fwb!yoongi + done
Let’s be friends. Just friends. I’m not ready for a relationship but I expect you to do things with me that are deemed inappropriate in terms of friendship. We’re not together, you can’t claim me, you can’t be with anyone but me. I need you to be loyal but I’ll do whatever I want and when you get mad I’ll remind you we’re not together. If you develop feelings I’ll become distant, if you find yourself feeling things for someone else what you should be feeling for me I’ll become distant. We’re just friends. I told you I’m not ready for a relationship.
His touch was scalding.
“Yoongi… wait.” You murmured between kisses you had denied yourself for weeks, his hands roaming your body in a way that told you he owned you.
But did you own him?
“Don’t wanna” was murmured against the column of your throat. You cocked your head to give him better access all while resting your hands against his chest to push him away.
“I told you…” Another kiss, “I just wanted…” A nip behind your ear, “I came here to talk.”
“And you’re talking,” he hummed, his hands going to the belt of his jeans. “My girls smart… knows how to multitask.”
His girl. His. You belonged to him.
The words served as a bitter reminder of his claim over you, the way he was able to twist your insides with a single look. When had this stopped being a mutual agreement? When did your control over the situation begin to slip from you until you were lost? Lost to Yoongi, lost to your desires, lost to the sheer need to have him, to own and be owned?
The hand resting against his chest was suddenly back under your control, and not a puppet to Yoongi’s irresistible touch, at the painful reminder.
“I said stop.” You bit out.
It was embarrassing, how he had you wrapped around his finger. How talking turned to heavy petting, turned to his hands down your pants and your top missing.
Yoongi let out an annoyed sigh, but pulled himself from on top of you, watching as your hands moved to shield your naked body from him.
He rolled his eyes before giving you his back to fiddle with something on his dresser, “I have something to do in a little bit, is this going to take long?”
You scoffed, “You didn’t have something to do when you were three fingers deep, but now that you have to hold an actual conversation with me you’re miraculously busy?”
“God,” he groaned, “I fucking hate when you get like this. How many times do I have to tell you-”
“We’re just fucking?” You laughed bitterly, “I know that.”
“Are you sure you do?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Because I don’t think you can separate the two.”
“Don’t patronize me, Yoongi. I came here to tell you I’m done and I want the key to my apartment back. You can pick your shit up when you have time, just text me and I’ll leave it outside the door.”
A sharp glint reflected in the dark pools of Yoongi’s eyes and you had physically refrain from smacking the smirk from his face. As much as Yoongi claimed this wasn’t s relationship, (and it wasn’t, relationship insinuated both parties had equal say in every decision and that was clearly never the case with Min Yoongi), he was still extremely possessive, wanted absolute control over every aspect of whatever fucked up unrequited fling the two of you had going on. He called the shots, not you. You didn’t get a say in when you met up or where, you also didn’t get to end it. Only he did, when he decided he was done with you.
And the look in his eye told you Min Yoongi was far from done with you.
“For someone who claims to know the difference between a relationship and fuck buddies, this sure does feel like a break up.” He chuckled, your stare withered on him.
“You know, it wouldn’t be so hard for me to tell the difference if you weren’t fucking with my head constantly.” You bit out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sighed, reaching to tug on an oversized black sweater. The one that was your favorite. The one you used to steal and walk around scantily clad in nothing else but a pair of undies. The one that used to make Yoongi’s mouth water and gaze follow you around your apartment until he was pressed up behind you, whispering about how he needed your help with something in the bedroom.
You rolled your eyes at him, already re-fastening your jeans before carding your fingers through your bed head. “Really? So it wasn’t you who visited Jimin’s work the other night?”
“Who?” Yoongi murmured, but you could tell he was biting back a smirk.
“Jimin. The guy I’m dating. He works at a coffee shop, Yoongi. He called me last night to let me know he couldn’t see me anymore and that it was unfair of me to include him in my drama.”
Park Jimin. A fools dream. Your last shot at redemption from whatever purgatory Yoongi had dragged you into. He was so pure, and sweet almost childlike. He didn’t make your heart flip flop like it did when you first met Yoongi, instead his eye smile and gentleness had acted like a balm for your battered soul.
It was for the better. Someone as sweet and tolerant and kind as Jimin didn’t deserve to pick up Min Yoongi’s pieces, didn’t deserve to deal with a problem he didn’t create.
At 21 you were too jaded, too broken and battered to hope for more than stability. You had tried for passion, had tasted the double edged sword of desire. At this point you didn’t need a love that burned like a thousand suns, you could settle for a mutual attraction that eased you gently into old age, surrounded you like a warm blanket. You didn’t need butterflies when you could settle for the sense of calm Jimin brought whenever he touched you. It wasn’t love but love was fickle and cruel and took no prisoners.
Love was Min Yoongi.
Anger churned itself in your belly as you were reminded of how Jimin had initially stammered a hello before giving you a rushed lecture on how your dishonesty disgusted him and how he wasn’t okay with seeing a girl with a boyfriend.
You snickered bitterly at that.
Yoongi was the farthest thing from boyfriend material. When you had first met him, amidst all the whispered poetry and beautiful gifts and sweet texts you were able to delude yourself into thinking so. You were able to ignore the way his hand tightened around yours, almost painfully so, when you even glanced in the direction of another male, kin or otherwise.
You ignored the way he marked your skin, even after directly expressing your discomfort at having to parade around work like some hussy.
Ignored the way he slowly isolated you, made you dependent on him, helped you push away friends, family until you were lost to him. Clinging to him. Desperate for him.
He was just a little insecure, you had told yourself. And… his jealousy was flattering. It made your heart flutter when he would pin you in, slightly drunk, slurring, asking if you were fucking other men. Making you scream and cry until you were both a blubbering mess, his grip on your wrist bruising. Angry sex was the best sex right? You could cover the fingerprints on your neck with concealer, you decided while he petted your hair soothingly, whispering quiet apologies against your throat, trailing kisses to your breast bone.
He was just… passionate you had told yourself. It made you swoon how he would come home late from the studio, frustrated and tired from days of work without any real productivity. Your belly flipped at the way he would rip the blankets from your body, yank your legs apart, take all of his frustrations out on you, tell you he just… he just really needed this, needed you. It never crossed your mind that this was a violation. If it were you wouldn’t feel so good, be able to come so hard, he wouldn’t be so gentle after, curled into you with his head on your breast, letting you coddle him and coo sweet reassurances.
He was lonely. You couldn’t leave him. He suffered from depression and you could relate to that. It felt good to be depended on, you couldn’t give that up just yet. He needed you. Taehyung could wait. You didn’t really need to help your sister, a wedding wasn’t as pressing or as urgent as Yoongi’s mental health. He needed you.
You shook your head, you couldn’t blame him for this. It was all your doing. If you were stupid enough to be manipulated by Min Yoongi you deserved to feel the crushing sadness, stress, and anxiety of being completely and utterly alone.
“I’m done.” You said softly, so quietly beaten, defeated, overcome with your depression. You were sinking, “I’m done with this. Give back the key or don’t, I’m changing the locks. Pick up your stuff, or don’t, I’ll donate it. I don’t care anymore. I’m… finished with whatever this is.”
You moved to make your way out of his apartment, your entire body numb, succumbing to the crushing weight of your depression. You didn’t feel relief, or joy or even sadness. You couldn’t feel anything other than the grip on your wrist, preventing you from leaving. You lifted your head, turning to face the man who had ruined you for all else, for yourself. “… Please.”
Yoongi’s eyes widened as if seeing you for the first time in months, but just as quickly as it came, his emotions were gone, concealed, locked away into the normal mask he wore daily.
“What’s between us will never be done, you know that right?” He said quietly, his stare challenging you to defy him, to disagree.
Small fingers gently pried at his own and Yoongi glanced down to see you disengaging his hold on you. Emotionally and physically, he mused.
“There’s nothing left for me to give. So even if this will always be an open-ended chapter in my miserable life since I met you, Yoongi I’m sucked dry. You took everything from me, my happiness, sadness, anger. You’re a leech,” you said gently.
He cocked back as if you slapped him. You were reading him, he thought. You were seeing him, finally. The words leaving your mouth weren’t out of malice or spite, you were just stating facts.
It cut deep.
“You will always be a leech. I chose to ignore it so it’s my fault too,” you nodded, “I used your depression, your anxiety as a crutch, the same way you did. I used it to excuse your behavior and your abuse, and now I’m paying the price. But just because you’re hurting doesn’t give you the right to lash out, Yoongi.” You murmured, a hand cupped gently around his face. You leaned up to kiss his forehead lightly.
“I’ll show myself out.”
Yoongi stood still in the spot where you left, minutes maybe hours, it felt like months before he finally moved. His chest felt like it was caving, it felt as though you had blown a hole straight through the middle. Was he having a heartattack? Could it be induced by heartbreak?
It was all too dramatic for him. Min Yoongi wasn’t a frivolous person, he didn’t fall victim to things like heartache. He wasn’t capable of feeling more than amusement or cold satisfaction that trickled through him when he made another notch in his bedpost.
Or so he thought.
“You fucking bitch!”
His shout of anger pierced through the dingy walls of his apartment, traveling to rock a tremor through your fragile psyche. You heard the familiar noise of glasses and fine china being shattered, each one you knew was a punch he wouldn’t dare land on you. He never needed to, his actions spoke decibels of what he wanted to do you. It was all too familiar a scene. The way he slammed doors, punched walls, broke furniture.
A shiver of anxiety traveled through your body at the thought and you quickened your pace to the elevator, ready to leave every single trace of Min Yoongi in this dirty, old apartment.