JADE, HEAR ME OUT, OKAY? NAMJOON AS A DAD. Thats It, Thats All Ive Got. Ill See Myself Out.

JADE, HEAR ME OUT, OKAY? NAMJOON AS A DAD. That’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I’ll see myself out.

dadjoon is his final evolution, i’m sure of it. if he can raise a jungkook, he can raise an actual baby.

also, for purely selfish reasons, i have created girl dad!joon. i can picture him exploring with a teeny tiny daughter, making sure she knows all the cool science/nature stuff that society thinks little girls can’t/shouldn’t be excited about 🫠😵‍💫🥹

Fate was a funny thing.

For as long as you’d known him, Namjoon had always been honest that his greatest wish in life was to be a father. It shocked you back then, hearing a nineteen-year-old dreaming so openly about domesticity; especially when all his friends could focus on was how many clubs they could hit in the night ahead. But you knew it, even then, that Namjoon was a nurturer. He always was.

Although he wasn’t shy about expressing his emotions, you’d only seen him cry on a handful of occasions. One of those was when he laid eyes on the pregnancy test you held out, trembling with joy and - inwardly - a hell of a lot of panic. For the nine months that followed, people often asked what you wanted: boy or girl? With a sheepish smile, he always answered the same way - a boy, because he knew what that entailed.

Having a little girl? Well, that scared the shit out of him. That was unknown territory and if his sister taught him anything, it was that he had absolutely no idea what kind of strength and finesse it took to navigate the very unique difficulties of girlhood. He was terrified, he said, of fucking up - of making it all harder.

The next time you saw him cry was when he first laid eyes on your daughter. Watching him hold that wriggling, pink-faced angel, there’d been a knot in your stomach. You wondered to yourself if he was secretly disappointed not to have a son, even if he’d never say so. But over the past three years, he proved you wrong over and over and over again.

Fate made the right call - Namjoon was born to be a girl dad.

Sitting on your beach towel, you hugged your knees to your chest and rested your chin where they bent. It was the most at-peace you’d ever felt, lounging in that salty wind, even though the excited squealing up ahead had scared all the seagulls away.

Waddling on chunky legs next her father, Kim Yeong-Ja gripped the same hand that had crafted the braids bouncing against her shoulders. She stared up at him with palpable adoration - like her mother - and her eyes were sparkling wide with wonder - like her father. If you squinted, you could see the purple fingernail on his right index finger; the one she messily painted after barely even having to ask for his permission, receiving all the trust in the world.

“Ja, look!” Namjoon gasped as his hand dipped gently into the tide pool below. When he pulled it back out, whatever he now cupped in his hand was invisible to you. “Do you know what this is, baby?”

Yeong-Ja’s gasp was identical to her father’s. Then that little ham pulled her free hand to her cheek in surprise - another perfectly mimicked trait of his - before her tiny voice replied, “Mermit!”

His eyes crinkled above his all-consuming grin. It didn’t disappear when he bent over and kissed the top of her head, “Hermit crab! Good job, baby. You’re a genius, just like your mama.”

Your heart soared at her reaction, which was to turn and find you with her big, bright eyes and open-mouthed smile. She giggled like a fiend when you waved. You swooned.

“Show mama!” Yeong-Ja barely warned him before she took off, tugging him behind her. He swooped in and tucked her under one arm so she wouldn’t fall on the rocks but, out of respect, kept up her desired pace. Her belly laugh had become the soundtrack of the day. Like the tide below, it crashed over the sand and sprayed in every direction.

Soon enough, your two greatest loves came clambering up to you and dropped clumsily - but safely - on the other half of your towel. You could’ve sat there forever, counting their twin freckles; but there was now a very small child holding a very small crab near your face with extremely cautious hands.

There were two pairs of eager eyes blinking up at you.

“Wow, Jaja! Look at your little friend!” You gushed before pressing a kiss to her damp, chubby cheek, “Is daddy teaching you all about nature?”

There was a tiny wrinkle between two black brows. She corrected you gently, though it made your heart explode, “Mermits, mama.”

“Quite right, Ja,” Namjoon waved his hand in diplomatic agreement before resting it on the small of your back. He shot you a wink but maintained his otherwise serious expression, “Mermits, mama.”

christmas warfare | ksj

You will win the neighborhood's "Best Christmas Decorations" contest and rub it in your ex-boyfriend's face, by any means necessary.

Jin will win your heart back, even if it means surrendering his crown as King of Christmas Decorations.

❆ pairing: seokjin x reader

❆ genre: BTS | 18+ | exes to lovers | smut | fluff | humor | a small amount of angst (cuz it's exes, soooo)

❆ Part of A Hyung Holiday Collaboration

❆ wc/date: 14.5k | December 2022

❆ warnings: it's christmas but nothing religious | parental death (jin's dad dies prior to the fic taking place) | mentions divorce | alcohol (everyone is drunk like the entire fic) | drunk driving (DO NOT DO THIS) | drunk sex (consensual) | fingering | overstimulation | crying (before and during sex lol) | cunnilingus | unprotected vaginal sex | reader is a lil tsundere

❆ notes: i'm honestly embarrassed by how long it took me to write this, but here we are! i hope you enjoy this fic and pls keep in mind i've probably watched like 2 hallmark movies in my entire life so don't judge me too hard if this is bad 😂

❆ more notes: i'm really thankful for the friends i have in this community who come up with fun ideas and push me to write things i otherwise wouldn't have ever written. please check out the other stories in this collab from @nabiolive @here2bbtstrash @haliiimede! & thanks to hali for the amazing banner~

❆ masterlist | AO3 | send me ur thots 👅

❆ what was jai listening to? kick back (the 3rd mini album) - wayv

The only thing fun about freezing your ass off at the annual winter market is the mulled wine. You’re wearing leggings under your pants, a thermal shirt under your hoodie, and a thick parka on top of everything, yet the decorative mug of hot mulled wine in your gloved hands is what’s keeping you warm. You can feel the heat of the cup through your gloves, and the alcohol is doing a great job warming up your face and chest. 

It’s been over three years since you last went to the winter market in your hometown. Standing in the middle of downtown, shivering despite the layers as some lady rams into your ankle with her kid’s stroller, reminds you why you always hated going. 

“Do you think dad would like this?” Malik holds up a wooden clock. It’s hand-carved by a local artist, the intricate designs creating the image of a lush forest across the clock’s face. 

Malik is your stepbrother, but you’ve loved him as though he’d always been a part of your family, despite only joining when your mother married Reggie during your sophomore year of college.  

“Yeah, I think so.” You take a small sip of your wine, trying to make it last the rest of your time at the market so you don’t have to spend money on a refill. “Might inspire him to carve something like it.” 

Between starting your new job and settling into your new house, buying Christmas gifts has been at the bottom of your to-do list. Quite frankly, you don’t have the time, not to mention it’s hard. What can you possibly buy that your parents can’t just get themselves? Or that they don’t already own? At least Malik is a teenage boy. You can’t go wrong buying him video games and crew socks with marijuana leaves printed on them. 

He patiently waits while you slip your credit card from the little pocket on the back of your phone case. It’s funny being the adult in this relationship. You’re twenty-seven and still needed your mom to go with you to buy your house, but Malik stares at you with appreciative eyes because you’re the one with a salary to pay for all the gifts. 

“So, are we gonna do it?” His round, innocent eyes narrow into slits. He’s barely got the clock tucked away in his shopping bag before he gets hyper again. 

“No.” 

Malik’s slitted eyes remain, this time accompanied by a pout. “But you said-” 

“I lied to you.” You hold your cup above your head, and you both pretend Malik isn’t tall enough to reach it without even trying. Being the oldest, yet shortest, sibling is bullshit. 

“But they’re gonna come back soon!” 

“Didn’t mom say they want us to go find them?” 

Text messages in the family group chat are reminders that the two of you are supposed to find your mom and Reggie inside the bookstore. It’s family-owned, like most of the shops downtown. Your hometown isn’t tiny, but it’s a somewhat secluded suburb located about an hour outside of the city. Even calling the center of your town’s “downtown” area doesn’t feel right; it’s far too small to be a true “downtown”. There are no skyscrapers or busy city streets, just local shops and a large outdoor music venue that doubles as the location for the winter market and the Christmas lights showcase when it’s too cold for concerts. It’s a stark difference from living in California for the past three years. 

Malik lets out a few more huffs and juts his bottom lip out even further. He knows you’ll give in, and you do. 

“Fine, you little shithead.” 

You hold out your mulled wine, and he grabs it with eager fingers. Though, his squeal of glee is abruptly cut off by a scowl. You press one gloved hand to your mouth to suppress your laughter and snatch your mug from Malik with the other. His face is twisted in disgust as he follows you through the crowd of equally-bundled-up market visitors. 

“I told you you’d think it’s disgusting.” 

Malik grumbles at that, unwilling to admit that you were right. Instead, he adjusts his earmuffs and pouts some more. 

You’re not worried about Malik’s attitude. By the time you reach the bookstore, he’s already forgotten that he’s supposed to be mad at you. No, there’s something else you should be worried about as you push open the door. 

A light ring of a bell indicates that the two of you are entering the store, making the woman at the register lift her head.

“Happy Holidays!” She says with a bright smile. “If you’re here to sign up for the Annual Christmas Decorations Contest, it’s in the back, near the children’s section.”  

You have no intention of competing against your neighbors to win some stupid prize for having the gaudiest decorations draped over your roof and across your front yard. On the other hand, your parents live for this type of shit. That is why you and Malik weave through the aisles of books until you’re met with a small group crowded around a long table. Sign-up sheets are already overflowing with names. It’s all the wealthy stay-at-home moms in their too-tight yoga pants and $2,000 Canada Goose parkas, sipping mulled wine and plotting how they'll destroy their competition because they have nothing better to do with themselves while their husbands fuck their secretaries. 

Well, maybe you’re being a bit dramatic, but you’ve got your fucking MFA degree, so can anyone blame you? Besides, these are the people you went to high school with. You think you know at least a little bit about what’s going on in this stupid town. 

Although some things have changed in the three years you’ve been gone, most things feel normal. And some things feel normal when they shouldn’t. 

“Jin!” 

You shouldn’t be surprised that Malik betrays you. You did call him a shithead not even five minutes ago, but it still stings to watch your little brother launch himself at your ex-boyfriend. The teen’s gangly arms wrap around Jin in a sideways hug. The force of the hug nearly spills Jin’s wine, but the mug is quickly taken from his hands by none other than your mother. 

It’s rather insulting, actually, seeing your parents crowded around Jin. Your mom is holding his mug like it’s a newborn child. The movement is quick, but you think Reggie lifts his hand from gripping Jin’s shoulder once he notices you’ve arrived. 

Ridiculous. 

“Hey, bud!” Jin beams down at Malik. He murmurs something to the teen before gingerly picking a few pieces of white fuzz that had nestled in his hair, making his hi-top fade look like it had snowflakes dusting it. “Were you rolling around in the fake snow?” 

Malik ducks his head at Jin’s teasing. “Nuh-uh.” 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were. It looks pretty comfy, doesn’t it?” 

You know you’re staring at him. You know it, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from his crinkled eyes as he looks down at Malik with an adoration that never disappeared, even once you were hundreds of miles away from here. It takes you a moment to recognize what he’s wearing wrapped around his neck. The scarf has a pattern of various shades of blue and silver snaking around each other like the swirls in marble. It’s handmade. You know this because you’re the one who knitted it. Seeing Jin wearing a gift you made for him nearly five Christmases ago makes the air you breathe in stall in your lungs as though you don’t remember how to exhale. 

Hands that you know are soft rub Malik’s upper back in soothing circles. Jin is the only person you’ve seen calm Malik down. No matter how hyper or sassy the kid is, there’s something about Jin that neutralizes him. 

It’s because he’s so sweet and gentle, you think to yourself. 

You blink, and the thought is gone. 

Malik finally lets go of the death grip he has on Jin; Reggie is the next victim, which is no surprise. With his newfound freedom, Jin does exactly what you don’t want him to do. He looks at you. 

“Hey, Y/N.” 

The utterance is breathy and soft, clearly only meant for you despite the cheerful crowd around you. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak despite having seen him twice already since arriving. Jin’s eyes still crinkle, his perfectly-straight teeth shining in a smile that somehow manages to meet his eyes. He has always been kind and attentive, as though he was put on this earth to make sure life is a bit more bearable for everyone he meets. 

You’ve known Jin since the two of you were twelve years old, and you’ve never seen him run out of that energy — not even at the end. On the other hand, no one expects that level of sweetness from you, and you’re thankful for that. It’s not because you’re a mean person, but because you’ve had a hard time establishing yourself. Being back home makes you feel like a kid again. San Diego allowed you to develop yourself as an adult separate from your family. Without that separation, it seems as though you’re regressing. It feels like someone else is standing in front of Jin now. You’re sure your face is devoid of emotion; the thousand-yard stare he used to tease, no matter how many times you told him the phrase was about going into battle. Right now, though, a battle doesn’t feel too far off from whatever the fuck is going on inside you. Or maybe indigestion. 

Whatever it is, you tell yourself it’s not adoration. 

“Y/N! Just in time for the contest sign-up.” 

It’s a blessing and a curse when your mom yanks you by the wrist toward the crowded table. She doesn’t allow you to respond to Jin, but you’re not sure if you would have said anything anyway. The action pulls you away from staring at Jin’s plump lips, the feral part of your brain frantically remembering the shape his lips make when he says your name. It’s a dangerous slope you’ve clawed yourself up twice already since being back in town. 

The first time was at the grocery store. Your dramatic ass swears you could have caught pneumonia from hiding in the frozen section to avoid your ex-boyfriend, but there was no way you were going to confront him with no makeup and wearing three-day-old sweatpants. You were lucky at the grocery store; he hadn’t seen you (or, at least, you don’t think he did).

The auto repair shop was another story. It’s impossible to avoid your ex when you’re both stuck in a tiny room waiting for the mechanics to finish up with your cars. You spent most of your time in the bathroom which, now that you’ve had time to think about it, was a terrible idea. Thankfully, the receptionist is an old friend of your parents. The old woman was kind enough to let you know when you could come out of the bathroom once Jin left. You could cry some other time over the fact that Jin probably thought you had some kind of gastrointestinal malfunction. Lovely, right? 

“Mom, I’m not signing up for this,” you groan and try to twist your wrist out of her grasp. It’s called boundary setting. You highly recommend it. 

“Oh yes, you are. This is your first year with your own home!” She screeches louder than Mariah Carey singing Christmas songs over the bookstore’s speakers. “It would be silly not to.” 

“I’m pretty silly. A real hoot.” You earn a glare for that one. 

You love your mom, you really do. It’s her incessant need to shape you into a miniature version of herself that you struggle with. For nearly thirty years she has been unsuccessful, but nothing has stopped that woman from trying her best. You have to give her some credit, though. She’s got determination and grit. 

You tell yourself it’s your love for her that guides your hand toward the sign-up sheet. The only pen available is shaped like a candy cane, and the plastic is warm from whoever was using it before you. That realization makes you shudder. You wish you had a bucket of hand sanitizer to dive into. Where’s a mall Santa when you need one?

“See, even Yoongi signed up.” Your mother points to a signature higher up on the page. 

The bastard. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You’re already reaching for your phone to send your best friend a scathing text message when an arm is slung across your shoulders. 

Yoongi has his dark bangs brushed forward so they peek out from beneath the floppy Santa hat snug on his head. The hat goes well with his ugly sweater. “Merry Elfin’ Christmas!” the sparkly text on the front of the sweater demands. He doesn’t even care about Christmas, but he loves to dress up for the occasion. 

“Yup, I did. And I hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked ‘cause I’m pulling out alllll the stops this year.” 

The guy buys a townhouse with the tiniest front yard and he suddenly thinks he’s the Christmas King. 

“Nah, not the Christmas King. That’s Jin hyung.” 

With a grimace, you shove Yoongi’s arm off your shoulder and try not to think about the fact that you’d voiced your frustrations out loud without realizing it. “Jin is the Christmas King? What the fuck does that mean?” 

“Y/N, can you please stop cursing so much? We’re in the children’s section, for Christ’s sake.” 

Yoongi clucks his tongue while waggling a finger at your mother. “Tsk, tsk Mrs. L/N, you’re the one cursing now.” 

Whatever weird shit your mother and Yoongi are going on about is none of your business, so you take a slow step backward, ready to escape. The opportunity never comes, though, because another person slips into the conversation faster than you can get away. 

“Ah, the King himself,” Yoongi deepens his voice to sound more dramatic than you know he already is. For a guy who works in tech, he’s always had a larger-than-life personality. With the candy cane pen in hand, Yoongi shoves it near Jin’s face, the hooked part standing in as a microphone. “Tell us, Jin hyung, how does it feel to be the winner of the Annual Christmas Decorations Contest for three consecutive years?”  

Jin quietly laughs at the sudden attention, but you know he’s uncomfortable by the way the tips of his ears turn bright red. His eyes meet yours for a moment before he’s quickly looking away. 

“Oh, Yoongi-yah, leave me alone.” He rubs the back of his neck, but his grin never falters. 

“Since when did you like decorating for Christmas?” You immediately regret how you spit out the question with venom you didn’t know you had in you. If Jin’s ears can get any redder, you swear they do. 

“I, um⁠—” 

“Mr. Kim got super into decorating one year, and Jin helped him out.” Yoongi comes to Jin’s rescue. He nods his head at Jin and they share a look that makes your stomach twist. 

You have another question: when did your best friend and your ex-boyfriend start sharing looks? 

“Mhm,” Jin confirms. “After he… Um, well, I guess I’ve just kept it going.” 

At the mention of Jin’s father, the twisting in your stomach morphs into nausea. You feel like utter shit and the silence that follows makes you feel even worse. Not only have you killed the Christmas cheer by making everyone remember the recent passing of Mr. Kim, but the reality that you’ve missed a lot in the three years you’ve been gone hits you in the gut. At one point, you’d have laughed at the ludicrous idea of there being things about Jin’s life that you wouldn’t know. Now? He has entire traditions, and a reputation behind them, that you aren’t even aware of. It hurts. It hurts because you’ve always been the one who knows Jin the best. 

Of course, rather than apologize or do something comforting to fix the situation, you listen to the impulsive, angry part of you that’s still hurt. 

“Well, don’t get your hopes up for a fourth year,” you say with your arms crossed against your chest. “‘Cause I’m winning this.” 

Yoongi lets out a loud snort that you remind yourself to fight him for later. “You? Do you even own Christmas decorations? I thought California city life was too good for that. What did you decorate with? Palm trees instead of wreaths? Leave sunblock and sugar-free, reduced-fat cookies for Santa?” 

His snickering would continue if your mom didn’t intervene. 

“When we visited Y/N last Christmas, it was funny to see Santas on the beach!” Your mother’s winter wonder and innocence can never be trampled. You’re impressed, even if it’s annoying sometimes. 

“I’m sure it was fun,” Jin agrees with her softly, but he’s still looking at you. 

You want to tell yourself that you don’t feel shy under his gaze, but you can’t lie, even to yourself. So you look away before further emotions threaten to bloom in your chest. 

“Y/N will have to get used to a real winter again,” your mother continues. She’s not wrong, but the comment feels like just as much of a jab as Yoongi’s. “Speaking of that! Reggie needs to check your car’s tires before the snowstorm hits. We should probably head back home.” 

Yoongi and Jin say their goodbyes to your family, and thankfully Jin cuts his gaze from yours. Your mug of mulled wine is still halfway full, so you thrust it into Yoongi’s hands before following your parents and Malik into the maze of bookshelves. It’s not the worst way to run into your ex, but that knowledge doesn’t make you feel any less like shit on the car ride to your parents’ house. 

Despite previously agreeing to spend the rest of the evening with them, you work on your boundary-setting and decide to go home. It might be the wrong decision, but you stick with it because your pride has already been hurt once today. Returning to an empty house (quite literally empty, since you barely have any furniture to fill it) seemed a lot more appealing before you stood in the middle of your living room, alone and in the dark. Your apartment in California had been tiny. A two-bedroom house in the suburbs feels like a castle in comparison, and you’re not sure what to do with the space. It’s not like you have anyone to share it with. 

With a sigh, you toss your coat onto the couch and kick off your shoes. Your socks are slippery against the wood floors as you shuffle to the bathroom, nearly running into the wall on the way because it’s dark and you don’t know the layout like you knew the layout of your apartment. You feel like you’re having a sleepover with no one, like this is a stranger’s house. The lack of furniture and decor makes you feel like you’re merely a guest. If you’re just a guest, though, you’re not sure where home is. 

Gradually, you fill the space and your mood improves without you realizing it. 

The spare bedroom turns into a craft room packed with shelves whose cabinets hold color-coded yarn and knitting needles. Knitting patterns and fantasy books practically burst from the bookshelf. A loveseat with blankets piled on top sits in the corner. It’s your “reading nook” when you want alone time, and doubles as the location for your bi-weekly “stitch and bitch” — a knitting group you created to make an effort to reconnect with members of your community. It’s mostly all your old lady neighbors and a few teens who have old souls, but the bitching is good nonetheless. Any gossip is fun gossip, in your opinion. As long as it’s not about you. 

Your bedroom is less chaotic, only decorated with photos of family and friends, as well as a few music posters. The wall where your desk sits is reserved for your college friends — most of them moved out of your hometown after graduation. There are a few photos of your friends from graduate school, but those two years were less about fun and more about surviving your master’s thesis. Your graduate school friends are also scattered around the world. It’s a bit sad, not to have your closest friendships nearby, but Yoongi makes up for that. He has always nurtured the parts of your soul that needed comfort when parents failed to do so. When your parents got a divorce, Yoongi was there for you — even before Jin. 

So it’s natural that you call your best friend in a panic on a Sunday morning when you realize it’s less than a week before Christmas and the outside of your house is bare. You’ve spent all your time decoring the inside. 

It’s not that you forgot about the outside; no one can shut up about the stupid contest. Your neighbors already have their decorations up. Some are simple while others are more involved. You try not to think about the “King of Christmas Decorations”, but it’s hard not to check on his progress when he lives across the street from you. 

No one told you that Kim Seokjin had also recently bought a house… literally across the street from the house you bought less than a month ago. 

“I thought you knew!” Your mother had clucked her tongue at you to hide the smirk you knew she wanted to throw in your face. She, Reggie, and Malik helped you move into the one-story house nestled in the quietest suburb just outside the city limits. You want to be offended, but there’s a tiny part of you that’s curious. About what? You’re not quite sure.  

Yoongi was right that evening at the bookstore; you don’t own any Christmas decorations. That doesn’t stop you, though. Your town is small, but there are plenty of stores around to get everything you need. 

When Yoongi arrives at your house, you have boxes and shopping bags full of decorations scattered around your kitchen and living room. It was hard to decide if you wanted to go cute or gaudy because you didn’t know the preference of the judges. Did they want something creative? Or something that truly screamed Christmas? Using your neighbors as references was impossible. The varying aesthetics were too chaotic to find a pattern in. And you couldn’t just copy Mr. King of Christmas. 

“Don’t you think you’re being a little bit unreasonable?” 

“Unreasonable, Yoongi? Unreasonable? You think I’m being unreasonable?” You watch your friend lean back in his chair with his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the kitchen table.  

“I just meant—” 

“What else do you think?” You shake the string of multicolored Christmas lights in your fists. The twisted wiring had taken you nearly twenty minutes to untangle. “That I’m being hysterical? Is my uterus floating around in my fucking body, Min Yoongi?!” 

Yoongi’s eyes narrow and he lets the front legs of his chair slam back onto the kitchen tile. The thud echoes against the bare kitchen walls and down the empty hallway. 

“That’s not fair, and you know it.” 

Your best friend is probably the most caring person you’ve ever met in your life, but he sure knows how to strike fear into your heart. It’s that deep voice, you figure. The finality of his tone leaves little room for argument, so you choose to hang your head in shame instead. 

He’s right; it wasn’t fair for you to yell at him. You both know your frustrations are misplaced. And maybe, maybe, you are being a little bit unreasonable. 

Not that it’s your fault. 

Buying a new house was the next on the list of adult milestones you were meant to accomplish before you hit thirty, according to your mother. You tried to tell her that being thirty in the 90s was very different than now, but her expectations never shifted. Thus, neither had yours. It all worked out fine, though; the path was practically laid out for you from birth. Graduate from high school, then college, then graduate school to get your MFA (that one put a slight wrinkle in your mother’s plans, but she couldn’t deny that the job you scored as a lead editor for a well-known fashion magazine wasn’t impressive). In the midst of all that, buy a new car. Get a dog (Muffin, the two-year-old corgi). 

Albeit, those milestones were manageable. You’d always loved school, so the degrees were a given. Cars were a necessity in your town; the public transportation was so shitty it was nearly nonexistent. And who didn’t want to get a pet? 

But now it’s time for The Big Three, the ones you dread the most. 

Get married. 

Buy a house. 

Have a kid. 

The Big Three are the most important milestones after getting a degree and are meant to be completed in that order. One, two, three. The end. No questions asked, no negotiation. Your mother has spent her entire adult life on this, setting you up for success. No millennial nonsense! No avocado toast instead of a house! No pets and succulents instead of human babies! 

And, to be perfectly honest, you’d been okay with that. At least, for a little while. The Big Three didn’t seem too scary or unrealistic for a little bit because you had someone you planned to share those future milestones with. 

Keyword: had. 

Now that person is standing on a metal ladder propped against his house to give him the additional height he needs to string up the most beautiful Christmas lights you’ve ever seen. Even with the bulky winter coat, you can see how broad and lean his back is, shoulders shifting beneath the material when he lifts his arm to secure the string of lights. You can’t see his face, but you know his cute button nose is probably bright red, just like his plump lips probably are from the strawberry chapstick he always wears when it gets windy and cold. 

And here you are clutching your less-impressive Christmas lights in your fists in a house you were supposed to have bought after getting married to him. 

“What’s winning the contest going to do for you?” Yoongi’s previously strict tone softens as he reaches over to cover your hand with his much larger one. “If you want to talk to Jin hyung, just walk over there and talk to him. He’s quite literally a stone's throw away.” 

“I have nothing to say to him.” You jut out your chin, and Yoongi is all too familiar with the unhinged look of defiance in your eyes. “I’m going to win the damn contest because I win at everything, not because of him or anything that has to do with him, thank you very much.” 

The dark-haired man lets out a long, overly-dramatic sigh. You both know you’re in denial, but Yoongi has learned that he needs to let you crash and burn so you can learn life lessons the hard way. 

“Fine.”  

“Great! Now help me put up these stupid fucking lights.” 

As was true for his entire life, Yoongi swallows any further protests and does whatever you want him to do because he loves you. He’s the older brother you never had and you are not above taking advantage of the soft spot he has for you. It’s all for good! But still. 

“What are your decoration plans?” You stomp into your snow boots while Yoongi wrestles his hand into a glove that is entirely too small for him.

“Can’t tell you.” 

“Are you for real?” 

“The realest.” 

With a huff, you fling the front door open. If Yoongi wants to be difficult, he can shove his freakishly large man hands into those little gloves all day without getting any help from you. You’ve got lights to put up. 

The snow is fresh; it’s the only time you’re somewhat willing to put up with it. There’s something about the crunch of undisturbed snow beneath your feet that makes you feel all tingly inside. Perhaps it’s because the rest of the world is muted. The sky and ground meet with their color drained out of them, turning into an expanse of white only interrupted by the reddish-brown bricks of houses peeking out of the snow. 

And the reddish-brown color of a certain neighbor’s jacket that you fail to see makes his way across the street. 

You’re laying out the multi-colored lights on the bushes lining your front yard when you hear the crunch. You know it’s not Yoongi because the poor guy is still inside struggling with his gloves.

“Good morning.” Jin clears his throat. It must be the first time he’s spoken to someone today because his voice comes out gruff and strained. It’s his old man voice, you used to joke. 

You clutch the lights in your gloved hands to have something to hold onto as you turn to face him. You were right — his cute little nose is bright red and his lips shine with chapstick. You wonder if it’s the same chapstick he’s always used. All it would take is a kiss to find out. 

Banishing that thought is harder than you expect. 

“Good morning.” You sound more confident than you are.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to join in on the contest after all,” he says with a small smile that makes you melt despite the cold. What are you, Frosty the Snowman? 

If only he wasn’t so nice. It would make this so much easier. 

“I’ve been busy.”

Jim hums at that, a small nod of his head. You’re both probably recalling how Jin spent college making sure you ate in between study sessions and slept enough to feel rested for exams. You couldn’t have survived college without him, even though the school the two of you attended was in the city — only an hour away from home. 

“Editorial work, right?” The question may seem like meaningless small talk, but Jin’s leaning forward with an eagerness you’re shocked by. You shouldn’t be, though. Everything about your ex-boyfriend has always been genuine. 

“Mhm, a fashion magazine.” You look down at your baggy, dingy gray sweatpants shoved into your dirty snow boots. “Makes a lot of sense, right?” You say with a small laugh. 

Jin joins in, those pretty eyes crinkling once again. “If I remember correctly, you certainly had an eye for a good outfit when you forced me to go to those fraternity parties.” 

“Ughh, don’t remind me of that,” you groan. Memories of little black dresses that barely covered your ass and see-through tops flash before your mind’s eye. You hardly know who that person was. 

His comment also drudges up memories of your bodies sweaty and pressed against each other as the two of you danced to the trashy music college kids play at house parties. You remember the way Jin’s hands cradled your waist, how strong and big he felt when you leaned your head back against his chest so he could bend down to kiss you while you continued to grind into his crotch.  

Fuck, you’re going to lose your goddamn mind if this man doesn’t stay away from you. 

“You looked really good,” he compliments, and you assume it’s to make you feel more confident in your new job. But then he continues, “You still do.” 

You don’t know what to say to that, but your mouth usually makes decisions before your brain can. “So do you.” 

Jin seems shocked even though he was the one to lead the route this conversation is taking. You’re not lying, though. Jin looks different, but not by much. He looks bigger now. He’s more filled out as he grew into his adult body. It makes sense. The last time you had a real conversation with him was when the two of you broke up halfway into your first year of graduate school. 

It was mutual, supposedly. You wanted to stay in California; he wanted to stay home to be with his father. Long distance wasn’t working, so you offered to take a break. You thought he’d fight for you, but he’d simply… agreed. 

“Okay.” 

Your relationship must not have meant much if he could agree to end it with one word. 

Later, Yoongi would point out that you were the one to initiate the end of the relationship. You probably confused Jin, Yoongi insisted. But you can’t get over the fact that you weren’t worth fighting for. 

You and Jin stare at each other in the silence of the winter wonderland surrounding you. He looks so cozy and warm, buddled up much better than you are. You got rid of all your winter clothes when you decided to stay in California after you graduated from your master’s program. You’d genuinely believed you would never move back to your hometown. 

And here you are, after accepting a job with better pay and the opportunity to spend time with Malik before he goes off on his own, too. 

Standing in front of Jin with rosy cheeks and a look that feels familiar, a lot like affection and… maybe something else, painting his face. You’re tired of trying to figure out how you fit in this community again without regressing. And how Jin is meant to fit in, too. 

Without thinking, you reach out to touch the edge of his scarf. The yarn is warm from his body heat, but you can’t feel it through your gloves. 

“You kept it?” You don’t want to ever admit that you locked away everything that reminded you of Jin. You couldn’t get rid of any of it, but you couldn’t bear to look at photos or wear the jewelry he bought you. 

“Of course.” He reaches up to catch your wrist before you pull away. “You made it for me to wear, didn’t you?” You swear you can see the sparkle of the morning sun shining on the snow in his eyes. 

You wish the two of you weren’t wearing gloves. 

“I couldn’t find the ladder, but I found this step stool that we could probably— Oh, hey hyung.” Yoongi stops a few feet away from you with a stool in hand. You can see his eyes lock onto Jin’s hand wrapped around your wrist, but neither of you pulls away. 

“I was, um, just checking on Y/N’s progress.” Jin finally lets go of you and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. 

“Trying to cheat?” Yoongi teases, placing the step stool in front of the lone tree in your yard. You don’t think it’s going to be tall enough for him to drape the strings of lights around the lower branches, but you’ll let him figure that out on his own. 

“I would never,” Jin scoffs. “Besides, it might be nice for someone else to take the crown.” He shoots you a wink and you feel your chest constrict. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Yoongi’s attention is on the tree now, so Jin turns back to you. 

“I don’t want to keep you out in the cold any longer than you need to be,” he admits softly. “I’d love to find a time to catch up if you’d like.” 

You’re nodding your head before you can stop yourself, and the grin that lights up Jin’s face makes standing in the cold feel much more bearable. He ducks his head in a silent goodbye and crosses the street. As Yoongi said, Jin is a stone’s throw away, but it feels like that side of the street is worlds away. 

You should have known “catching up” would be a complete disaster. 

As usual, your mother decides to meddle in your business without your consent. It leads to an extremely uncomfortable Christmas “party” that ends up just being your family, Yoongi, Yoongi’s boyfriend, Hoseok, and Jin. 

You spend most of your time in the kitchen hovering near the sugar cookies Malik. You and Hoseok take turns mixing each other experimental cocktails with whatever alcohol your parents have in the fridge because you both get nervous at parties, even one thrown by people you trust. The kitchen is the safest place for introverts. 

“Looks like the mad scientists got a little too enthusiastic about their experiments,” Reggie calls you and Hoseok out with a chuckle. Malik appears around him with a smirk, always looking forward to teasing you, too. 

You wrap your arm around Hoseok’s waist and squeeze him close, shooting Reggie a pout.

“Hey, we’re not as bad as Yoongi,” Hoseok insists. 

Yoongi is in the living room clutching a red solo cup of straight whiskey. The longer you watch him talk to Jin, the further left you can see Yoongi lean.

 Spending a night like this, with drinks and snacks and cheer, is nothing new for your little group. Well, Hoseok is a new addition, but otherwise, there’s nothing unusual about your family and friends getting drunk together and having a good time. Your mom was always “the cool mom” (her words, not yours). She was okay with you having your friends over. Once Reggie came into the picture, your house became even more of a safe space for your college friends to hang out without feeling like your parents were going to kill the vibe. 

But things are different now. 

Alcohol in your system makes you more social, but you stick to Hoseok until your mother is beckoning you toward the record player halfway through the night. 

“Do you know how to fix this?” The record is skipping. You don’t mind Nat King Cole, but he’s not great when his music is stunted like this. 

“Mom, you know I don’t have any idea how this works.” 

You’re drunk and whiny; it’s nothing she shouldn’t expect. You wish you knew what was going on because suddenly Jin is flanking your right. The first thing you notice is that he’s very sober. For some reason, it bothers you. 

“Oh, Jin, sweetie.” Why is your mom calling Jin sweetie? “You have a record player. Please, can you fiddle around with this?” 

Jin is obediently nodding his head because your mother has always adored him. She likes him more than you; you’ve always been convinced of that. But you have little time to think about it when your mother starts to walk away. Right before she’s out of earshot, she stops in her tracks to look at you over her shoulder. 

“Oh, would you look at that?” 

You follow her gaze to see something red and green hanging from the ceiling. It takes you a while to figure out what it is because you’re more curious about how your mother managed to get something to hang from the ceiling. Your thoughts are disrupted by Jin clearing his throat. 

“Do you think your mother is trying to tell us something?” he muses. 

And then it hits you. 

“Oh fuck, that’s mistletoe.” 

Jin full-on laughs this time, but you’re mortified because you think you might do it. You really might lean in just a little bit further, stand just a bit taller on your tiptoes, and part your lips with a swipe of your tongue... 

“Y/N…”

The raspiness of Jin’s voice makes you open your eyes. You hadn’t realized they were even closed, but you also hadn’t realized you were posed to kiss Jin under the mistletoe, just as you’d imagined. Your brain was thinking, but your body was acting without you knowing. What is wrong with you?

You jump back as though Jin is a live wire you’ve managed to zap yourself with. Without a word, you turn on your heel and frantically search the room for the one person who can save you from trying to drunkenly kiss your ex-boyfriend. 

“Yoongi, you need to take me home,” you slur into his ear. You’re both clutching each other like Jack and Rose debating death. 

“I’m drunk,” he says plainly. 

“Yoongi, Yoongs, the precious love of my life, soulmate, please.” By this point, you’re about to lose your mind because you catch Jin’s eye. He’s standing frozen in place at the record player and you want to die. “I just tried to kiss Jin, I need to get out of here.” 

Now it’s time for Yoongi’s eyes to bug out of his head. He’s lucky Hoseok is swept up in a game of dominos with Malik so he can slip out the front door without hearing his boyfriend flip out on him for agreeing to do something very irresponsible and dangerous. 

“I really don’t feel comfortable doing this,” Yoongi grumbles as he inserts his key into the ignition. The pickup truck sputters, so he has to restart it a few times before the engine fully rumbles to life. 

It’s a terrible idea, but you tell yourself home is only a few miles away. What can happen in a few miles? The answer is a lot, but common sense slipped out the door after your fourth glass of wine. 

“You’re fine, Yoongs! You’re the safest driver I know.” You want to think you sound convincing, but the few hiccups that disrupted your otherwise smooth sentence make a facade of sobriety a bit hard to swing. “If we get pulled over I’ll just show the cops my tits.” 

“Jackson is not going to appreciate that.” 

Jackson, the preacher’s kid who grew up to be a cop. It’s hard to bribe the cops when everyone knows everyone in this stupid town. But that also means you know that Jackson saw his fair share of tits when the two of you were in college, preacher’s kid or not. 

Yoongi crosses his arms over the steering wheel and leans forward. It takes him backing out of the driveway and nearly hitting the old lady who owns the bookstore and her dog before you both realize he’s forgotten to turn on the headlights. 

You hope he’s wearing his contacts. 

The air inside the truck is hot and stuffy and reeks of whiskey. As you rush to leave the party, Yoongi accidentally brings his red solo cup with him. It’s nestled between your thighs because there’s already a water bottle and a stack of empty Starbucks coffee cups in the middle console cup holder. It’s so painfully bisexual of him. The smart thing would have been to dump the whiskey out, but neither of you is very smart. 

“You need to clean out your car. This is so gross.” You’re pretty positive you’re sitting on something sticky, but you don’t want to investigate for fear of freaking yourself out. “Aren’t you rich? Why do you live like this?” 

“Shut up,” he hisses with a heavy breath. “I’m trying to focus.” 

Yoongi parks in front of your house with no issues (not counting the bookstore lady). The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, collecting yourselves. A lot goes unsaid, but it’s Yoongi and you know you don’t have to verbalize how to feel for him to know that you feel like shit. 

“Sooo…” he starts slowly, bloodshot eyes staring down the street. 

“Yeah.” 

You look out the window, the twinkling of Christmas lights attracting your attention. Jin’s house is a beacon of light shining through the darkness. A little sign in the yard prompts visitors to tune into a specific radio station. Your curiosity overpowers your desire to just jump out of the car and sabotage the whole setup. You reach over to adjust the radio, switching over to the channel the sign calls for. 

Yoongi gives you a strange look, but he’s too tired to question you, and would rather wait a few seconds to find out what’s going on. 

Christmas music filters through the speakers and you’re almost disappointed. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but this channel is just like any other station. It’s the holidays, after all. Christmas music is expected. Any hint of disappointment melts away, though, when you hear Yoongi gasp. 

“Holy shit, look at that.” He gestures to Jin’s house. “Am I fucked up or are the lights going to the beat?” 

Yoongi’s fucked up, but he’s not wrong about the lights. As the music plays, the lights draped across Jin’s house change color to the beat. It almost looks like the lights are singing the songs themselves. It’s a beautiful light show and unlike anything you’ve ever seen. 

“How the fuck did he do that?” you whisper. 

Yoongi shrugs. He’s back to crossing his arms over the steering wheel with his chin resting on top. The angle gives him a better view of Jin’s house around your shoulder. 

“Yeah, you’re not gonna beat him,” Yoongi puts bluntly. You don’t have it in you to argue. Part of you knows Jin deserves to win for this. It’s creative, cute, and interactive. Never would you have come up with something this cool.

The peaceful moment is interrupted by blinding white headlights as another car pulls up behind Yoongi’s truck. 

“Fuck, is that Jackson?” Yoongi breathes into his palm to attempt to smell his breath. 

You roll your eyes and try to make out what type of car it is through the mirrors. “The entire truck reeks of alcohol, bro. There is no hope for you.” Not to mention there’s a whole open cup of alcohol in your lap that you’ve nearly forgotten about. 

“Or you,” he challenges you through a pout. “You’re the accomplice. You made me do this.” 

Luckily, it’s not Jackson who approaches your window. You lower it despite the cold so Jin can speak. 

“Glad to see the two of you are alive,” he smirks. 

“How did you know we were here?” You can’t help but stare at him, this time because you’re envisioning him coming up with such a cool fucking decoration. 

“You left without Hoseok, so I assumed that meant Yoongi was coming back,” Jin begins, flashing Yoongi a smile that your friend tries to ignore out of embarrassment for getting caught. “And you seemed pretty intent on getting out of there after trying to woo me under the mistletoe.” 

This time it’s your turn to internally panic with embarrassment. Jin doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s opening the door. “Come on, let’s go.” 

“Where are we going?” You question him, but you still follow. You’re a little wobbly on your feet. You bring your weight down on a patch of ice and nearly bust your ass, and Jin holds your elbow to right you again. 

“First, I’m getting you inside. And then I’m driving Yoongi back to your parents’ house to pick up Hoseok, so I can drop them off at home too.” Jin was always the designated driver when you went out with your friends. He wasn’t against drinking, but he preferred to suffer through parties sober if it mean he could take care of his friends when they had no one else to watch over them. 

Yoongi reluctantly exits the truck and slides into the passenger seat of Jin’s car with plenty of grumbles to express his annoyance. He doesn’t even bother telling you goodnight, but you’re not worried about that. 

“Keys, please.” 

With his arm wrapped around your waist, Jin leads you through your front door. You try not to think about how strong he feels pressed against your side. So maybe you lean in a little more than you need to and let your body go slack a little more than necessary, but who needs to know that? 

Jin has never been in your house (why would he have?), so you mumble out directions to arrive at your bedroom. You’re too drunk to worry or care about the state of your house. Did you have bras thrown all over the place? Was your vibrator put away? You have no fucking idea. Whatever Jin sees won’t be anything he’s never seen before, you decide. 

He gathers some medicine for the headache you’ll inevitably have in the morning, as well as fetches you a glass of water, while you change into your pajamas. It’s a routine you’re familiar with, even if you haven’t engaged in it in years. 

“I put medicine and water on your nightstand,” Jin explains softly, even though you saw him set everything down. “You can call me if you need anything, you know that, right? If you need anything at all. I’m here.” 

“Yuuuuuup, you are here, in my house.” You blink up at him but your eyes have a hard time focusing on his face.

“Mhm, I am,” Jin confirms, and his smile makes your chest feel weird. “But I meant, I’m here for you.” 

“It’s nice.” You know exactly what you’re saying, but it’s like your brain can’t figure out how to tell you that it’s bad. “We were supposed to be here together.” 

He chews on his bottom lip and you want to bite him. Instead, you twist beneath the covers to get comfortable and tell yourself to behave. It’s just the alcohol, right? That’s it. 

You’re not sure if he understands what you’re trying to say. And if he has a response, you don’t hear it. You’re already floating off to dreamland with a nasty hangover to follow you once you wake up again. 

In the morning, the medicine and water are greatly appreciated, and you find yourself feeling more taken care of than you have for the past three years. 

Still, you’re terrified of walking outside and seeing your ex-boyfriend-turned-neighbor after he was forced to tuck you into bed the night before. It’s embarrassing, to say the least, no matter how caring Jin is and how familiar the two of you are with each other. So you’re thankful that you manage to slip out of the house without running into anyone, and you hope that your shopping spree is equally as uneventful. 

Silly of you to forget that Target is a dangerous place. 

The bright lights are hypnotizing. That has to be the reason why you always walk in with the plan of buying one thing and end up spending a hundred dollars on what? You don’t even know. Not this time, though. You’re determined to stick to your shopping list. No wiggle room allowed. It helps that your shopping list is short; all you need is a package of white string lights. They’re the final touch to the candy cane-themed decoration for the tree in your yard. The judging is in two days and you’re determined to have something presentable, even if you already know Jin’s display is going to kick your ass.

Likely due to the stupid contest and how small your town is, the aisle with all the outdoor decorations is surprisingly bare. There’s only one package of white lights left, and it’s currently being eyed by the last person you want to see. 

“No, you cannot have those.” You march over to Jin with confidence that you’re pulling out of your ass. “I need these more than you.” 

He looks up at you with the same sparkles in his eyes that you saw outside your front yard, so you know it wasn’t because of the fresh snow. “Do you?” He asks with a grin, shifting the package from one hand to the other. 

Without answering him, you reach out to grab it, thinking you’ll catch him off guard. But Jin has a firm hold on it, so you end up tugging without getting much slack. 

“Seokjin, let it go,” you grumble, trying to yank on it. Jin doesn’t budge and the sparkles remain. 

“No.” He’s beaming at you and it makes you furious. This time Jin tugs on the package. He’s much stronger than you, so his movement sends you stumbling forward. You crash into his chest, head tilted upward to meet his eyes. 

“You didn’t even say please,” he murmurs, and fuck you’re getting that feeling you had at your mom’s phony Christmas party. But now it’s Jin who leans forward and you’re the one frozen in place. 

You can feel yourself getting lightheaded from a lack of oxygen, but you can’t bring yourself to breathe when Jin’s lips ghost over yours. The touch is so light you almost can’t feel it, but then you feel his breath on your cheeks and you can smell the fake strawberry scent of his chapstick, and, fuck, his lips are slick enough with the chapstick that his bottom lip sticks to yours for half a second when he leans a bit too close. 

You pull away with your eyes even wider than they had been under the mistletoe. 

Jin lets go of the package with a chuckle. “You can have it.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat and grins as you hurry down the aisle. “Hope you’re feeling better, by the way!” 

You don’t bother looking back. 

Needless to say, you give up. 

The White Light Fiasco was enough of a sign that the crown was never going to be yours and you should have seen it all along. By the time you’re hovering over the spiked punch bowl at the Annual Christmas Decorations Contest party, you have made peace with the fact that you are positive the president of the Home Owner’s Association is going to announce that Kim Seokjin wins this year’s contest. You are fine. It’s fine. Clearly, this decorating thing is not for you and that is fine. 

You haven’t seen Jin since the White Light Fiasco and that is also fine. It’s not like you’ve been stressing out over it or anything. It’s not like you keep having recurring dreams about his warm body pressed into yours as he tucked you into bed or anything. 

“So, are you ready to take the cake?” The way your body involuntarily tingles at the sound of his voice is honestly pathetic.

Jin pours himself a cup of punch and smirks as he lifts it to his lips. You give him a roll of your eyes, but the amusement in his expression never fades. 

“It’s obviously going to be you again, radio boy.” You don’t have time to say anything more because the Association’s president takes over the mic. He stands holding a rather ridiculous trophy on the stage of the auditorium. It’s a golden Santa Claus about the size of a baby. 

“Seriously? That is the prize?” 

“It was a golden gingerbread man last year.” Jin chuckles beside you. “You also get a hundred dollars cash, so that’s nice.” 

You’re pretty sure you spent more than that on all the stupid fucking decorations. Now you really aren’t interested in winning. (And not just because you know you’re not going to. Obviously.) 

“Thank you, everyone, for participating in the Annual Christmas Decorations Contest!” The Association’s president drones on about whatever nonsense homeowners are supposed to care about, but you’re not ready to be that type of an adult just yet, so you don’t pay attention until it’s time for the winner announcement. 

“Better get your game face on, radio boy,” you whisper out of the corner of your mouth. You don’t see Jin’s reaction because, again, the president interrupts you. 

“And this year’s winner is…” Cue cheesy drumroll. “Min Yoongi!” 

“What?!” You whip your head around to look at Jin, but his eyes are on the stage. “What?!” 

And sure enough, there’s your best friend in his stupid “Merry Elfin’ Christmas!” sweater making his way up the stairs to stand on the stage with his new golden Santa and one hundred bucks. On the screen behind them, a photo of Yoongi’s townhouse is projected for everyone to see the winning decoration. 

“You mean to tell me that Yoongi fucking won this contest because he had a twelve-foot-tall skeleton left over from Halloween, so he sat it on his front yard with a giant Santa hat on it. And that’s it? That’s all it took?” 

Jin just looks at you with a shrug. “I guess so.” 

“You should have fucking won!” You throw your hands up, nearly knocking Jin’s punch out of his gasp. Noticing his jostled cup reminds you that you’ve left yours somewhere. “You had the cool radio thing and the dancing lights. Who else could have figured out how to do that?” 

“I’m sure lots of people…” Jim mumbles, but you cut him off. 

“No, no, that was dope and Yoongi is just, he’s just,” you huff, words escaping you. 

“Your best friend?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t deserve to win!”

Quite honestly, you’re shocked by how intensely you feel about this turn of events. Maybe it’s because you’re drunk, but you think you’re valid! It doesn’t help that Jin breaks out in full laughter now, windshield wiper sounds galore. Maybe he’s a little bit drunk, too. 

“What’s up, party animals!” Yoongi brandishes his golden Santa and red envelope that you assume holds his prize money. 

“You’re stupid,” you say with a pout. 

“You’re jealous,” Yoongi quips and sticks out his tongue. “Maybe if you stopped complaining about Jin so much, you’d have time to befriend all the cool kids in the neighborhood and they could have voted for your decorations instead.” 

You shoot a quick look at Jin with a bit of fear in your heart, but he’s all smiles, his teeth bright white against perfect pink lips. Of course, he is. You’re the cranky one here. 

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. Looks like you might be replaced as the best friend by a bunch of teenagers,” Jin teases. 

“I mean, Yoongi’s got the maturity level of one, so it makes sense.” 

“Hm, he does, doesn’t he? Still playing with dolls and everything.” Jin gestures to the golden Santa and the two of you wheeze through laughter. 

A petty, selfish part of you is thriving; it feels good to gang up on Yoongi with Jin. It feels the way it used to feel. It feels normal.

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Yoongi huffs while tucking the Santa under his arm. “Let’s get out of here before they try to take a picture of me and put it in the monthly newsletter.” 

It’s Christmas Eve, but you still question why the Association made the punch so strong. Sure, it’s after five o’clock, but it feels too early to be drinking. Your first step outside is onto a patch of black ice. In a panic, you squeeze onto Yoongi’s hand to steady yourself, fully expecting a grumbled protest in response from your touch-averse friend. But the grumbles never come. Yoongi is already halfway to his truck and you’re squeezing the life out of Jin. 

“Please be careful.” You watch his breath turn smokey white in the air. It’s an attempt to not stare at his lips, but you’re failing at that, too. “Malik has told me many times that he’ll murder me if I hurt you. I’d guess you getting hurt on my watch would count, even if it’s not my fault you’re clumsy.” 

You’re thankful half your face is wrapped in a scarf. Hopefully, it masks your embarrassment because you want to tell him that he’s already hurt you. With a nod, you carefully slide into Yoongi’s truck and make a mental note to talk to Malik about toxic masculinity.

“Why did we ask you to drive?” 

You try to angle your legs so Yoongi can reach the gear stick without sticking his hand between your knees. You’re sitting in the middle console, in place of water bottles and coffee cups smashed between Yoongi in the driver’s seat and Jin in the passenger’s seat. If there wasn’t half a foot of snow in the back, you would have just ridden in the bed of the truck, like you used to do.

Yoongi doesn’t bother sparing you a glance, too focused on safely navigating the snowy parking lot. “Because your car is in the shop and Jin refused to drive.” 

“It’s a Porsche,” Jin says with a sheepish look, not fully meeting your eyes. “I don’t want it to get dirty.” 

Yoongi launches into a heated lecture about why it doesn’t make sense to own a car in the Midwest if Jin’s not prepared to face the elements with it, but you’re only paying attention to how close Jin is. You’re practically sitting in his lap. The weird angle has your legs half-draped across his knees and your torso twisted so his arm is looped around yours to hold you in place when the truck jostles down the icy road. 

You’re not sure who moves first, and later you’ll decide that it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it happens. 

It’s not as cute as your first kiss with Jin. That one had been picture-perfect and so cliche it kind of hurt, in a good way. It was an ice cream date at the shop in town that Jin’s aunt owns. It was cold and sweet, maybe a little bit sticky but you didn’t mind. You remember the way Jin held your face with shaking hands, not because he thought you were fragile, but because he was nervous. 

This time you’re both shaking, but you think it’s probably because the shocks on Yoongi’s truck are shot. 

Jin’s lips are just as soft and plump as you remember, and you remind yourself that it hasn’t been that long. In a whole life, three years is nothing. But it certainly felt like forever. 

He tastes sweet like the spiked punch; you’re sure you do, too. You hope it makes him think of that ice cream date so many years ago. You expect this kiss to be just as chaste, but then Jin is pressing his palm against the nape of your neck to pull you closer and you’ve got your fingers digging into his thigh to steady yourself. You may have made a sound, or maybe it’s just incredibly obvious that you’re making out with your ex-boyfriend in a truck that technically only fits two people.  

“Get out! Get out get out get out!” Yoongi bellows. He slams on the brakes, making all three of you lurch forward. “I hate you both!” 

You swear you hear a dog start barking in the distance as a response. Only a small part of you feels bad. 

Jin practically falls through the truck door once he figures out how to use the handle, which sends you tumbling after him. You both collapse into a fit of hysterical laughter as Yoongi speeds away, holding out his middle finger through the window as he drives.

“We’re never going to hear the end of that,” Jin wheezes, dropping his keys multiple times before finally unlocking his door. You don’t question why you follow him into his home when yours is only across the street, and he technically hasn’t verbally invited you over.  

You both barely have your outerwear off before you’re shoving Jin against the wall with a strength you didn’t know you had. You find that it’s easy to kiss him again, and there’s no hesitation as he kisses you back. You tug on his bottom lip with your teeth, pulling back and enjoying how he chases after you by leaning forward. 

“We should,” Jin pauses to groan into your mouth. You’ve got your leg in between his and you’re pressing your thigh directly against his cock which you now know is already fully hard. That knowledge makes you feel irrationally smug. “We should talk.” 

“Later.” You want to sound commanding, but your voice comes out as a breathy whine when Jin presses back against you, bringing his thigh between your legs. He grinds into you, his fingers bruising your skin when he squeezes your hips to hold you in place. 

You’ve only slept with one person since breaking up with Jin, and it wasn’t anything worth noting. The sex was bad, and it made you realize you needed an emotional connection with the person you were sleeping with if you wanted it to be any good. So you can barely keep it together when Jin flips your positions, and now you’re the one pressed against the wall. 

“Later will be too late,” he breathes into your skin before running his tongue along your throat. “We. Need. To. Talk. Now.” He punctuates each word with a sloppy kiss along your neck, eventually reaching your shoulder. 

You try to respond, but every time you open your mouth you moan. Jin sucks your skin so hard it’s almost painful. You already know you’ll have dark hickeys scattered across your neck, shoulders, and chest by the night's end. You want to decorate him, too. 

You make quick work of removing Jin’s shirt, nearly popping the buttons off as you frantically undo them. Shirtless, his skin is hot and flushed. You run your fingers down his sternum, letting your thumb drag against one of his nipples on the way down. The action has him tensing against you, and the alcohol in you makes you giggle. 

“Still sensitive,” you muse. 

Jin groans a response, something that sounds like a mix of arousal and annoyance. It’s cute. It’s familiar. You’ve played this game before, just under different circumstances. It feels good to know that you still know how to rile him up, even when so many other things have changed. 

“What do you want?” Jin pulls your shirt over your head and slides his hands behind your back to tweak the clasps of your bra. He doesn’t undo the hooks — just plays and waits. 

You tilt your head to capture his lips, sucking them so aggressively that they’re puffy and pink, and shine with your spit when you pull away. 

The look he gives you isn’t what you expect, and it catches you off guard so much so that your mouth falls open. It’s something in his eyes. They’re gentle and bright despite the heaviness of alcohol that should be weighing them down. No, there’s a sober clarity to them that practically sobers you up, too. It’s not the lustful, carnal gaze you were expecting. The softness of his expression makes the floodgates open up, as much as you internally scramble to hold yourself together. 

“I want you to love me,” you answer truthfully through weak tears. “I still love you and I fucking hate it because you… you…” With anyone else, it would feel pathetic to beg someone to care about you, but Jin is different. He feels like home, no matter how complicated home is to you. No matter how angry you were, you never stopped trusting him. 

Jin practically melts in your arms. Removing his hands from your bra, he chooses to cup your face instead. Your tears trickle in between his fingers. You’re sure it feels gross, and probably looks gross, because your makeup is getting washed away, too. But Jin doesn’t flinch when he holds you; he merely watches you with wide eyes. 

“I do love you,” he speaks softly, but loud enough to hear over your sniffles. “I never stopped loving you, baby.” 

The term of endearment makes your eyes flood with even more tears. This is the most unsexy you’ve ever felt in your life, and yet Jin leans forward to kiss your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, and your lips until every inch of your face is covered in his kisses. 

“But you said okay.” You’re squeezing his biceps, digging your nails into him so deeply you know you’ll leave marks. You don’t mean to hurt him, but you need to keep it together. You need him here. And even though you’re not making any sense, Jin understands. You can tell by the way he holds you against his chest and how fast his heart is beating against yours.  

“I shouldn’t have ever let you go.” He shakes his head solemnly, and you think you feel his own tears when he presses his face into the crook of your neck. “I thought it was what you wanted, but I should have tried harder. I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not trying.” 

There’s a part of you that wants to remain angry. The hurt became familiar; it was dull and ever-present. But Jin’s love is familiar, too.  

“I love you,” Jin repeats. He says it again and again, planting kisses down your shoulders. He tips your chin up, forcing your head backward so he can kiss along your throat and across your collarbones. “I wanted to give you space, but it was hard. It was really hard.”

You slide your hands up until your arms are around his shoulders, forcing him to lift his head and look at you. He wipes away your tears once the two of you realize more aren’t coming. 

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with a boner and I’m over here sobbing,” you say with a stuffy laugh. 

Jin looks down at his crotch before returning his gaze to your face. He gives you a shrug and a goofy grin. “It’s not the first time I’ve made you cry during sex.” 

“Kim Seokjin,” you gasp and give him a light slap against his shoulder. “I can’t believe you’d say something like that. We aren’t even having sex.” Even though it’s tactless, his jokes have always managed to ease any tension that builds inside of you.

“But we could be,” he says with a smirk. He receives another slap, but there’s nothing in his expression that tells you he feels any ounce of remorse. If anything, you’re unintentionally instigating him. 

“I thought you said we needed to talk.” 

Another shrug, and then you’re being tossed over the same shoulder you were just slapping in annoyance. “I decided later is okay.” 

You can’t be mad when Jin gently places you on his bed, nor when he eases you out of your remaining clothes. You definitely can’t be mad when he pushes your thighs forward and gets comfortable between your legs to press a kiss against your pussy. 

“Since you forgot that I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you already can tell from the tone of his voice that you’re in trouble. 

“Jin, that isn’t—” 

“Oh, but it is what happened,” he stares at you from between your thighs with a raised eyebrow. “And I’m wondering if there’s anything else you forgot about me.” 

You shudder as he drags his tongue up your lips, dipping slightly to push through to your clit. He flicks at it a few times and your leg involuntarily kicks his shoulder. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you groan into the arm you have draped over your face. You’re fucked if the twitching has already started and all he did was flick the tip of his tongue for half a second. 

“Don’t apologize.” 

It’s spoken so softly that you have to lift your arm to look at him again, but he’s now focused on spreading your lips apart. With you opened up, even more, he leans in to suck your clit with those strawberry-red plush lips. Every flick of his tongue makes your leg jiggle, but he keeps a strong grip on your thighs to prevent another kick from flying his way. 

It’s messy; Jin always liked it messy. He lets saliva mix with your arousal and uses it to lubricate his fingers before he eases two inside of you.

“This okay?” He lifts his head for a moment and you feel bad because you did forget how caring he is. It used to confuse you as to why he checked in on you while you fucked, but after sleeping with someone else who was far less thoughtful, you were unbelievably grateful. 

“Mhm.” You can’t trust yourself to speak in a coherent sentence as Jin goes back to sucking your clit. 

He alternates between swirling his tongue around you with his mouth closed, maintaining the suction that sends tingles throughout your body, with open-mouth licks that cause him to breathe heavily against your pussy, allowing you to hear his moans and experience just how affected he is by you. 

You moan his name as he drags his fingers against your g-spot repeatedly, easily building up the fire that burns beneath his mouth until you’re digging your nails into his hair and cumming so hard you feel like sobbing again. 

You don’t, thank god, because you can’t bear to see the smug look on his face when you prove him right. But that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t prickle at the corners with the threat of tears. 

In true Seokjin fashion, he doesn’t let up until you are crying, though, because he wants to be right. No one has ever made you writhe from overstimulation the way Jin does. You know you’ll have bruises on your thighs from how hard he has to hold you down, and you accidentally pull his sheets from his mattress with how tightly you squeeze them, just to have something to grab onto that isn’t his hair. 

He props himself up on one arm as he hovers over you, using his free hand to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You don’t want to know what you look like, but Jin will say you’re beautiful regardless. 

“How do you want me?” He asks against the shell of your ear. If the goosebumps down your arms mean anything, it’s that you don’t care one way or another. 

“I don’t care,” you admit, turning your head to the side to grant him access to your neck for more kisses. Kisses, so many kisses. You’re greedy for them. Three years' worth is missing and you’re demanding them. “Just fuck me, please.” 

It’s not sweet or romantic by either of your standards, the way Jin sits back to strip off his remaining clothes. It’s honestly not even carnal when he kneels between your legs. The only thing you can think of as he slowly slides himself inside of you is that this — the sex, Jin, all of it — feels reassuring. 

If Jin has always felt like home, then having his body, sweaty and hot, stick to yours as he picks up the rhythm of his thrusts feels like some kind of validation. It’s validation, affirmation, a statement that tells you, yes, it was the right decision for you to come home. 

You want to slap yourself in the face because how corny is it to think, this is where I belong, while your ex-boyfriend is balls deep inside of you? 

“You’re doing that thing.” 

Jin tries to speak with a level voice, but his words come out with a gasp as you clench around him. It’s not your fault your body is reacting this way. He should be blamed since he’s the one who decided to suck on his thumb before bringing it down to circle your clit while he fucks you. 

“Wha-what, fuck, what thing?” 

“That thing where you look at me like you’re in love with me.” Jin props one of your legs over his shoulder to angle your hips better. “Like under the mistletoe and at Target.” 

You want to tell him to shut up so badly, but you’re all moans and that’s it. 

His cheeks are dusted pink, his sweaty bangs are brushed off of his forehead, and his eyes are bright with mischief. Too many parts of you are at war with each other when you drag your nails down his forearms. It’s hard to use your brain to sort through it all when you feel your orgasm knock the air out of you. You desperately reach for Jin, pulling him forward to squeeze him as you shudder through the remaining waves. 

“I am in love with you,” you finally choke out. 

If Jin cums because of your confession, that’s no one else’s business. 

When it’s all over, you keep your legs wrapped around his waist, preventing him from getting up. Cockwarming isn’t something you’ve ever been interested in, but right now you can’t bear the idea of him separating himself from you. It’s been too long since you’ve held him, and even though the two of you have a lot you need to talk about, you need this more right now. 

“Need to clean you up,” Jin murmurs into the crook of your neck. When he tries to untangle himself from you, you squeeze your legs around him even tighter. 

“Later,” you repeat your earlier sentiment. 

Jin lets out a weak laugh. The warm puff of his breath makes your already hot skin prickle.

“I’m going to crush you.” 

“Crush me then.” 

“Kinky.” 

Despite your spike of annoyance at his teasing, you agree to a compromise by allowing Jin to roll the two of you onto your sides. It’s impossible not to melt into his embrace when he leaves gentle kisses just below your ear and along your jaw. 

You already know you’re doing “the thing” again, though Jin’s eyes are closed as he nuzzles you, so he doesn’t notice this time. It has nothing to do with what happened under the mistletoe or at Target. If you’d known what your expression looked like the morning after he tucked you into bed, as you swallowed the ibuprofen he’d left you on your nightstand — that is what “the thing” looked like. Yes, you’re in love with Jin, but it’s not because his gaze makes you shy or your body yearns to be close to him. It’s the little ways he cares about you, even when you’ve been too stubborn to let him in. 

“I missed you so much,” he murmurs against your skin and his hold on you tightens. You attempt to mumble a response, but the soft praises he’s cooing are a soothing lullaby. 

When you eventually wake up to the winter sun weakly shining through the gaps in Jin’s bedroom curtains, the headache pounding against your skull is the only regrettable consequence of the night before. That fact should be more surprising than it is, but you remind yourself that this is how it should have always been — with you waking up to the tickle of Jin’s hair as he snuggles against your chest.

“Merry Christmas.” Jin must have felt you stir because he lifts his head to give you a chaste kiss. 

“Oh fuck, it’s Christmas.” 

Jin snorts and dips down to rest against your chest again. “Yes, that’s what I said.” 

“What time is it? Oh fuck, my parents expected me to come over.” 

You try to scoot out from beneath him, but Jin holds you down. It’s then that you realize you’re wearing clothes. You’ve got on a t-shirt you’ve never seen before, soft and so large you’re swimming in it, and a pair of boxers that have been folded a few times at the waistband to keep the clothing around your hips. You must have slept deeply if Jin could clean you up without you knowing, although you vaguely remember soft words of encouragement as you tossed and turned. 

“It’s okay. I told them you’re with me.” Jin nuzzles against your neck and you swear you can’t breathe. 

“You told them…” 

“That I invited you over this morning to exchange friendly neighbor gifts.” 

More like exchanging bodily fluids, but you decide not to say that. It’s Christmas, after all. 

“But we both know your mom is going to see through that,” Jin admits with a grin. You can’t see it, but you can feel his teeth against your skin. She probably will see through Jin’s lie; it’s an uncanny mom ability, it seems. It makes life more difficult to navigate, as far as you’re concerned. 

“What in the hell is wrong with her?” You can’t really be mad at her desire to meddle, but you won’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s the reason why you and Jin are back together. Well, if you’re back together. That’s probably one of the agenda items for the “talk” you’ll eventually need to have. 

“I would have told you that she’s been plotting our reunion for literal years, but you’ve spent the last two months running away from me.” You know the way he says it is all in jest, but you feel a pang of guilt stab your stomach anyway. He’s right; you never gave him the chance to even attempt to reconnect. 

In your silence, Jin forces himself out of bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him sort through dresser drawers. 

“Jin,” you blurt out when he pulls out a fresh pair of briefs. “Who do you spend Christmas with?” 

He gives you a small smile and an even smaller shrug. “No one. It was always just me and dad.” You’re sure the look on your face isn’t as controlled as you originally thought because Jin’s ears burn bright red. “It’s okay. I don’t mind, honestly. It’s nice to just have some time to myself.” 

You know he’s lying. You didn’t date him for five years and be his friend for longer to not be able to tell when he’s lying. It’s a lie because his ears are red and he doesn’t look you in the eyes when he talks. 

You let out a hum and push yourself up to sit on the edge of his bed. Hopefully, you’re subtle when you bury yourself deeper into the t-shirt swamping your form just to breathe in more of the laundry detergent you remember once washing your clothes with. 

“Will you come with me? To my parents’ place?” You force yourself not to cave under Jin’s intense gaze. “And then maybe we can… talk…” 

It takes only a few steps for him to stand before you, his index finger tilting up your chin. Jin leans down to slot his lips against yours, still just as smooth and chaste, but longer and deeper than the one before. The closeness makes you shudder, and you do your best not to make a noise when he finally pulls away. Comfort. He’s always brought you comfort. 

“Only if Yoongi’s willing to drive us there.” 

You scowl and swat Jin out of the way. “Are you kidding me?” 

“Nope,” Jin says with a laugh, letting the “P” pop as he slings a towel over his shoulder. “I was so serious, I don’t want my Porche to get dirty.” 

He’s clearly about to shower — something you need to do, as well — but you feel too shy to ask him if you can, too. The man just had his tongue shoved in your pussy and you can’t ask him for a shower. What was all that, about comfort? You’re being ridiculous. 

“What do you do when you have to go to work?” You take a look around his bedroom for the first time. Your clothes are neatly folded on top of the dresser; it doesn’t surprise you how orderly everything is. Jin’s house looked like it was plucked straight out of HGTV. 

“Make Hoseok drive me. Here—” Jin tosses you a towel. You catch it and give him an appreciative smile, but he’s rifling through his dresser again. “You can join me if you want,” he says without looking you in the eyes. His ears are still red. “But I want to give you something first.” 

You shift on the bed to give Jin room to sit down beside you. He looks silly with a towel around his neck, shirtless in a pair of boxers that you just realize match the ones you’re wearing. In his hand is a small pouch. It’s velvet, the ones that typically hold earrings or other jewelry if not in a box. You wouldn’t be able to describe how you feel with butterflies somersaulting in your stomach even if you wanted to. 

“Um.” Jin can barely get his words out and he’s only just started. “This was dad’s. I don’t really wear, well, I guess it’s just that, hmm…” He drops the pouch in your hand and clamps his mouth shut. “Can you just open it?” 

It seems that silence is a good option, so you undo the drawstring at the top and slowly let the object inside fall into your hand. It’s a ring. A thin, silver band. The color is dark enough that it almost looks deep charcoal. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Jin whispers hoarsely like he’s afraid to use his voice. “I wanted to give it to you before… Well, before. And now that dad’s not here, I kind of thought, I don’t know.” Jin purses his lips as he lets out an exhale that sounds like a hiss. 

“Thank you. It’s beautiful, Jin.” It’s the simplest response, but you know it’s what Jin needs to hear. Simple, straightforward, and nothing difficult to interpret. The two of you have always balanced each other out. When Jin blabbers, you know how to rein him in. You’d like to think that it’s similar to how Jin can calm Malik down. You hope so, at least. 

As corny as it is, the urge to kiss him floods your senses. Despite the pressures around you, you’ve never been one to limit yourself. Self-control is self-sacrifice, but there is nothing sacrificial about bringing your lips to Jin’s. No, it’s quite the opposite. You feel life bloom inside of you when you press hard against his mouth at the same time you slip the ring on. Just your middle finger because Jin said it doesn’t have to mean anything. 

But it does. You want it to. 

His fingers press into the nape of your neck and you try to hold back a moan because it’s Christmas and you’re supposed to be giving Malik video games and marijuana crew socks right now. 

“We should shower.” Jin is the voice of reason that murmurs softly against your lips. It’s been three years, yet you fall in place with him so easily. 

You nod, making your noses rub against each other. It’s without protest that you allow him to lead you into the bathroom. It’s cute, the way he shows you around, pointing out where his skincare products are and showing you how to turn on the shower even though he’s going to be there to do it for you. And when the shower doesn’t turn into a carnal mess but instead is an opportunity for Jin to wash you, you realize he’s putting you together rather than taking you apart. You don’t need it; you’ve always been whole, even without him. But it feels good to be touched with care. It feels good to let Jin wash the hurt away. 

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DON’T LET ME FALL

pairing: Park Jimin×reader

genre: college au, fluff, crushes to lovers? is that a thing

word count: 3.5k

summary: park jimin, love of your life and the angel of your soul who you have to love far away to not lose him. what happens when he feels the same way?

warnings: a little jealousy, oc is clumsy and very sad about it 🥺, making out

a/n: jimin is an angel and deserves the world 😌

Park Jimin.

Also known as the perfect angel you refuse to believe is a real living, breathing human in your life, and the love of your life. Though he doesn’t know the last part he knows everyone including you, since you were drunk and called him an angel when he smiled with his eyes when he was trying to hold your trembling frame, calls him an angel which leaves him flustered with red cheeks was here, waving at you when you were walking towards to the coffee shop in campus to study. You felt your soul leaving your body with the slight sight of his hair. You swear you weren’t this clumsy or shy in your normal life when you were trying to live in peace but whenever you saw Jimin you felt like you were in a cheap rom-com trying to survive the heart attack that came with him.  You would physically feel the butterflies that would form in your entire body, words refusing to come out of your mouth but you would also feel your thoughts falling into peace, making your heart calm down though it would beat faster even more than the times you would run. He was your safe space without knowing and you were happy just with being his awkward friend who was lucky enough to have someone like him in your life.

It was almost like you were watching your body move just out of habit, not remembering what was it like to use your legs. You hoped you wouldn’t fall and make a fool out of yourself because with Jimin, that happened way more than you liked. He was always there to hold you and never once made you feel bad about it and always joked how he was also clumsy and made you promise you would also hold him if he were to fall.

You wished you had someplace to hide before he saw you because you weren’t sure if you could handle seeing him both in the morning and at night when your friends were making you go out with them. It wasn’t that you hated parties, it was because Jimin would look even prettier under the dim light with your brain was foggy with alcohol, and you were scared you would say something to let him know your real feelings and mess your relationship up with him. It wasn’t even the last thing you wanted in your life, you were happy loving him from far away if it meant you would get to hear his laugh and see his sparkly eyes freely.

Keep reading

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‧✧̣̇‧ Birthday detective

‧✧̣̇‧ Pairing: YN x Taehyung

‧✧̣̇‧ Genre: established relationship au, fluff, non-idol!au

‧✧̣̇‧ Summary: Taehyung needs you out of the apartment so he can do sneaky sneaky things.

‧✧̣̇‧ Warnings: annoying tae, he uses massaging as an integration tactic, mentions of a forgotten condom.

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Taehyung makes sure to stay as quiet as ever so he can hear the click of your apartment door closing. He waits for it patiently but with an anxious mind and he nearly jumps out of bed when he finally hears it. It was hard trying to get you out of your apartment, you wanted to spend the morning cuddling and kissing his pouty lips. But Taehyung managed to convince you with big glossy eyes to bring food from his favorite restaurant. Once he checks your location he quickly opens his phone and sets a timer, he has exactly thirty minutes before you get home and find out what he’s up to.

He feels no remorse, Taehyung was determined to find out where you hid his birthday gift one way or another.

Once the timer starts, Taehyung rips the blanket off the bed, he flips the mattress inspecting under it for any gifts, nothing. He checks under the bed, dust bunnies, slippers but no gift. Taehyung thinks you’ve caught on to him, each year you hide his gift in more creative ways than before. Last year it was taped above one of the blades of the ceiling fan, the year before that it was behind the books on the bookshelf. Taehyung wonders if you’ve finally decided to hide it outside of your apartment.

He continues his search, absolutely not discouraged in any way, even after finding nothing at all. He looked everywhere, your closet, your kitchen cabinets, under the sink, in between your sanitary pads, he only found a missing AirPod, a condom he stashed for easy access but forgot about, but no gift.

Yeontan followed after him, tiny feet clicking away, he yapped but Taehyung paid him no attention. He was too busy thinking and trying to look for any ‘plain site’ hiding spots. The puppy yaps again and nudges his nose on Taehyungs leg.

“Not now Tannie,” Taehyung walks past Tannie in a heartbreaking stride,” Daddy can’t play right okay?”

Yeontan barks once more but Taehyung was already distracted by the timer going off. Now he has to quickly put everything back together before you get there.

Exactly five minutes later he’s sitting on the couch when he hears the sound of the door opening and closing. He’s come up with a plan to get the information he needs right from the source. Taehyung quickly gets up from the couch and takes the food from your hands, then he helps you with your jacket, your keys and even hangs your bag up for you. You know exactly what he’s doing and decide to take full advantage of his pampering.

“Oh baby you’re amazing~” He kisses you too sweetly before putting the food on the kitchen counter.

“I know.” You let him take you to the couch, you know exactly how his little plan was going to play out. But again, you’ll play along if it means you get a massage.

“Come sit baby~ let’s watch a movie, you choose.” Taehyung sits behind you as you hold in a scoff. He hands you the remote and just as you thought, he begins rubbing your shoulders.

“You’re so tense baby~” Taehyung coos as his hands smooth down your back. You hum softly so Taehyung knows he’s got you where he wants. His fingers press gently into your shoulders, kneading the tension away exactly how you like it. He makes sure to rub your neck while planting kisses, Taehyung feels you relax like putty in his hands.

“Shouldn’t I be massaging you?” You practically moan your question.

“Just wanna pamper my princess,” Taehyungs voice soothes you, relaxing all your senses and easily falling right into his trick.

“Hm, thank you tae,” you close your eyes and let him kiss your shoulder,” but I’m not telling you where your gift is.”

“Aish.” Taehyung whines before pushing you off of him, you giggle, crawling back into his lap and burying your face in his tummy. His fingers run through your hair, annoyed but he’s a sucker for affection.

“Im giving it to you tonight,” You kiss his tummy a little too softly for his liking,” you can wait.”

“Don’t wanna wait,” Taehyung groans again,” could be my early birthday gift.”

“Me getting food from your favorite restaurant, thirty minutes away, was your early gift.” Now it’s your turn to scoff, you pinch his thigh making him yelp but your little pinches won’t make him stop from getting what he wants.

“Honey bear, come on,” Taehyung cups your face like he did the first time he ever kissed you,” come on, stop playing now.”

“I’m not playing.” You giggle but he pinches your lips to stop you from expecting a kiss.

“Please?” He pleads with the cutest eyes you’ve ever seen, pout too puffy not to kiss. Your heart feels giggly and bubbly seeing your boyfriend acting so damn cute.

“Fine~” You kissed that tempting pout before trailing more kisses all over his jaw and down his neck, right on his Adam’s apple.

“Wait really?” A spoiled smile appears in his face, happy he got his way, again.

“Yea, you said please.” Your shrug earns a scoff from him, you place one final kiss on his nose and bend over him to look at your accomplice that sits on his bed chewing away at his toy.

“My baby~” You tap the side of the couch to get his attention, Tannie was a mamas boy so he came at lightning speed. Taehyung scoffed, totally not jealous of his dog. Tannie runs to you, licking your hand and very knowingly turning around so you could reach into the pocket of his sweater. Taehyung is mortified when you pull out a small little packet. He gasps, of course it was right in plain site, in the hands of his most trusted loved one. You smirk when Taehyung picks up your partner in crime to inspect his little coat.

“Are you fucking serious?” Taehyung looks into the other pockets,” he’s had it the whole time?!”

The realization that Tannie had been trying to tell him all morning hit him like a ton of bricks, but Taehyung had brushed him aside like a dirty sock. His heart breaks but he feels it filled with love for his puppy, a true man’s best friend, always had his back since day one. Taehyung cuddles Tannie and buries his face in his fur, tannie yaps as if he accepts Taehyung wordless apology.

“Here.” You open the little packet and carefully untwine the necklace inside. You hand him the necklace and with his curios eyes he takes in the marks embedded on it.

“It’s a map of the stars on the night you were born,” You pressed your cheek on his arm as you showed him his constellation,” I was going to do the day we first met but it wasn’t as pretty as yours.”

Taehyung smoothed his fingers over the metal, the design etched on it told stories about the stars that painted the night sky just for him. He was amazed that gifts like this excited, completely personal in a way.

“This is really pretty baby.” He hands it to you so you can do the honors and adorn it over his pretty neck. It’s cool against his neck but he loves the feeling of new jewelry,

“It is,” You nod your head and touch the pendant, relieved that he liked it more than you thought he would,” happy birthday tete bear.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung kisses every inch he can get of you,” you’re good too me honey bear.”

“I know, now quite snooping for your gifts every damn year.” You smack the back of his head, fully knowing that he was still going to snoop next year and plenty of years after.



─────────•❥❥❥•──────────

Happy late birthday to our big boy 🫂✨ we love him and wanna give him smooches 😘 this is also kinda boring but….writing practice yea? 🫂

- Love, Che

Permanent 🏷: @sweetestofchaos @cherryblosom73 @bbyhoneysuga @dariangarcia @axigailxo @sheylamc @renaefraser @halseysprincess @parkdatjimin @cremedelabrulee @fandems @meggsngrits @supernoonanyc @pamzn

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jungkook x ‘butter (holiday remix)’ dance practice

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All That Holly, Jolly Sh*t || MYG

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Title: All That Holly, Jolly Sh*t

WC: 11k

Genre: exes to lovers, the babiest angst straight to fluffy smut (they’ve got shit to work out, but they get there!!)

Summary: You haven’t seen or heard from Yoongi since he broke your heart five years ago, laying out a logical list of reasons why you were better off breaking up. When a Christmas Eve blizzard traps you together for the night, you have no choice but to examine how few of those reasons are still true. And if they’re not… where does that leave you?

Rating: NSFW - minors DNI

Warnings: manbun!yoongi YES THAT IS A WARNING, drinking, language, kissing, breast play/nip stim, fingering, unprotected sex with bc (be safer than this!!!), multiple orgasms (f), penetrative sex, soft idiots in love 

A/N: Merry Christmas, Kelly!!!! @here4btsfics I was soooooo excited to pull your name for @bangtansecretsanta because it gave me such a good opportunity to get to know you better and start talking to you! I really, really hope you love this little Christmas fic! 

I know you said no angst so just a lil disclaimer, a synopsis I messaged my beta was "it hurts for a hot minute but then they kiss about it and everyone is fine" so I think you'll be okay!!!

Huge thank you to @kookstempo @moonleeai and @cherrysoulth for beta-ing and to @itaeewon for the gorgeous banner!

“Anything new with you? How’s work?”

You plaster on what you hope is a friendly smile and not a sarcastic one. Seokjin’s girlfriend is super nice, you remember her from a party over the summer, but you do not want to talk about work right now. You want to drown yourself in another cinnamon toast crunch cocktail and double-fist those iced, reindeer-shaped brown-sugar cookies. 

You admit to being a little bit on edge. 

You’ve attended Taehyung’s annual Christmas party every year since you left for college. It’s tradition, and it’s one of the only times each year that the whole group is back together again after you all went your separate ways in the world. 

Except, for the last five years, Yoongi hadn’t attended. You never thought too much about why - too busy, other plans, just the fact that he’s an absolute Grinch… or maybe it’s your presence that keeps him away. You didn’t waste too much time thinking about it. You’re just always happy he isn’t there.

Until this year.

No one even had the decency to shoot you a warning text. Hey, heads up, your ex is here, very unexpectedly.

You knock back the rest of your drink and head to make yourself a new one.

You normally attach yourself to Jimin at these, but he’s betrayed you this year by bringing an absolutely gorgeous date. They’re currently hogging the doorway with mistletoe above it. You make a mental note to remind him tomorrow that the PDA thing stops being cute after a while.

“Work’s good,” you say, finally answering the question. “Nothing new. How about you and Jin? All good?”

“Nothing new to report!” she grins. Then, the smile slips off her face a little as she glances at her phone. She notices you watching and grimaces. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just keeping an eye on the radar. The storm tonight is supposed to get nasty.”

“Hey! What’s the rule tonight?” a voice bellows from the living room. It’s Taehyung, perched against the back of one of his couches, and he points an accusatory finger at the girl you’re talking to.

She must know something you don’t, because while you’re baffled, she looks chagrined. “Don’t talk about the blizzard,” she recites by rote. 

“Don’t talk about the blizzard,” he repeats. “Have another drink. It’s Christmas Eve, we welcome the snow.”

“You’re the only person I know who’s optimistic enough to try to throw a party on a night they’re calling for the storm of the century,” Seokjin tells him, making his way into the kitchen - probably to protect his girlfriend from Taehyung’s scoldings. 

“They say that every time,” Taehyung scoffs, waving a hand. Then he’s up and moving, heading towards the dining room, where a spread of food is laid out. 

There must be more people in there, you think, because the kitchen and the living room are definitely looking a little less crowded than they were an hour ago. Yoongi and Hoseok are on the couch, glasses in hand, talking quietly. The tv, mounted high on the wall, plays a classic Christmas film in black and white. You stop before the balcony doors, peering out into the night. The lamps that line the parking lot glow orange, and you can see in the lamplight that snow is falling steadily, and it’s starting to accumulate a little on the pavement below. 

Jimin comes up beside you. His date’s lipstick is still smudged in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re a hot mess,” you tell him affectionately. 

“I think we’re gonna head out,” he tells you, ignoring the jab.

You shake your head, your earrings glittering in your reflection in the glass. “It’s not even nine,” you point out.

“The roads are going to get slick,” he tells you, suddenly serious. “You should think about getting an Uber before too long, too.”

“You’re going to break Taehyung’s heart,” you inform him. “I think he’s starting to catch on that people are leaving.”

“He should have rescheduled the party!” Jimin says hotly; he and Taehyung had argued about this passionately all week, ever since the forecast picked up on the storm coming through. “We could have done this yesterday, no blizzard, everyone would have stayed all night!”

Jimin’s date slinks over and presses her hand to his upper back. “Ready?” she asks, voice like silk. 

“Bye,” you tell him sulkily. In the reflection, you watch him pause to tell Yoongi and Hoseok goodbye. They each stand, reaching in one at a time to give him a quick one-armed hug goodbye. 

You keep watching the reflection in the glass as Hoseok takes advantage of already being up and heads for the dining room.

You knew it would happen at some point tonight - you’re alone in the living room with Yoongi. You’d just hoped it would happen after you were a lot drunker. 

He meanders over. You glance at the drink in his hand - whiskey, neat. You could have guessed that on a gameshow and earned some money. 

He’s dressed in all black - down to the chelsea boots. His hair is half-up in a bun that sits just behind the crown of his head. The rest brushes the tops of his shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. 

He’d never had long hair like this before. It’s a crime how fucking good it looks. 

Your gameplan tonight has been simple: avoid, avoid, avoid. But Yoongi stands close enough to reach out and touch you, sips at his whiskey, and murmurs, “It’s been a while.”

Five years. But who’s counting? 

“It has,” you allow. You hate confrontation, you don’t want this to be a thing. You’re determined to be polite, play nice, and hopefully get out of here unscathed. “How have you been? Are you enjoying yourself?” 

He wiggles his head. “Eh. You know I’m not into all that holly, jolly shit.”

“It’s a Christmas party,” you point out flatly. “Holly, jolly is kind of the point.”

He shrugs. “The point for me is just to see the guys, catch up with everyone. It’s been a long time since we were all together.”

He means we the guys, not we you and him. But your heart still speeds up at the word, the traitor.

You nod, turning away from him to look outside again. But your eyes stay on his reflection, both of you standing with your backs to the party. He looks down at his drink, swirls the amber liquid around the bottom of the glass.

“You always did hate the holidays,” you observe absently. 

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, so gently that it shocks you into turning to look at him.

“Do what?”

“Rehash everything,” he says with a shrug. “Talk about everything we remember. Talk at all.”

“If you don’t want to talk to me, then don’t,” you snap, suddenly defensive and heated. “You came over here, not the other way around.” So much for polite and non-confrontational. But damn, he has some audacity.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, a little quickly, holding up his one empty hand like he’s surrendering. “I just meant… don’t feel like you have to, if you don’t want to. Don’t do it for my sake.”

Your temper settles, but you still feel a little… disgruntled, unsettled. “If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t be,” you grumble. 

He smiles at this. “That’s right. You never do anything you don’t want to do.”

Maybe that used to be the case. 

The liquor takes over your mouth. “I didn’t want to break up,” you say pointedly, “so I guess that’s not true.”

He huffs out a single laugh, shaking his head at your audacity. “You always just say shit,” he murmurs. “To hell with the consequences.”

“What consequences?” you demand, turning to face him fully. “Are you going to dump me more? I fail to see how I could make things worse for us after five years of not speaking.”

He licks his lips, eyes on his glass again. That was the thing about you and Yoongi - he’s right, you did just say shit. And he always just handled it. He always heard you, processed it, and dealt with it productively. He never took the bait and got mad back, never yelled - even when you’d wished he’d yell. 

“It’s because,” he’d told you, sometime around seven years ago, when you were together, “when you say absolutely wild shit like that, you always mean something else. And I just happen to be very good at translating you.”

Now, he meets your eyes again, having processed. Having translated. “What I’m hearing you say,” he says slowly, “is that you’re still mad at me.”

That’s all it takes to take the wind out of your sails - that’s always how it worked with you and Yoongi. You blustered and got worked up, and he defused you easily - just by meeting your gaze, just by assuring you that you were heard. 

“I think I’m mad at our circumstances,” you correct quietly. “And I think I’ve had too many of these.” You eye the cocktail in your hand with narrowed, accusatory eyes.

He gives you the barest sliver of a smile. “Don’t blame the drinks,” he says, shaking his head. “You never could lie to me - it has nothing to do with alcohol.”

He’s right. For all your faults, for all the negatives you can take credit for, you always told him the truth.

Namjoon appears in the living room, a beer in hand, still in the bottle. 

“I’m trying to decide which one of you needs to be rescued from the other,” he admits, looking between you, “and I honestly can’t tell.”

“Rescue him from me,” you say. “He’s been nice and I’ve been prickly.” 

“You?” Namjoon says in mock surprise. “Prickly? No way.”

You flip him off, smiling. 

Seokjin comes up behind Namjoon, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think we’re going,” he says, looking past you to the snow outside. “I don’t want to drive once the roads are slick.”

Namjoon sighs, following his gaze. “I was having fun,” he says sadly. “But I’m probably not too far behind you.”

“Nooo,” Taehyung whines from the dining room. “Everyone stop leaving! It’s just a little snow!”

Seokjin’s girlfriend finds him, joining your little circle, her phone still in her hand. “We’re supposed to have almost three inches by midnight,” she says in a whisper, clearly not wanting Taehyung to come after her. “We need to get moving.”

When Seokjin and his girlfriend leave, you float back towards the dining room. Namjoon and Yoongi stay behind, talking quietly. Probably, Namjoon is checking to make sure you weren’t too mean to him. Which… that’s fair. 

The truth is, you aren’t mad at Yoongi. How could you be? When he ended things, he hadn’t been cruel, or unfair. His decision had been made logically. You understood exactly why he felt he needed to do it.

That’s where the hurt came from, you figured. You were always led by your emotions - quick to anger, but quick to laugh. Yoongi was always more even-tempered, logical. While you were packing up your life to move away from home for university, he’d laid out the reasons you shouldn’t stay together like they were a grocery list. 

Like it didn’t hurt him at all. 

None of his reasons were wrong. But would it have killed him to act like he cared? You’d been together three years - and you felt like they should count more, since they were such formative ones. Like dog years - each one should have counted for seven. It had broken your heart to let him walk away - shouldn’t he have felt something, too?

You’d dated plenty in college, a few of those relationships getting serious enough to last a few months. But at the end of the day, nobody compared to your first love. How could they? How could anyone? 

No one understood you like Yoongi. No one could translate you like Yoongi. No one knew - or learned - how to settle you down like Yoongi. No one had that mental encyclopedia of useless knowledge like Yoongi. No one else had that perfect blend of dry and earnest like Yoongi. No one else fit to your body like a puzzle piece like Yoongi. 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. Yoongi had left, Yoongi had taken the decision right out of your hands and walked away with it. You weren’t mad at him, but you definitely resented that.

You’d had years to get over it, to forgive him, to come to terms with the fact that he was right about every single thing. But forgiveness and understanding are one thing. Letting go - of him, of loving him - is something else entirely, and you’re starting to think that even a lifetime of years won’t be enough for that.

That’s enough of that, you think, giving yourself a rough mental shake. You set down your drink glass and head for the bathroom, but it’s occupied. You lean against the wall outside, counting your breaths, trying to get yourself back into that holly, jolly headspace. 

The door opens and Jungkook emerges, singing under his breath, “Pah-rum-pum-pum-pum!”

“Hi, JayKay,” you say, moving to slide past him into the bathroom.

“Oh, hey!” he says brightly. “I was just about to leave. You have a way to get home, right? It’s getting worse out there.”

“I was just going to Uber,” you tell him.

“Better do it soon,” he warns. “Soon the drivers aren’t going to want to be on the roads.”

“Good point,” you say, and wave a quick goodbye before shutting the bathroom door. You give yourself a stern look in the mirror.

Get it together, please, you think firmly. Seeing your ex - this ex, too, not just a casual one - for the first time in five years earns you a little wallowing, you think, and you fully intend to. At home. Later. Not here, in front of everyone. 

Not here, in front of him. 

Back in the kitchen, the party has really dwindled down to the last few people. Outside, snow falls as steadily as Taehyung’s guest list. 

The peer pressure gets to you, and you pull out your phone and open a ride-share app. It takes a while before a driver connects, but you’re persistent. Once you have a driver, you watch the little image of their car start to head in your direction on the map.

From the dining room, you hear Yoongi make a tch of frustration. “No one is picking up for me,” he grumbles, seemingly to himself. 

“Good,” Taehyung says seriously. “Don’t leave me.”

You go find your coat, slipping your arms into the sleeves and doing up each button. When you return to the dining room, Yoongi and Taehyung are the only ones left. Taehyung is fully, blatantly, sulking, his arms crossed on the table and his chin resting dejectedly atop them.

“Better luck next time, bud,” you tell him kindly. 

Yoongi is still squinting at his phone screen, frowning.

You feel a twinge of concern, of the need to make it better for him the way you used to on a regular basis. “Still nothing?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t even see anyone on the map.”

You check your phone again - your car is just up the road. “I have one,” you tell him. “Join mine - we’ll just request the extra stop.”

Yoongi meets your eyes, holds your gaze for a minute. Then, he says, so seriously, “Are you sure?”

You know he means it. You know if you give any indication that you don’t want him in a car with you, he won’t push it. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. I’m not going to leave you stranded here.”

“Why not?” Taehyung whines, kicking his feet a little in protest. 

“My car’s just here though,” you warn, eyes on your screen, both of you absolutely ignoring the host of the party. 

“I’ll grab my coat,” Yoongi says, and heads for the hallway.

“Sorry, Taehyung,” you say sympathetically. “I know you’re sad.”

He refuses to look at you. 

After giving over-the-top goodbye hugs to try and un-sulk the whiny baby, you and Yoongi head down the stairs and outside. You don’t look behind you to check that Yoongi is following. The car idles by the curb, and you double-check the license plate against the app. 

In the backseat of the car, you slide over to make room for Yoongi. As soon as he closes his door and the car lurches into motion, the vibe changes. You sit stiffly, ramrod straight, eyes on the windshield. Yoongi’s not sitting quite as straight as you, but there’s a tightness to his shoulders, like he’s holding himself carefully so he doesn’t touch you by accident with the car’s inertia. 

You had put in your parent’s address when you requested the ride, since that’s where you’re staying until New Years’ Day. You and Yoongi sit in blasting, blaring silence as the car crosses the middle of the town you’d both grown up in, that you’d run around in together as teenagers in love. But, past town, towards the quiet neighborhood where your parents’ house is, the car slows to a stop.

“I can’t go through this way, Miss,” your driver says, peering at you through the rearview mirror. “There’s a powerline down up there.”

“Oh shit,” you say, which is probably not very polite of you. You lean forward to look at the same time Yoongi does, your shoulders bumping. You both recoil quickly. 

“I think you can get to the development from the other side,” you muse, “but we’d have to backtrack and go around the lake on the other side…”

“Let’s just go to my place,” Yoongi interjects. “The roads are getting worse, and it’s close.”

You frown. Yoongi’s parents’ house - which you’d been to plenty of times as a younger person - is on the other side of town. Not close by your standards, but you aren’t here to argue.

Or maybe you are.

“I don’t know, Yoongi,” you say, uncertainty creeping into your voice. “How will I get home from there?”

“You might have to stay,” he admits, leaning down to better look at the road through the front windshield. The driver sits, watching you debate, waiting for a directive. 

You give Yoongi a silent look like, okay, and so you see my problem?

He scoffs at you. “It’s fine. We can handle one night.”

You want to ask, how sure are you about that? Instead, you start to tell the driver Yoongi’s parents’ address. 

“Wait,” Yoongi says, putting a hand gently on your arm to stop you. You both freeze, looking at the point of contact. Yoongi shakes himself out of it first, and tells the driver a different address. 

The car shifts back into drive and you look at Yoongi quizzically.

“Did your family move?” you ask finally.

Here’s the thing. You know Yoongi, you get Yoongi; five years apart hasn’t changed that at all. So when he licks his lips, shifts his gaze to his feet, and starts rubbing the back of his neck, you know it’s guilt.

“Yoongi?” you prod, suspicious.

He mumbles something, still not looking at you.

“What?” you snap. “You what?”

“I sort of moved back last month…” he repeats to the floor. 

“You live here?” you repeat, dumbfounded. “You live in town again?”

“Currently, yeah,” he says, and there’s something in that currently that you’d really like to examine, but you’re still fucking floored. 

Yoongi had gone to university in the city - hours away. The distance thing was reasons one through four of his Why We Need to Break Up list. It had made sense, logistically. It made sense when you went abroad for university, and he stayed here. It made sense when you returned and got an internship and then a full-time job in a different city, hours in the opposite direction. It made sense when you managed to go five entire years without being in the same place.

But now he was here. Reasons one through four, moot. 

Reasons five to whatever largely revolved around being young and needing to experience the world and figure out what you want in life, that kind of shit. Now it’s five years later and you’ve both experienced plenty of bullshit.

Reasons five through whatever, moot. 

You wonder, wordlessly, heart pounding again, if Yoongi knows or cares that every reason he gave you to validate walking away no longer applies. 

“You live here,” you repeat. You’re stuck on it, you can’t move on. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” he says guiltily. “I know you didn’t. I… was honestly fighting with myself about if I should reach out or not. I guess I ultimately decided not… since you’re in the city, and you have your whole life and everything…”

What life? You wonder. 

The car pulls into a small, understated neighborhood. You’ve been here before; your chemistry partner from tenth grade lived in this development, you’d come to do homework more than once.

It’s always so weird to come back to this town, where everywhere you go has memories, secondary definitions. It’s not just a library, it’s the library where Yoongi had kissed you for the first time. It’s not just a park, it’s the park where you’d had your first fight, where you’d screamed at him in front of God and the ducks and all the moms pushing strollers. It’s not just a diner, it’s the diner where Yoongi had told you that it made no sense to try and stay together from different time zones. 

Everything came back to him. It always had. It always does. In a lot of ways, you felt like you were fated to be tied to him this way - and you usually didn’t believe in shit like that. 

You always break your own rules for him.

The place is small, and not very Yoongi-ish, but you keep your thoughts to yourself as Yoongi slides out of the car and waits for you. 

“Get home safe,” you tell the driver before closing the door. Yoongi’s got his house keys in his hand, and he leads you up the walkway. It’s slick, and you try to step only in the footprints he leaves in the inch of snow coating the ground.

Inside, the light over the sink illuminates a small, mostly empty kitchen. That’s not very Yoongi-ish either, you think. You remember him cooking all the time - appliances everywhere, cutting boards hanging, pots and pans stored on hooks. 

He passes the kitchen and enters what looks like the living room, reaching to click on a few dim lamps. They cast a yellow glow to the room.

You set down your purse and fold your coat up on top of it. Yoongi waits for you in the living room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the window, watching the snow. His jawline from the side nearly takes your breath away. He’s so damn beautiful it makes you sick.

And he’s back, Yoongi is back. 

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, finally looking at you.

“Whatever you’re having would be great,” you tell him. You settle gingerly on one end of the couch as he busies himself in the kitchen. You shoot your parents a quick text that the roads were too bad and you weren’t going to make it back to their place so they wouldn’t worry. 

Yoongi returns with two glasses of red wine. He hands you one wordlessly and sits opposite you on the couch.

“So,” you say. The awkward, hyper-polite vibe from the car is back. Like you’re strangers. Like you didn’t know each other inside and out, once. “You’ve been here a month?”

“Just shy of it,” Yoongi corrects politely. “I signed a two month lease, so… I’ve got a few weeks to figure out my next move.”

“You don’t think you’ll stay?” you ask, then sip at the wine. It’s good - of course it’s good, he’s got great taste. You love and hate that about him.

He shrugs, drinks from his own glass. “Doubt it.”

He doesn’t give you any more information than that - why he’s back, what’s next for him, why he’s here for such a short time. 

You don’t press it. He’ll tell you if he wants to. 

Instead, you both drink in silence. Outside, the snow seems to redouble its efforts, the wind picking up until it seems to be snowing sideways for minutes at a time before calming into a normal downward fall again. 

“I think we made the right choice,” Yoongi murmurs, and it takes you a second to realize he’s talking about the weather and Taehyung’s party, not about your past. 

“Mhm,” you nod, as you come back into the present. That’s a problem you have - you’re always looking back. “Imagine if we were just leaving now? What a mess. Thanks for taking me in, I guess.”

“You guess,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, but there’s no ire in it. 

You drink in silence a little longer, and then Yoongi rises with a sigh. “I’ll go put clean sheets on the bed,” he says, sort of absently, like he’s both talking to you and also just thinking out loud. “And then I’ll show you how to work the tv in there if you –”

“I’m not sleeping in your bed, Yoongi,” you tell him flatly. 

He balks. “I didn’t mean with me, I meant by yourself!”

“No, I know that,” you reassure him. “But I’m not letting you sleep on your own couch because of me. I’ll sleep out here. It’s fine.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, shaking his head vehemently. That long hair swishes. “You’re a guest. I’m not putting you on the couch.”

“Yoongi,” you say sternly. “If I know you’re out here on the couch and I’m in there with your whole friggin bed, I will simply not sleep because I will feel too guilty about it! And I would like to sleep. So, please, put your chivalry and hospitality aside, and let me sleep. Out here.”

He considers this, because he knows you, and he knows you’re telling the truth. “Fine,” he concedes, and disappears into what must be his bedroom. 

When he returns, he’s carrying a stack of what looks like linens. He sets down the pile and you spy blankets and pillows. He pushes the pillows aside gently and picks up something else, turning to hold it out to you, an offering. 

It’s gym shorts and a large tshirt, and you reach to take them without thinking. Once they’re in your hand, they feel suddenly heavy with meaning. You used to wear his clothes all the time - you might have one or two of his hoodies in the back of your closet at home because you love them and don’t want to get rid of them, even though you feel too weird to actually wear them. You’re not sure how you feel about wearing his clothes again, now that it means nothing. The alternatives are pretty undesirable, though, so you’ll have to grin and bear it.

“There’s a half-bath on the other side, through the kitchen,” he says, nodding towards the bathroom in question. “So you don’t have to feel weird walking through my room to the full bath if you don’t want to. Though... do you need to shower? I can get you towels and stuff –”

“Maybe in the morning?” you say, eyeing the clock on the wall. “Just… could I borrow face-soap? And toothpaste?”

You’ll have to make do without your make-up remover and an actual toothbrush. Finger-brushing it is. 

When you emerge from the bathroom, teeth freshly finger-brushed, wearing Yoongi’s clothes, he’s standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing out the wine glasses you’d used.

You brush past him silently, and start setting up the couch how you want it. You hear the sink turn off, the click of the lightswitch as he shuts off the lights behind him. He comes back through the room and pauses in his doorway.

“Do you need anything?” he asks. 

“No,” you say, feeling small in his baggy shirt, feeling small in the face of all the feelings you’re swimming in right now. “I’m all good.”

He looks at you for a long minute, searching. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Sleep well.”

He turns into his room, and you watch his skinny wrist turn as he reaches to shut the door.

“Yoongi,” you say, the word out of your mouth before you really know what will follow it. He pauses, peeks his head back into view, raises an eyebrow at you. “Thanks,” you say, meekly.

He nods, silent, then reaches to close his door, gently and effectively shutting you out.

You get comfortable on the couch, bunching the blanket up around your head how you like it. It takes almost no time at all to fall asleep, and when you do, you don’t dream.

You’re awakened sometime later by a noise, and you sit up, your brain scrambling to catch up to the present and figure out where you are.

A couch, it processes. It comes back to you a little at a time. Yoongi’s couch. Yoongi’s house. Yoongi’s house in town.

The noise that woke you must have been his bedroom door opening, because as you slowly get your bearings, you become aware of him staring at you from his doorway. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says apologetically, then moves across the room towards the kitchen. “I just needed water.” Then, from the kitchen, as an afterthought, he asks, “Do you want one?”

“Please,” you say immediately, mentally cataloging all the effects of dehydration you can feel. Cottony mouth, ringing ears, the tingling beginnings of a headache…

He returns to the living room and stops near the couch. You stretch to turn on one of the dim lamps, casting a quiet yellow on the room. He stands there in too-big pajamas and holds out a water bottle silently. 

It’s definitely still the middle of the night. You can’t have slept more than a few hours. Everything feels different, somehow. It was so awkward before; you’d felt the need to be cautious and hyper-polite. Now everything feels blurred, fuzzy with sleep, softer. You’re sitting up, the blanket you’d been sleeping under still over your lap. You reach over and lift the other side, holding it up like a question.

Yoongi pads over and sits on the far side of the couch, but he curls his legs up and slips his bare feet under the blanket. You let it fall, covering him from the shin down.

He taps on his phone and grimaces at the time. “Hey,” he says, a little wry, “Merry Christmas.”

You smile. “Merry Christmas, Yoongi.”

He taps at his screen again and a speaker near his tv comes to life, playing what has to be a Coffee Shop Christmas playlist, pre-curated. You lean your head against the back of the couch, listening to the strum of acoustic guitar and the gentle snare of a drum meander through a mellow, lethargic version of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.

“Christmas music, huh?” you tease, eyes closed. “That’s very holly, jolly of you.”

“I don’t hate Christmas,” he protests. “I’m not, like, a Grinch. It’s just… another day. So is tomorrow. Why all the fuss?”

You bump his foot with your knee beneath the blanket. “Scrooge.”

Ignoring your teasing, he looks sideways at you, something baleful on his face. “Y/N? I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

You’re surprised into silence, looking back at him across the couch. “What? What for?”

He grimaces, like the answer is too big, like he’s got an annotated list of every fault he’s mentally cataloged. “For all of it, I guess.”

You’re not letting him off the hook; this is too important to skirt around. “What are you sorry for, Yoongi?” you ask seriously.

He laughs once, quietly, incredulously, like he can’t believe you. “You really want to go there?”

“You know I do.”

He thinks before he speaks - one of your favorite things about him. “Because for the last five years, I hated myself for leaving you behind. And I wondered every day if you hated me for it, too.”

You sit in silence, feeling frozen. Yoongi lets you - Yoongi waits. Is he admitting regret? Does that mean he’d do it differently, given the chance?

Because here you are - being given the chance, in a way.

“I was never mad at you for going,” you tell him, because you know he needs to know. Yoongi doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, which means he really did wonder if you hated him. You don’t owe him much, but you figure you owe him this truth. Then you admit, “But I was mad at myself for… letting you. Did you… I mean, should I have argued? When you left?”

You’d always wondered. What would have happened if you’d fought just a little harder for him to stay?

He scoots a little closer, tugging the blanket closer to his knees, thinking about your question. “I think part of me had hoped you would… but it wouldn’t have changed my mind,” he tells you honestly.  “Just would’ve made it hurt more. The way things happened, I could lie and tell myself you were fine with letting me go.”

You exhale on a note of indignation. “Fine? That was you. You were so… okay with walking away.”

He shakes his head. He must have taken the bun out when he went to bed, and his hair swishes around his shoulders, loose and beautiful. “I wasn’t okay. I didn’t go a single day and not wonder… how you were. I didn’t go a single day sure that I made the right choice.”

You feel, weirdly, kind of pissed. “What am I supposed to do with that, Yoongi? Seriously?”

He opens his mouth to answer this rhetorical question, but you don’t let him. The words pour out of you, unleashed after five years of being held back.

“This is just… unfair. Because normally, in the movies, when you get this moment - the post-mortem - with someone from your past… they always ask why, right? Why’d you leave? But I don’t need to ask why - I know the why, I understood why. I want to know… I want to know if you regret it. If you’d take it back.”

“That’s two different questions,” he says solemnly, “with two different answers.”

You cut your eyes at him. It’s the middle of the night and your brain is mostly mush. You need him to just be forthcoming, just say things plainly.

He knows.

“Of course I regret it,” he whispers finally, as if the words hold too much weight to utter any louder. “I regretted it while I was still saying it. I hated being away from you, I hated not talking to you, I hated not knowing how you were or what you were doing or if you… still cared about me at all.” He pauses, inhales slowly, rubs a hand down his tired face, then exhales with a whoosh. “But would I take it back? I don’t know.”

You exhale, eyeing the ceiling. Who’s the one just saying shit now? God. “You can’t just say things like that, Yoongi,” you tell him, eyes trained on the shitty, popcorn ceiling above you.

He says your name, still so soft, so quiet. 

“What?”

“Don’t cry.”

It’s so stupid. You hadn’t cried then, not in front of him. You wipe hastily under your eyes. “Sorry,” you say hastily, trying to save face. “It’s the lack of sleep.”

“I’m not sure I would take it back,” he repeats carefully, and you realize he hadn’t been done before - you’d interrupted his thought, “because when I left… I knew the whole time that it didn’t make anything better. But if I hadn’t… I think I’d still be wondering if I should, if we’d be better apart. I wouldn’t know, so the question would still be hanging over me.”

You think he’s saying something without saying it, but it’s like four in the morning and you just aren’t sure. 

“But now?” you prod. 

He shrugs, like it’s so simple. “Now I know the answer.”

You want to shake him. You’ve never had a conversation go in circles like this in your life, and you need to get to the center of it. “Yoongi,” you say, your voice tight like a warning. 

He knows.

He always knows. He cuts to the chase. “I have a job lined up in the city.” 

You almost drop your water bottle. “My city?”

“Your city.”

“Yoongi,” you say again, pleading. “Just say what you mean.” Please.

He smiles your favorite of his smiles - only one half of his mouth lifts at first, cocky, until it spreads the rest of the way and shows his gums in all their glory. “Just thinking about that whole list of reasons we shouldn’t be together… null and void now, don’t you think?” 

You feel like you can’t breathe. You’ve both been circling it like predators, and now you’re closing in. 

“So what does that mean? For you?” Do you dare to ask it? You do. “For us?”

Someone else, you think, would probably have asked you, what do you want it to mean?

But it’s Yoongi - and Yoongi knows the answer already. 

He’s pushing the blanket off of his legs - and yours - and coming to hover over you. Your body responds, laying back against the pillow you’d been sleeping on, making room for him like it remembers exactly how you fit. Your fingers find his jaw like they’re magnetically drawn, your thumb sliding against his cheek. 

His hair falls around your faces like a curtain, blocking out the dim lamplight, as his mouth finds yours. 

Kissing him again is everything. It’s absolutely everything. He’s home, he’s wilderness, he’s calm, he’s the whole damn storm, he’s undoing every seam you have, he’s stitching you back together, he’s beautiful beautiful beautiful.

His lips are soft but sure against yours, his jaw moving under the press of your fingers. You feel like you’re flying, falling, maybe both, as your eyelids flutter. He’s bracing himself with his hands on either side of you, holding himself over you. You were resting your free hand against his side, his ribs like piano keys beneath your palm, and you find yourself bunching his shirt into your fist, trying to pull yourself up, closer, closer.

You have to will yourself not to babble against his mouth, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. You could say it six hundred times and it still wouldn’t get it all out of you. You pour it into the kiss instead, straining up to meet him, beating words away from your mouth as you toy with his bottom lip. 

He drops his lower body carefully, pinning your hips beneath his own, shifting to hold himself up on elbows instead of hands. The weight of him is welcome; something needs to keep you tethered to this planet. 

He licks into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours, and you inhale sharply against his mouth. 

“Yoongi,” you murmur against his lips, and he turns his head to kiss your palm where it’s been resting against his face. There’s something so tender about it that tears spring to your eyes, and you blink them away quickly. 

Then he’s leaning down to capture your mouth again, humming a low, happy note against you. You go for the hem of his shirt, pulling until it gets tangled against his armpits. He sits back on his haunches, helping you pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Your eyes trace him, over and over, trying to remember every shade and every line, trying to find every difference from five years ago. He’s beautiful, flushing dark across the chest, eyes positively predatory in their focus on you.

“You, too,” he says, sounding a little breathless, and you scoot back and sit up. He goes for your hem before you can, tugging it up and over your head. The cold air assaults you and you shiver. Yoongi makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl in appreciation, lowering himself over you again. His kiss is insistent this time, one hand coming up to cup a breast, fingers deftly rolling your nipple, sending electricity skittering down your spine. You whine, deep in your throat, and you feel his lips quirk into a smile. 

“Would you kick my ass if I said ‘I’ve missed your tits’ right now?” he asks, chest quaking as he tries to rein in laughter. 

“Yes,” you grumble, reaching to weave your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug him back so you can kiss him again, and he lets out a quiet, breathy moan as you do. 

“Okay,” he says, in between kisses, “but I did.” Then he puts his money where his mouth is - or maybe vice-versa - to prove it, lowering his head and taking the other nipple in his mouth, flicking it lightly with his tongue. Your whole body reacts, feet stretching, back arching to push against his body, fingers tightening in his hair as you moan out loud. Each little motion of his mouth ignites sparks that reach every part of you - the pit of your stomach, the base of your spine, clear down to your toes. 

It’s honestly embarrassing how turned on you get as he continues, working one side until you’re writhing beneath him, thighs rubbing together desperately, then switching to continue his onslaught on the other side. 

“Yoongi,” you gasp, and some absent part of your brain is aware that his name is the only coherent word you’ve said in a while. “Please, you’re torturing me.”

He releases you with a wet pop, grinning up at you deviously. “So pretty when you beg like that,” he remarks, like he’s observing the weather - which is still a fucking blizzard, by the way. Then he’s coming up to kiss you again, deep and slow this time. His hand slides along your bare stomach, around and under your back, and you arch your back partly to make room for his arm underneath you, and partly because you can’t not, as his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

“Please, what?” he murmurs, lips close to your neck, his fingers tracing the edge of the shorts you’re wearing - his shorts. “What do you want?”

“Anything - whatever you’ll give me,” you manage. All you can focus on is his fingers, their circular path along your lower stomach, toying with your waistband. 

It must be the right answer, because he slips his hand into your shorts, fingers pressing along your slit, your underwear clinging to you already. He slides his fingers along the slickened fabric, eyes on your face, listening to the tiny moans that escape when you exhale. 

He shifts to his side, between you and the back of the couch, and you loop an arm around his neck - half to hold yourself up on the couch, and half because you need to be holding him. You can feel how hard he is now, as his body presses against your legs. He distracts you with a kiss, and slips your panties aside, wasting no time in sheathing his middle finger up to the last knuckle.

You hiss his name, your head lolling back against the couch in pleasure, your neck bared to him. He gives it a quick nip and then a kiss as he adds a second finger, pumping in and out of you slowly. You groan, the sound rumbling from your chest. You could let him do this all night if you had the patience - just this simple act feels so good you think you might come undone.

And if you remember anything about sex with Yoongi, he’s just getting started.

He slips his fingers out of you and brings them up to your clit, circling once, then twice, before going back to where he started, the pad of his middle finger circling your entrance, careful to stay just outside. 

Your whole body turns to jelly, everything quivering from head to toe at the sensation. You grip the couch with both hands, digging your fingers in. “Ohhh my god,” you manage, something accusatory in your tone, like you’re asking him how the fuck are you doing that? 

He smiles against you, middle finger still running in lazy circles through the wetness collecting there. “That’s right, I know what you like,” he murmurs, smug, his lips tickling your neck, before plunging both fingers back into your heat without warning. He repeats the cycle - in, out, up, down, around, around, in again - until you’re dizzy from it, your fingers clutching the fabric of the couch so hard that you’re sure you’ll rip it.

You have one single moment of clarity that sends you reaching down to where you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, but he shifts away, tutting.

“You first,” he says. “I want to see you make that face you make. It’s been literal years.”

“Oh my god,” you say, feeling yourself flush. “Yoongi! Seriously?”

He laughs, shoulders shaking. “What? I love to watch you lose your shit. What a fucking ego boost.” He punctuates these words with a quick change of wrist direction, suddenly pistoning against your front wall in a way that has your comeback melting right out of your brain.

He’d had you close before, and the sudden switch-up does the trick - you feel everything tighten from your shoulders to your toes, your eyes screwing shut. Yoongi shifts his weight to hold your leg in place so you can’t try to close them on him and redoubles his efforts, humming in pleasure as you squeeze around his fingers like a vice.

You let out a series of wordless cries as the pleasure builds to the point you want to shy away from it, and then Yoongi presses his thumb to your clit just so and you’re spiraling over the edge, your ears filled with a buzzing white noise, your toes curling, your desperate hands leaving the couch and clutching Yoongi instead, trusting him to guide you to the other side.

When you come down, heart hammering in your chest, you bat his hand away, breaths heaving.

“Take those off,” you pant, tugging on the bit of his pants you can reach, and shimmying your own bottoms the rest of the way off and dumping them onto the floor. 

“Bossy,” Yoongi remarks, smirking sideways at you as he obeys. 

You resituate yourself against the arm of the couch as he comes to kneel near your feet, stroking himself languidly. You both freeze with the same thought at the same time.

“Do I…” he says hesitantly, “do you want me to wear -?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, mind racing for an answer. You’re tempted to just tell him it’s fine, because surely having a how many people have you been with in the five years since we broke up conversation will absolutely kill the mood right now. But that’s not really safe.

“Maybe you’d better?” you venture. “Have you -? I mean, we don’t need to talk about this right now. But I haven’t been with anyone without… you know.”

“Same here, and I got tested after… the last one. Just in case,” he admits, eyes on yours, and the moment feels heavy. Do you trust Yoongi to tell you the truth?

Of course you do. 

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” you tell him. “No pressure.”

“You’re still on -?” he checks, and you nod.

“In that case,” he says, and leans over you to kiss you again. You can feel him, rubbing along the messy slickness, and it occurs to you that you haven’t even touched him yet. 

You whine, twisting your shoulders to try and reach him with a hand, but he’s too impatient, lining himself up and starting to sink into you. You groan at the stretch - it’s been a while since your last fling - but the sound that tears through Yoongi’s throat is more like a growl, guttural and animalistic.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growls through gritted teeth, as he slowly rocks into you until he bottoms out, his hips tight against yours.

He’s everywhere - caging you in, hovering above you, holding you down, filling you up. He’s everywhere, and he feels both so familiar it makes you want to cry again, and also - somehow - brand-fucking-new, like you’ve never felt him before. 

You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch, as he sets a slow but even pace, letting you adjust. 

“God,” you gasp when he hits a spot just right. His head had been hanging above you, his eyes watching the place where he disappeared inside you, all that long hair loose, but he smirks up at you at this.

“Good,” he coos, and picks up the pace, hips smacking yours, filling the room with the lewd sounds of skin on skin, his grunts and your whines. 

You’re gasping a little at each stroke, that tight feeling bubbling at the pit of your stomach growing stronger with each thrust. “God,” you growl, fingertips pressing into his shoulder blade as you hang on for dear life. “Yoongi, fuck!”

He slows on purpose, straightening up, forcing you to release your hold on his back. He grins at you, that shit-eating, one-sided grin, and then grabs your ankles, maneuvering them both to rest against his right shoulder. He leans forward against your legs and hammers into you, breathing hard, and you swear to god you see stars for a second.

“Ohmygod, yes, there,” you gasp, hands going to the backs of your own thighs to help alleviate the stretch. You need to start doing yoga or something.

The build-up is slower this time, the feeling pulsing through you in waves that strengthen and ebb again. Yoongi can tell when it’s real by the change in your voice - wordless whines rising in pitch, by the arch of your back, by the way you clamp around him so hard that he almost loses it right there.

“Yeah?” he asks, the word more like a gasp for air. “Close?”

“Please,” you beg, the sensation of pure light racing up your legs to your toes, the pulsing starting slow and determined in your core. 

“I’ve got you,” he promises, brows furrowed with concentration as he works to keep a steady pace. He grips one of your ankles and switches it to his other shoulder, creating space to reach down and rub gentle figure-eights around your clit. 

The wave takes you over, and there’s a long moment where you’re completely devoid of your senses - no sight, no sound, nothing but how tight tight tight everything has gone, too tight to even breathe - and then it breaks and you can hear yourself wailing, eyes shut against the onslaught of sensations. You clench around Yoongi hard, the aftershocks rolling through you, so hard that he hisses and drops his forehead to yours, his pace slowing significantly as he fucks you through it.

You go boneless as it leaves you, and Yoongi pushes all the way inside you and stills, pressing his lips to your temple.

“You good?” he murmurs, so sweet for someone who just had you experiencing the multiverse. 

“Mhm,” you manage to respond, so spent and tired that you can barely form the word.

“C’mere,” he grunts, slipping out of you, and he grips the back of your neck, hauling you upright and falling backwards in the same motion, pulling you over top of him. You loop your arms around his neck, feeling floaty, and he wraps his around your middle. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, his breath loud next to your ear.

“Can you keep going?” he checks. “I know you’re tired. I’m almost there, I promise.”

“M’good,” you assure him against his collarbone, and he gives you one quick squeeze before reaching down to adjust himself. He pushes in and you cry out, the sound muffled as you press your face into him. You’re so sensitive now, the sensation is entirely different. 

“You can take it,” he whispers, sliding a hand down your spine. Then, with a grunt of “shit,” he grabs you and jackhammers up into you, his fingers furrowing into the meat of your ass, so tight you think you’ll have five little bruises on each side when this is over.

You feel so close to him - your cheek presses up against his, your arms wrapped tight around him, his hands securing you in place, his heart beating wildly against yours where your chests press together. 

You gasp for breath into the crook of his neck, holding on for dear life, just trying to take what he gives you. You can hear his breathing change as he gets close, his pace quickening but his thrusts starting to come less evenly, his grip on your ass tightening just a bit further as he pulls your hips down to meet his every few thrusts. 

“Is inside okay?” he asks, the words sounding like they’re torn from him. 

“Yes,” you tell him, but it comes out more like a moan.

“God,” he grunts in response to this, and the word tears, ending on a strangled moan as he empties himself deep inside you. 

You lay there, gasping for breath, for a long minute. Then Yoongi gives you an affectionate pat on the ass, indicating that it’s safe to move.

“Go get in the shower,” he suggests. “I’ll grab you a towel and meet you in there.”

“I don’t know if I can get there,” you say, joking, but your legs feel like jelly. You grab your phone and make your way, wobbly, through the living room and into his bedroom.

You hadn’t come in here before. It’s clean, but sparse. It’s devoid of anything that makes it feel homey. It’s devoid of anything that makes it feel like Yoongi.

You keep going, padding through his room and towards the attached bathroom, fumbling for the lightswitch. You place your phone next to the sink and fiddle with the shower’s knobs until you get a steady stream of hot water going. 

It feels heavenly to step under the hot water, your aching muscles relaxing in the steam. But it feels even better when Yoongi wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his lips to the side of your neck.

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

“Hi,” you giggle. You might still be riding a little bit of a post-orgasm high.

You both rinse off in silence, and then Yoongi places his hand on the knob, looking at you to make sure you’re ready to get out. You nod, but he hesitates.

“Will you sleep with me?” he asks, a little unsure, leagues different from the cocky man you’d been tangled up with mere minutes before. “Don’t go back to the couch.”

You give him a soft smile, and he turns off the water, reaching for the towels hanging just outside.

“Of course I will,” you tell him before wrapping yourself up in the soft, gray terry-cloth. 

You crawl into his bed once you’re dry, and he joins you after making a quick pass through the living room to turn the lights back off and gather up the clothes you’d both tossed around. When he clicks off his bedside lamp and rolls to face you, you feel a fluttering of nerves in your stomach. 

You’re not sure where you go from here. 

You lay facing each other in the darkness; it’s just too dark to really see much, but you can tell he’s looking at you. 

You’re laying there, letting your thoughts spool around you, the what-if’s and what-now’s laying themselves out in your mind, when you realize you’ve reached out without meaning to, your fingers tangling in his long hair, rolling strands between them. You keep playing with it, cautiously, practically holding your breath, waiting to see if he objects.

Instead, you feel him relax under your hand, letting out a long breath. “That feels nice,” he admits, voice breathy with almost-sleep and barely audible.

You fall asleep without any answers, with your fingers curled up in Yoongi’s hair. 

You wake up to a warm body behind you, not quite touching. You shift your cold toes a little closer to the warmth you find, smiling when you hear him whine about it. The light outside is white, that abnormal shade of light that comes from sunlight bouncing off of snow and ice. You’re about to close your eyes again when you realize that the warm body behind you isn’t sleeping, because you can hear the incriminating clicking and clacking of a keyboard.

“Are you seriously working right now?” you ask him, rolling a little to look at him over your shoulder. He peers back at you guiltily, his glasses low on his nose, fingers frozen in the air above the keys. 

“I just wanted to answer a few -”

“It’s Christmas morning!” you scold. 

“I’m aware of that,” he answers dryly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Turn it off, Yoongi. It’s Christmas and you are in bed with someone. My God.”

He shoots you a defensive look, but finishes whatever he was doing and clicks the laptop closed, leaning over to place it on his nightstand.

“You haven’t changed at all,” you say, a little fondly, sitting up a little next to him.

“Neither have you,” he says pointedly. It’s less fond when he says it. 

You consider this. “You want to know something stupid?” you ask. Yoongi doesn’t answer out loud, just meets your eyes and waits. “You’re right. I haven’t changed. I think… I think I’ve been afraid to.”

He turns to face you, sensing how serious you are about this. “What do you mean?” he presses. 

You stop to think, the way you learned to after spending years watching him, knowing he did this better than you. “I guess… some little part of me always wondered what would happen if we crossed paths again. If I changed too much… what if I stopped being someone you’d want? What if I became someone so different that your heart didn’t know mine anymore?” 

It sounds so corny coming out of your mouth, but the truth behind it is so heavy you can’t hold it up anymore. It was a fear you’d secretly harbored for half a decade - what if fate put Yoongi in your life again, and he still didn’t want you? 

And Yoongi does what he’s always done - hears you, understands you, answers you in your own language.

“Impossible,” he says softly, leaning closer to you, eyes combing your face. His voice is like a layer of snow, smooth and clear, full of something unnamable. Or maybe you don’t want to name it. You turn your head, as if that will get you further away. “That’s impossible. My heart will always know yours.”

You look at your hands, feeling a little choked up. Your heart stutters and jumps in your chest. The question you’re holding back churns in a little ball behind your ribs. 

“Hey,” he says, softly but intently. You manage to look up at him. “Let’s make breakfast?” He says it like a question.

“Yeah,” you say, able to speak again. “That sounds good.”

Yoongi lends you sweatpants, since it’s too chilly to roam around the house in basketball shorts, and busies himself in the kitchen while you get changed. When you finally join him, he’s plated something for each of you, and he pushes a glass of iced coffee towards you.

You can’t help but smile. “You remember,” you accuse, and he avoids your eyes, cheeks flushing. 

“You get a girl ninety-thousand iced coffees, it stays with you,” he defends.

“Ninety-thousand,” you scoff, but you’re pleased. As you eat, you look out the kitchen window. It’s bright outside, but it’s still snowing - tiny, wispy flakes floating leisurely down to join you. The road clearly hasn’t been plowed yet; the snow outside is untouched, unbothered, a perfect sheet of white. You can’t even tell where the road is, except for the mailbox poking up out of the feet of snow on the ground already.

Yoongi follows your gaze. “Looks like you’re trapped here for a while,” he observes. 

“A shame,” you deadpan, and he kicks at you playfully beneath the table.

“Well,” he says, thinking out loud, “since you won’t let me get any work done… do you want to put on a movie?”

“A Christmas movie?” you ask, perking up. 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting a little smile. “I guess that’d make sense,” he agrees. 

He leads you back to the couch, which you eye sideways, remembering clearly what this couch witnessed about three hours ago. Yoongi seems unphased, slouching sideways against some pillows and looking at you expectantly. You join him gingerly, leaning against him, and he drapes a blanket over your legs.

“Pick something,” he asks, passing you the remote - another old Yoongi trick that you remember well.

You take the offered remote, clicking through the holiday options for something that you don’t think will make Yoongi gag. As you scroll, brows furrowed in concentration, he clears his throat beside you.

“So, uh,” he says, and you stop scrolling, because he sounds nervous. “Next weekend I’m supposed to go look at some apartments. Do you… would you want to keep me company?”

You look at him, eyes wide, the remote forgotten in your hand, still aloft and pointed at the tv. 

“Why?” you whisper once you find your voice. 

He shrugs, wets his lips. “You know the city well,” he says. “You can offer your brilliant opinions - tell me if the neighborhood’s okay… if there’s good take-away… where the transit stops are, that kind of shit.”

“Hm,” you say, a little tightly.

He shoots you a sheepish grin. “I’ll take you to dinner after?”

You give him a look. “Say what you mean, Yoongi.”

He purses his lips a little, disgruntled at being called out. Then, busted, he sighs and tries again. “Can I take you to dinner next weekend? Preferably in the city, and preferably after you help me make some choices about my living situation?”

You grin, unable to hold it back. “Yeah,” you say, trying hard to fight back the smile, to play it even a little bit cool. “Yeah, I’d really like that.” Trying to save your dignity, you turn back to the tv and go back to scrolling until you find a movie that seems like it’s not too over-the-top. 

Yoongi reaches an arm around your shoulders, and this time you settle against him comfortably. You can feel him breathing beneath you, can smell that Yoongi smell - clean and alluring, can hear the shouts of some neighborhood kids running around outside. From the tv, tinkling bells and happy strings play a medley of Christmas songs as the opening credits run. 

Part of you is already thinking about when the roads are plowed and you have to go home, shower off the scent of him, update your best friend about all of this, miss Yoongi in a much more real way than you’ve had to in about three years. But at least you have the promise that you’ll see him again next weekend. You close your eyes, content, happy to just be right now. 

Yoongi feels it too, obviously. He gives your shoulders a squeeze, looks down at you fondly, and murmurs, “You know what? All this holly, jolly shit isn’t so bad.”

“God bless us, every one,” you deadpan. “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

He grins at you, gums showing, and you smile back before leaning your head against his chest as on the TV a little girl watches out her window for signs of Santa.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!! My full masterlist can be found here :)

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