TAEGI SMUTS [ᵃᵒ3]

Meet Me At Eleven

Ao3 by : orphan_account

Summary :

It starts with a not-so innocent birthday tweet that was accidentally tweeted on the wrong account.

"Taehyung-ah, happy birthday. I can’t wait for you to get home. I want you to spank me hard at eleven, I’ve been so bad while you were away.”

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When Yoongi awakes, it’s not because of his alarm.

He knows because he purposely didn’t set one last night, fully intending to sleep in until noon after an unbearably long day of fittings and rehearsals.

What rudely wakes Yoongi up is his bedroom door flying open and Seokjin’s obnoxious peals of laughter, resounding right into his ear.

Yoongi curses under his breath despite still floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, but it’s Seokjin’s uncontrollably loud laughing fit that drags him fully awake, and he lets out a loud groan of protest that decidedly goes ignored.

His entire body is still aching from hours of dance practice—fucking Hoseok, honestly, Yoongi loves and respects him to death but he really does hate his perfectionist streak with a passion—and his eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight streaming into the open curtains.

Somewhere in the distance, maybe the kitchen or the living room, there are erupts of screams that aren’t entirely muffled by the walls of their room.

Yoongi sits up at this, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

God, what the fuck is even happening right now?

Seokjin actually leaps into Yoongi’s bed, invading his personal space, his hands clutching his phone tightly against his chest like it’s suddenly precious cargo and he’s holding the key to world peace.

Seokjin’s eyes are barely open, his entire face bright red as he guffaws so loudly that it makes Yoongi’s ears ring.

“Y-Yoongi, holy… h-holy fucking shit.” Seokjin manages to say between his chortles of laughter.

There are actually tears forming in his eyes.

“Why are you laughing so much? What the fuck is so funny?” Yoongi demands.

“Y-you… holy shit, holy shit… I actually c-can’t breathe, I’m—”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, grabbing Seokjin’s phone before the other could stop him because nothing in the world could possibly be this hilarious at this ungodly hour of the day.

“I swear to god, if this is another one of your dumbass pranks…”

“Yoongi, wait, listen—”

When he glances down at the screen, he sees the group’s public Twitter account, and it only takes a split-second for his sleep-muddled brain to fully register what he’s reading.

He nearly chokes on the fucking air.

Right there, in big Korean characters, is his tweet broadcasted to over fourteen million people on the Internet: “Taehyung-ah, happy birthday. I can’t wait for you to get home. I want you to spank me hard at eleven, I’ve been so bad while you were away.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

—

The first step is obvious, but admittedly useless at this point.

When Yoongi finally recovers from his undignified, panic-induced meltdown, he deletes the tweet, but not before he physically recoils when he sees the thousands of retweets and even more thousands of replies. He’s sure that there are already dozens upon dozens of screenshots by their eagle-eyed fans by now, and he winces at the idea of logging onto their fancafe, much less the entire fucking Internet, only to see every curious comment and news item about his stupid mistake.