breath. I close my parted lips, I swallow at the lump that forms to the back of my throat, and I catch how soft and welcoming your lips look for me. I want to kiss you, I really want to kiss you, but I can't. I see how innocent, how sweet, how gentle and scared you look in my arms so close—so I let you go.

Shy, awkward, and clumsy we are. I feel your hands lace with mine as you help me from being marked into the wall. Over my shoulder, I glance and see the imprints of my shoulder blades in the wet paint. Whispering to fix it, I look back to you who doesn't agree. With confused eyes, I ask, "What?"

"Leave the mark there. Let it dry."

"Okay, but—"

Your loveable voice cuts me off. Cuts me off strong with a question that knocks the wind out of me once again. I wonder if you noticed to ask when you were inches away from kissing me.

"Where's your ring?"you ask, forehead in a twist when staring curiously down at my bare neck.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

[ YOONGI'S P.O.V. END ]