Chapter Text
“Your limbs are too flimsy. You’re meant to slice the sword—not swing.” Tone laced with nothing unyielding authority, Yoongi reminds you why you’ve thought about slicing his head off with the sword.
“I heard you the first time,” you grit out.
You turn your body as you jump into an elegant twirl that provides you with the momentum to slice the hundred-year-old sword through the air, position stopping right in front of Yoongi who has nothing but a vacant expression on his face.
“Clearly you weren’t listening enough. You’re still swinging. Tense your arms,” he scolds, tapping your elbow provokingly with the edge of his thousand-year sword. A gift from the previous master himself.
“I am,” you spit.
Your body feels loose, and not in a relaxing way after a calming massage but instead with the echo of your muscles telling you to stop. Hours of practice cooped up in the chambers of the temple seemed futile when you didn’t see an end to your practices, especially given the man who leaves no room for imperfection was the one who kept you on your feet.
With one last push, you tense your arms as hard as you can to ensure that your grip on the sword is tight enough so that when you do slice the sword in the air, you’re able to stop it just enough for him to be satisfied.
Your own standards be damned.
“Stop.”
His curt voice breaks you out of your final effort in appeasing his exceedingly high standards and you freeze in the middle of your ministrations, limbs giving up on your intentions as you droop and let your knees greet the floor.
You’re panting when you hear his feet shuffle right in front of your bent figure, the shadow of his silhouette looming over you as the constant reminder of your failure, the lack of satisfaction that you were able to provide to him.
“Stand up,” he commands.
You want to defy his orders because it’s been hours since you’ve stepped foot into the temple to learn from one of the swordmasters today, and months since he was the one that was appointed to you when the town first found out you were the worthy one to bear the hundred-year-old sword.
When you first found out about your predetermined future, you were baffled, to say the least, because your entire life was spent by your mother’s side curating apothecary for the village folks, occasionally boiling dumplings to be distributed to the poor in your area.
You’ve lived a life nothing short of ordinary, and you were the poster image of mediocre. There was nothing to you that screamed worthy or unique enough to be chosen as the next apprentice. The town you lived in awaited only two things each year, Lunar New year and the announcement from the deity’s above on who was the next person in line to carry the legacy of your townsfolk’s.
You never paid any mind, purely because you were busy with other things and that you cared for the people around you rather than the chatters of aunties and uncles that would place bids on their sons to be next in line—the title indefinitely guaranteeing a lifetime of fortune.
So when your name was announced as you packed the last bits of dumplings to be distributed, every person in town was bewildered, because you weren’t of royal blood, nor were you in connection with anyone of power. You were nobody.
And a woman.
The first time a woman has been called as the chosen one in all the years of history that your town has been aware of and it’s this … nobody.
You definitely felt like an outsider when the council brought you to the temple, secluded far away from your town to ensure that you were immersed in your training and not get distracted by anything else but your duty to fulfil.
Your imposter syndrome only became worse when you somehow ended up with someone as unbearable and unforgiving as Min Yoongi as the person who was meant to determine whether you were fit to represent your town in a years time.
Were you really worthy?
“I said stand up, _____.”
His deep voice breaks you out of your trance as you make your way up on shaky knees, wobbling as you grip the sword tightly in your fist while you avoided his formidable gaze.
“Why did you stop when I didn’t tell you to?”
He knows the answer to the question, you’re sure he does. You’re sure under the exterior of all the coldness that ebbs away on his skin, the slight wrinkles that come with experience surely held wisdom and observational skills that would rival an average person. He knows.
You remain silent, knowing not to engage in another argument with him.
Amongst all the apprentices that Yoongi had the favour of training, you were by far the most … interesting.
One, because you were a woman, which was already different from every other person that enters the halls to learn from him.
But mainly because you seemed to doubt yourself a lot more than someone who was chosen by the deities should have.
The people that walked through the entrances of the temple usually carried some form of confidence with them, and dare Yoongi to say—cockiness, which is why he turned people away when they let their egos get to their head.
The deities choose the worthy ones, but only the worthy ones are chosen by Yoongi.
You don’t know that because all Yoongi is to you is your superior, someone who pushes your body till it breaks and until you can’t breathe. But what you don’t see is what he sees in you. The fight of a woman who cares for her people. Who understands human nature far better than any chosen one has ever felt.
You also were oddly mouthy. It wasn’t … bad. But interesting. Never had Yoongi have an apprentice that was as ballsy to call him an asshole amongst other colourful nicknames as you were. But you were far from conventional.
Maybe that’s why Yoongi calls you out.
“You want to curse at me,” Yoongi muses, his tone far from accusatory but more as if he was stating the obvious.
You snap your head to look at him, eyes narrowing at his figure who holds the sword of his behind his back firmly. His onyx, cat-like eyes pierce through your expression that races with every time he blinks at you, and you try to convince yourself that the race of your heart is because of your intense practice rather than his gaze.
“I want to do a lot of things to you …” you mutter under your breath, loud enough for him to hear.
You don’t realise the double meaning behind your words until you see Yoongi cock an eyebrow at you.
Your ears burn at the honest mistake, but you don’t fight to take the words back because Yoongi had a way of making you feel small with just his stare.
“And that is?” He pries, twirling his sword with precision and ease as he glides his long fingers against the body of the blade; your eyes trained on the clarity of his actions.
“Let’s start with slicing your head off, yeah?” you grunt.
Amusement dances in Yoongi’s irises as you avoid his heavy-lidded glare, feeling all the more flustered when he takes a firm step towards you, the heat of his body apparent against your own even if you were the one that was sweating.
“Would that help you with your technique?” He cocks his head to the side, tone anything but joking.
You look at him carefully as you observe for any sign of a taunt, but he just gazes at you with his blank stare that frustrates you till no end because while you were an open book with your expressions, Yoongi was just as mysterious as when you first met him.
“I dunno. Will you stop yapping at me if I say yes?” you retort.
Instead of replying, he grabs your wrist in a swift motion, causing you to yelp at the sudden touch.
His hand is hot against your skin, big palm engulfing your wrist that looks small in comparison to his hand. You feel the roughness of his palm that came from years of practice and familiarity with the sword, and you gulp when he drags it to his neck—eyes never leaving yours.
“W-What are you doing—?” you stutter, but then he grabs the sword in your other hand in a moment of weakness and brings it to the hand by his neck as your eyes widen. “W-Wait—Yoongi—”
Yoongi doesn’t leave room for you to hesitate or pull away when he voluntarily brings his neck alarmingly close to the sharp edge of your sword.
“Slice.”
The hand that isn’t holding the sword to your trainer’s neck falls limp to your side as you gape at him when you note that his words and expression are dead serious, not an inkling of fear on his face at the prospect of you potentially slicing his head off.
“What? No! Are you crazy?” You try to retract your hand, but his wrist returns to grab at it.
Your face is forced to stare at his when he levels a hooded stare at you, making your heart beat faster, flustered at the proximity of your bodies.
“The motion, ____,” he calls your name, and even as it falls from his lips you feel less worthy; like a stranger in the temple. “If you swing—you’ll kill me. If you slice above my neck, I live.”
The gamble he offers you is petrifying, and it’s even worse because it’s his life on the line—not yours.
Yoongi always had unorthodox methods of training you but never had he put himself on the line like this just so you would learn something.
“I-I’ll fix my motions—I swear! But I’m not going to … I can’t do what you’re asking me to,” you tell him firmly.
Yoongi’s head leans closer, skin barely touching your blade when he pulls your wrist closer as you see the indent of the sword against his pale skin.
“I tell you what to do. Not the other way around,” he reminds you.
You know there’s no room for argument anymore because if you weren’t going to do anything, you were sure Yoongi would take matters into his own hands.
You wanted to call him crazy for trusting someone like you with a sword as sharp as yours against the delicate expanse of his neck, but you were both flustered and scared at what were to happen if he came closer.
“Why would you do this?” you whisper. “I’m not skilled enough to do this Yoongi …” you tell him, hand shaking around your sword as you feel a lump form in your throat.
Suddenly, you feel the grip on your wrist loosen; and you’re afraid that your words serve as a reminder to him that he’s wasted nearly a year on a hopeless case like you; that he was disappointed in all the time he’s dedicated to training you for you to be unable to carry out a simple slice of the sword.
“I said, slice.”
His stare is cold, eyes blank and lips pursed when he repeats himself.
You blink up at him, and if he notices the way your eyes are glassy; he doesn’t comment. But you know his expression is one of patience, but there’s only so much that he can take and wait for, and you didn’t want to test him anymore.
So, you slice.
You slice, and bring the sword back to your side, chest heaving and heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. You don’t want to look at Yoongi, terrified if you’ve hurt him.
You stay still with your eyes shut, sword limps in your arms until you hear the shuffle of feet right next to you, and your sword is retrieved from your grip.
“Good.”
You open your eyes and only then do you realise that you’ve foolishly allowed tears to fall.
“You’re okay,” you breathe out, observing the fact that his neck is clean—barren of any scar and red.
“Would I risk my life to train an apprentice?” he asks.
You open your mouth to answer but snap it shut when he places your sword next to his against the wooden frame. He gestures for you to sit, and you hesitantly do, mulling over his words as he mirrors your position, right across from you.
“You could do it. So why didn’t you do that earlier?” Yoongi asks a question where he expects an obvious answer.
But you didn’t know. You didn’t know why you weren’t able to slice earlier when you were able to put on the spot with Yoongi’s life on the line.
You think of an answer, but it burns your ears—and you would never dare utter it to Yoongi. A man who feels and breathes nothing but his work.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow, awaiting your response as you swallow your words.
“I don’t know.” Is what you settle for.
Yoongi sighs, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms that show the strength he’s trained for over the years that he’s been a thousand-year sword-bearer.
Yoongi had always been cold. A little disinterested and definitely detached from any sentiment that people would usually offer to their apprentices. It seemed that he was only interested in making sure that you weren’t going to embarrass his name after months of relentless training with you.
It’s always been a hard truth to accept, especially when he’s the person you spend most of your time with; nearly twelve hours a day, and the person you want to see you.
But you’re just … his apprentice. A foolish one, one that fails to show the true glory of a trainer like him.
“You do know, ____. Think.” He leans forward, hands placed on the floorboard in between the two of you as he looks straight into your eyes.
You bite your lip, afraid to tell him why. Afraid that your answer will only push him away than please him.
“I-I don’t know Yoongi,” you say softly.
Yoongi blinks then leans back—distancing himself from you.
Your eyes dart to the side, avoiding his stare because you were sure you were going to break if you saw the disappointment that mars his expression.
“Then let me tell you,” he finally says after a moment of silence.
Your eyes widen when your head snaps back to look at him.
You’re terrified that he sees through you. That he recognises the dopey look you give him when he isn’t looking, or why you sometimes get distracted, or your palms sweat for a reason that isn’t because of how hard practice is—that he sees your heart, and he’s here to snap you out of it.
“It’s because you’re worthy,” Yoongi whispers, hands reaching out to grab your own, and suddenly you’re pulled onto his lap.
You gasp, attempting to balance yourself as you find a position that doesn’t strain your thighs and one that isn’t mortifying.
“Y-Yoongi … what—”
“Do you know why you’re here, _____?” he asks, eyes searching for your own.
His expression is still the same. It’s still very much Yoongi, but it’s softer, more mellow. Like he wants you to not be afraid of what’s to come.
“The deities chose me …?” you say hesitantly, voice soft and hesitant.
“It’s because I want to keep training you,” he tells you.
His confession knocks the breath out of your lungs as your eyes widen. Your hands that were locked between his starts turning sweaty, and you want to curse at yourself for displaying obvious signs of nerves when Yoongi is debatably the most observant man out there.
“But I’m slow … and I can’t nail your techniques like a true sword-bearer … and I argue with you—”
He interrupts you with his own set of words, accompanied by the soft look from earlier.
“And that’s okay. You’re not here to be judged by my pace or standards. It’s not fair for you and you won’t get anywhere if you want to nail my techniques my way,” he whispers.
You blink, feeling your heart constrict at his honest words.
“B-But you’re always yelling at me," you pout.
Yoongi wants to rub his thumb between your furrowed brows, but he knows that you needed to be trodden lightly with and that he was sure you were going to faint if he did anything more than just have your hands in his own.
“And that’s because I see what you can do ____,” he tells you, “You’re always giving up because you think you can’t do it. That’s what frustrates me. That you can’t see how great you are at sword-bearing even when your body fights against you to continue.”
You stare at him in shock when he releases your hands to only reach up to grab your cheeks, forcing you to stare at his face.
You’re sure your face is burning, and you can’t even avoid his gaze because he’s dead-set on making sure your eyes stay on his when they chase yours that run away.
“Look at me, ____.”
You reluctantly avert your eyes to his, and you see every pore up close, you see the gentle whip of his long eyelashes and the pout of his lips that look too inviting.
You briefly see his gaze drift to the bottom of your face, where your lips are, and you feel your heartbeat erratically against your chest.
Yoongi looks good when he trains you, eyes scrunched and focused as his black hair remains tousled when he demonstrates positions for you to mirror. But he looks breathtaking up close. The usual blankness of his face looks less intimidating closer like it was your blank canvas to paint—a face where you were in charge of what was to be expressed on it.
“Stop doubting yourself or your skills,” he tuts at you, and you burn under his attention. “I want you to continue fighting the way you have always fought here. The fire that you have in you? Yeah, don’t let that burn out because you’re more than just the chosen one _____. You’re … you’re talented. No one can convince you but yourself, so I need you to start trusting yourself more because once you’re done with training it’s just going to be you against the rest. I won’t be here to remind you anymore.”
You’re stunned to silence with the honesty of his words. You know that Yoongi doesn’t say this, in fact—it’s the first time you’ve heard such earnest words from the man himself throughout the long months you’ve spent training under him.
Even the other residents of the temple have told you that Yoongi wasn’t the most expressive person, and even if they didn’t tell you—you weren’t blind to how he treats you or people.
The way he looks at you makes you hope, and it’s a dangerous feeling given your position and how weak your heart is compared to a man like Yoongi.
You snap out of your daze and push him off, scrambling to your feet as you grab your sword to leave—tears in your eyes because you feel like a fool for thinking anything more than what he’s offered you.
Yoongi had been nothing but honest with you … and you weren’t in the right to ask of anything else.
Who were you to?
“____,” he calls out when you reach the entrance, and you feel his imposing presence behind you.
“I’m sorry Yoongi but … I can’t,” you tell him shakily, gripping the frame of the door, back faced to him.
“I won’t force you, ____,” he says curtly.
You turn around, heart dropping at the change of his tone. When you see his expression return to the blank expression that he usually has, you have to stop yourself from being disappointed. Realising that what he told you when he held you; was probably to keep you on your feet and determined.
“You don’t get it, do you?” you exasperate.
He furrows his brows, attempting to read you. But your heart is confused and so is your mind.
“I’ll train hard. I know that …” you clear your throat, attempting to level your words out. “I won’t ask for more. I’ll do better,” you say firmly.
Yoongi doesn’t say anything but pulls you closer by the elbow until you’re pressed against his chest.
“I don’t think you get it, ____,” he says slowly.
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s faster with his response.
“What did you think I meant just now when I told you to stop doubting yourself?” he asks.
“Yoongi, what are you—”
He shushes you with a finger to your lips, and you blush at the touch.
“Answer my question.”
You sigh, slapping his finger away from your mouth to glare at him. But Yoongi simply offers a small shrug of his shoulders in response.
“Look. I know I’ve been slacking off and this is you trying to be nice … which I appreciate, a lot. Really. I do. I know you don’t do …” you gesture to your bodies, “… all of this. So I’ll work harder. You don’t need to—you don’t need to walk on eggshells with me.”
Yoongi blinks.
Not once, but twice.
You gulp, afraid you’ve said too much but you’re helpless against his tight grip on your body so that you’re unable to run away, away from his gaze that you still can’t read.
But then he laughs, and you’re confused at the sound because Yoongi rarely ever displayed any emotion but stoicism when he was with you, and you think you’ve heard him laugh a total of three times throughout the past few months you’ve trained under him.
“Why are you laughing?” you pout.
Yoongi looks at you fondly and sees a fighter but also a woman, a woman who is yet to understand social cues or affection maybe because of the way you were brought up—but also maybe because of how Yoongi is by nature.
So instead of explaining in words, where you can misinterpret it, he reaches for your chin gently to turn your face to him so that you see his gentle gaze—and he kisses you.
On the lips.
You’re too shocked to kiss back, your arms staying awkwardly by your side until Yoongi slides a hand down to your hips and squeezes them that you reach your arms around his neck.
You close your eyes and allow yourself to feel his lips against your own, soft, hot and gentle. It was everything like how you dreamt of when you selfishly allowed yourself to indulge in your fantasy—it was now served as a reality and it was so much better than you could ever have thought it to be.
The kiss was so … Yoongi. He wasn’t rushing, he savoured every taste of your lips against his like he had all the time in the world like he spent years planning this very step with calculated precision because Yoongi was not the type to half-ass anything.
It’s until you feel your lungs fighting for air that you pull away, mesmerised by the string of saliva that connects your lips and the swollen pink flesh of Yoongi’s.
“W-What—”
“This is me, ____,” He says against your lips, as you feel your heart race against your chest. “I believe in you.”
Somehow, you understood. Those four words were enough for you to know where his heart truly laid, and where he stood with you.
“I just … wow,” you breathe.
But then, with all your doubts overcome with joy, you throw all shame out of the window and pull him by the collar until his mouth is on your own again.
This time, with you leading the kiss, you kiss harder even with the inexperience. Yoongi was your first kiss but you knew that you wanted him, that your heart was his even against your better judgement.
You feel him lick into the seams of your mouth, hands reaching down to pull your hips flush against his pelvis, backing you up until your back reaches the frame of the door.
All you feel is Yoongi. You smell him, the slight tinge of perspiration with the scent of nature that surrounds the temple. He tastes just like everything you’ve been waiting for and more, and he only proves how much he was yours as you were his when he grabs your hand to interlock it with strands of his dark hair.
He leaves open-mouth kisses against your lips, breathing heavily with want when you let out small whimpers of desire.
“You really know how to put on a show, huh?” he whispers.
You grin up at him, reaching for the buttons of his shirt, offering him a tempting smile that he grins fondly at.
You’re just about to slip his shirt off when the door slams open.
“Yoongi! ____! We were—”
Before you can even yelp, you shove Yoongi off of you until he drops on his back on the floor, a loud groan reverberating through the walls of the training room as you attempt to straighten your unruly appearance.
You were sure that your lips were swollen and that you were flushed with the way your lips made a home out of Yoongi’s, but you hoped that the three men by the door were dense enough to not catch what was going on.
“A warning would’ve been nice, yeah?” Yoongi grunts, glaring at you when you snap your gaze away from him to offer a meek smile at Jimin, who is all but grinning maniacally at you.
You feel like you’ve committed a crime, but in reality—there was no restriction in making out with your trainer … nor were there any when it came to dating but you knew the mirth that danced between the eyes of the men and you weren’t looking forward to what was to come.
“Sorry to disturb, hyung. It seems that you were … occupied,” Jungkook speaks up, snickering when he catches a glimpse of Yoongi’s shirt halfway off, exposing the firm slope of his abdomen and chest.
You absentmindedly ogle his body, heat surging through your body until you remember that there were people who would call you out.
“Noona, your …” Taehyung gestures to your cheeks and you mortifyingly reach for your cheeks only to feel the heat.
“What did you guys want?” Yoongi grunts, pushing himself off the ground and hastily buttoning his shirt as he takes a position next to you, his presence more engulfing now after you’ve had your taste.
You see Jimin’s eyes dart between the two of you quickly, a cheeky smile adorning his face before he speaks up.
“Dinner’s ready,” he tells you, pushing Taehyung and Jungkook out the door.
Only when he’s halfway out does he say:
“It seems like you had yours already.”
When they’re out of your vision, you groan, burying your head into Yoongi’s chest; absolutely mortified at the two of you being caught.
Yoongi rests a gentle hand on your lower back, and another reaches to hold your chin gently.
“This isn’t over,” he whispers against your lips.
You feel giddy when you walk into the dining hall, his hands intertwined with your own.