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athenakyle · 2 years ago

Text

This was super sweet with just the right dollop of angst to top off the delicious smut! (Also the description of pouty Tae was absolute perfection!)

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 :)

#fic rec: yoongi #fic genre: smut #fic genre: angst #fic genre: fluff #fic au: exs to lovers

3K notes · View notes

athenakyle · 2 years ago

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OMG, I just... there are.... what?! This was so so so so so good! The action, the wit, the angst, the comedy?! All top tier!

Afterburner

All Jungkook's ever wanted to do is fly, and he's damned good at it. Then you turn up, and get under his skin.

Genre: Fighter pilot! JK AU, smut

Word count: 8k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Sex, swearing, fighter pilots, plane crashes

Wing Commander Jeon Jungkook has done all the calculations he needs to land safely, even on a moving target. He casts a glance at his controls, but he’s not looking at individual displays, just making sure nothing’s red or alarming. His arm is stretched, instinctively locked, and he allows it to relax, allows the throttle to move forward.

Jungkook’s clocked in close to a thousand flight hours in the F-35, more than any other pilot in his squadron, but he’s never taken any of it for granted. He takes his hand off the throttle just long enough to lower the landing gear and flaps.

Now or never.

Jungkook executes an almost perfect vertical landing on the tarmac of the Destroyer with his eyes closed because frankly if anything went wrong right now it would be beyond his control.

He opens his eyes, thanks whoever’s looking out for him and climbs out of the cockpit. There’s no time for the adrenaline to ebb, because as soon as his feet touch solid ground on water, he sees a familiar blond head.

He’s too far away to make out his expression, but there’s only one man on this ship with blond hair, and Jungkook’s known Jimin long enough to tell by the way his shoulders are squared that he��s tense, angry.

Jimin’s level-headed normally, he didn’t come by his callsign Durumi by chance. He’s always been slow to anger, able to maintain his perspective, capable of finding a peaceful way forward in almost any conflict. His cool head under pressure makes him valuable in battle, not that they ever engage in dogfights these days.

After knowing him for over a decade, Jungkook can count the number of times he’s seen Jimin angry on one hand. He’s started forward, recognising a bad situation when he sees it, when the fight starts.

It’s quick, merciless and brutal in its efficiency. Jimin darts away, ducks the first blow from the taller man he’s been facing off with, and lands a beautifully timed swing to the other man’s jaw, knocking him out cold.

The man, who Jungkook now recognises as Lee Hyeok, a new transplant from the now defunct 492nd squadron, crumples to the floor, and for the first time, Jungkook sees you.

He knows of you, even if he’s never officially met you. There aren’t that many women around, not in this job, and there hadn’t been any women in his squadron before the merger with 492.

His first impression of you is of blankness. If watching the two men fight had any impact on you whatsoever, it doesn’t show in your smooth expression.

Jungkook doesn’t trust what he can’t see. And he sure as fuck doesn’t trust you, given what’s just happened.

‘What the hell, Jimin?’ he asks, voice tense, one eye on the fallen pilot sprawled on the deck.

Jimin’s gaze flicks to yours, and you both start speaking at the same time.

Jungkook holds up a hand. ‘This is going to be an investigation, you know that,’ he says, to Jimin more than you.

‘There’s nothing to investigate,’ says Lee Hyeok. He gets up, unsteady but recovering rapidly. He fixes Jungkook with a steady gaze. ‘I fell.’

Jungkook hardens his stare. ‘I saw him —‘

Unexpectedly, you step forward. ‘It was my fault,’ you say, quietly, convincingly.

Jimin’s trying to step in front of you.

Jungkook throws his hands up, exasperated.

‘If this happens again I’m reporting all three of you,’ Jungkook says.

Wisely, all three of you fall silent.

‘Go and get checked out in the infirmary,’ Jungkook orders.

Jimin grabs your arm as you try to move away. ‘You need to get checked out too,’ he says, firmly.

Jungkook can’t see any visible injuries on you, unlike Jimin’s swollen hand and Hyeok’s bruised jaw.

‘I’m fine,’ you say, but you go along with them anyway.

Jungkook watches you walk away, with a sense of foreboding. He’d known the merger of 492nd and his own wouldn’t be smooth, but he wonders what the hell that had been about.

***

The next morning, Jungkook wakes to an ache in his neck from years of straining against g-forces and an erection that he takes care of in the shower. It’s been a while since he last got laid, he’s just come off a mission in the South.

He casts a cursory glance in the mirror as he gets dressed in his regs. His hair’s getting longer, starting to wave in a way it doesn’t when he’s on top of getting it cut regularly.

He’s going to need to stop by the barber later this morning.

The truth is, though, that Jungkook doesn’t think about the way he looks much. At least not in the way women seem to view him. He’d never thought twice about his eyes until an ex had snapped at him to ��stop making those goddamn doe eyes’ at her. He’s always been athletic, the defined abs and shoulders he’s had since high school have only got more prominent since he started training more, eating well. He’d never really thought about his thighs until another ex had seemed to get off on how they felt under her.

So although he’s never had to make an effort to find a woman willing to sleep with him, Jungkook’s never been the type of guy to take advantage.

Jungkook’s always wanted to fly, and everything else has always, always, only ever been a means to that.

He laces his boots, right before left, and heads for the canteen. He picks up a tray, looks for somewhere to sit, really scanning for Jimin or Namjoon or Yoongi. He doesn’t see any of his friends, but he does see you.

You’re sitting alone by the window, conspicuous in your solitariness. Jungkook finds his feet taking him over to you, an instinct he doesn’t understand but he learned long ago to trust his gut.

You look up as he puts his tray down and takes the seat opposite you. You nod a greeting and carry on eating like you don’t intend to say anything to him.

Jungkook watches as you gulp your coffee.

‘You know, if you’re eating quicker to finish your meal and get away from me, you don’t have to,’ he tells you.

You put your empty cup down.

‘I can move,’ he offers.

‘It’s nothing like that, Commander Jeon,’ you say. Your face is expressionless, blank as usual. ‘I’m thinking about the day ahead.’

Jungkook spoons his porridge. ‘I didn’t mean to presume,’ he says. ‘Did the docs clear you for duty?’

There’s the barest flicker across your face as you reply. ‘I’ve been cleared. Jimin and Hyeok are off for a week.’

‘Want to tell me what happened?’ he asks.

Your eyes study his face, and if Jungkook didn’t already know you were holding back he’d have worked it out by the emotions he can see in your eyes.

Then you blink, and sit back.

‘I have nothing to say, Commander,’ you say.

You’ve decided not to trust him, and Jungkook’s irritated about it, enough that there’s an edge to his voice as he says, ‘there’s a flight exercise at 1200 hours. We’re going up in the F-15.’

You nod, and pick up your tray. ‘I’ll be there, Commander.’

Jungkook looks down at his now lukewarm porridge after you walk away. Somehow he’s lost his appetite.

***

It’s a beautiful day for flying. Jungkook’s cued up first, waiting for the go ahead from the control tower, that familiar electricity coursing through his veins. No matter how many times he suits up, it never gets old.

He flicks the engine switch, hand on the throttle, feet braced on the rudder pedals. He goes through the steps, 0 to 175 in under two minutes and then he’s off, positive rate of climb.

He can see in his helmet-mounted cueing system that everything’s as it should be. He evens out at fifty thousand feet, and checks his colour display to see you taking up wingman alongside him.

Your cool voice sounds in his in-ears, sounding like you’re in his head.

‘All good, Hawk?’

Jungkook knows that, as far as callsigns go, he’s fortunate to have been named ‘Hawk’, unlike Namjoon’s ‘Snoopy’ or Taehyung’s ‘Baby G’, but he’s never seen himself as a ‘hawk’. He much prefers Jimin’s ‘Durumi’.

He realises he doesn’t know your callsign.

‘It’s ‘Kokinchan’,’ you say, like you can hear the question he hasn’t voiced. ‘Like in Anpanman.’

The disgruntlement in your voice doesn’t stop the smile across Jungkook’s face, and he’s grateful you can’t see it.

‘Ok, Kokinchan. Ready to fly?’

By the time Jungkook lands on the tarmac, he’s learned two things about you. One, you’re a pretty steady, reliable wingman and two — totally unrelated to flying….

Your voice sounds incredible in his ear.

Initially, he’d thought you were a blank, difficult to read. Listening to you during the flight, he’d been able to pick up all your emotions in your voice. The lilt in your words as you’d executed a manoeuvre perfectly in sync with him, the hitch in your breathing as you’d taken in the glorious terrain. The last breathy gasp you’d let out before you’d landed, a release after the silent concentration that had preceeded it, had sent blood shooting to his cock.

Jungkook’s glad he’s still got his g-suit on to keep blood streaming to appropriate places in his body.

You clamber out of the cockpit, all legs, fizzing over with excitement, and catch up to him by the locker rooms.

Because he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, he sees the moment your dizzy expression smooths over into your usual deadpan face.

You haven’t quite managed to curb the emotion in your voice, though, and Jungkook has the uncharacteristic urge to pull you under his arm and squeeze you when you say, ‘incredible,’ voice vibrating.

Jungkook starts unzipping his g-suit to give himself something to do. Behind him, he can hear you rustling, getting changed yourself.

You spend time unlacing your boots, placing them carefully in your locker.

Jungkook’s amused by your persnicketiness, a stark contrast to the piles of boots scattered throughout the locker room.

He says, meaning it as a joke, ‘I don’t think anyone else wears your size.’

In his squadron, Jimin’s not a lot taller than you but his feet are definitely bigger than yours.

You don’t look his way. ‘I don’t want to share with a bunch of stinky male feet,’ you reply.

Jungkook’s so attuned to your voice by now he picks up a guardedness that he hasn’t heard since he met you that first time.

You don’t give him time to think about it.

When you turn to him, your expression is fractionally warmer than your customary blankness. ‘See you at lunch, Commander.’

***

He doesn’t see you at lunch. In fact, the next time Jungkook sees you, you’re wearing a short dress and leaning back against the bar in the nice restaurant in town.

He says your real name, and you give him a smile so pained he thinks for a second it isn’t you.

Then you say his name back.

‘I’m hiding,’ you say by way of explanation, manoeuvring yourself so that he’s between you and the rest of the room.

‘Need a wingman?’ Jungkook offers, for lack of anything better to say. You’re leaning forward, head close to his, and from this vantage point he can see down the low neck of your dress.

He forces his eyes back to your face. Thankfully you haven’t noticed his lapse.

You look morose. ‘I wish I had Snoopy to aim a laser at him,’ you reply. You brighten. ‘Maybe you could shoot him down.’

Jungkook’s only mildly concerned, he’s seen you being merciless in training exercises and he’s pretty sure you can look after yourself.

‘I don’t know why I bother to date,’ you sigh.

Then you seem to notice how smartly dressed he is. ‘Shit, sorry, are you meeting someone?’

‘She cancelled,’ Jungkook explains. ‘I have a table. I was looking forward to the wagyu.’

‘She’s a fool to cancel on you, look at you,’ you say, loyally.

‘Where’s your date?’ Jungkook asks.

‘I excused myself to use the ladies,’ you say, face falling as you remember your predicament. ‘He was explaining how the F-18 weapons systems work.’

‘He knows you fly them, doesn’t he?’ Jungkook asks, incredulous.

You roll your eyes. ‘Some men.’

You shrug. ‘I should fly one over his house,’ you say, despondent. ‘We haven’t even ordered and I’m looking forward to leaving.’

There’s an unfamiliar male voice over Jungkook’s shoulder.

‘There you are,’ says a good-looking, tall guy, smiling at you.

Jungkook’s always been quick on his feet.

He turns to face the guy. ‘Honey,’ he says, voice exasperated. ‘I thought we weren’t doing this anymore.’

You blink up at him, so quick he has whiplash. ‘Baby, he’s cute, you said —-‘

‘I’m sorry,’ Jungkook says to the guy, acting embarrassed. ‘We’re in an open marriage but well, we agreed to —-‘

You slide smoothly up to him, hand hooking into the crook of his arm like you’ve done it a million times before. ‘But daddy —-‘

Jungkook stares you down sternly. ‘We said no more pickups unless we talk about it beforehand. And where’s your wedding ring?’

You pout up at him. ‘Daddy I can’t pick up guys with a wedding ring on.’

Jungkook sighs, turning back to your unfortunate date. ‘Sorry, man. We need to talk —-‘

The guy’s already backing away, hands up. ‘I had no idea,’ he says to Jungkook. ‘That she was married.’

Jungkook waves him away and turns back to you.

‘Daddy?’ he asks, under his breath. ‘Do I seem like a daddy to you?’

‘He’s out the door,’ you report, gracing him with a smile so bright he can’t help but smile back. ‘Do you still have your table? I like wagyu too.’

‘You’re buying, Kokinchan,’ Jungkook grumbles.

‘I’ll even spring for dessert,’ you promise.

***

The steak’s as buttery and delicious as Jungkook had expected, going down easy with the wine you’d ordered with a careless gesture at the wine list.

You’re concentrating on your steak, humming as you enjoy it, and Jungkook likes watching you.

‘Why Kokinchan?’ he asks.

You narrow your eyes at him, skin gleaming in the candlelight. ‘I made Minseok cry once. And I cried too.’

‘What happened?’

‘Dropped the weight I was holding on his balls.’ You grimace. ‘He cried and I felt so bad I cried too, running him to the infirmary.’

‘On purpose?’

There’s a shadow across your expression. ‘Hyeok thought it’d be funny to sneak up on me and grab my ass. Minseok was a bystander.’

Jungkook’s got the sense there’s more to the story you’re not telling him.

You shrug and change the subject.

‘So how come your date ditched you?’ you ask. ‘Apart from that she’s an idiot, of course.’

‘Of course,’ agrees Jungkook, smiling crookedly at you.

It’s his turn to shrug. ‘Maybe she turned up and didn’t like the look of me.’

You scoff. ‘Please, you look great. That shade of blue suits you. Better than khaki and black, anyway. I didn’t know you had a lip ring.’

Jungkook’s trying to keep up. ‘I like wearing black.’

‘We wear black all the time,’ you reply. You gesture to the silvery dress you have on. ‘It’s nice to wear something else.’

Jungkook’s trying to think of something to say when you say, quickly. ‘I’m not fishing for a compliment. Just to clarify.’

‘I wasn’t going to give you one,’ he says, honestly.

You laugh. ‘Shit. Thanks, I guess.’

You lift your wine and clink glasses with him.

‘Cheers, Hawk. What do you want for dessert?’

***

Jungkook pays the taxi driver and is wondering if he should offer you his jacket when he realises you’re already halfway to the block of living quarters.

‘Wait up,’ he calls.

You wave a graceful arm at him without turning around. ‘I don’t put out on a first date, not even for a man who can fire a cannon.’

Jungkook stops, torn between amusement and exasperation.

‘I just wanted to say thanks for dinner,’ he says.

You turn, and he realises you’re more off-balance than he originally thought.

‘How drunk are you?’ he wonders out loud.

You tip your head to one side, counting.

Jungkook stares at you, brow furrowed.

‘Three,’ you say, decisive. ‘There are three of you.’

You shake your head. ‘No, four.’

‘Need help getting into your flat?’ Jungkook asks, rolling his eyes.

You frown at him, offended. ‘Of course not. See you at training tomorrow, Commander.’

You give him a tipsy salute and turn away.

Jungkook waits until you’re safely inside the building anyway.

***

Jungkook looks up as you slide into your seat in the briefing room. You’re technically right on time, but everyone else arrived ten minutes early.

You give him a tentative smile that he doesn’t have time to return.

Colonel Park, a decorated veteran and director of the fighter pilot programme, clears his throat and begins.

Jungkook already knows about this upcoming mission, as leader of the 490th squadron, he’s been pre-briefed.

On the surface, it’s simple enough. The mission only needs four pilots, two to make a drop and two to create a diversion and cover the drop.

Jimin, back from medical leave and none the worse for wear, nods his way.

After the brief he comes up to Jungkook.

‘Flip for it?’ he says, that familiar shit-eating grin on his face as Jungkook rolls his eyes.

Jungkook’s the most decorated pilot in the squadron but Jimin’s a close second.

Jungkook shrugs.

Jimin produces a coin and flips it onto his palm.

‘Heads,’ Jungkook calls.

It’s tails.

‘Great. I’ll make the drop, you provide the distraction. Also, you get Kokinchan,’ Jimin says.

‘Shit, did they just flip for us?’ Taehyung asks, nudging you, pretending to be offended.

You shrug. ‘All you boys look the same in my afterburner,’ you say, to a chorus of whoops from Jimin and Taehyung.

Jungkook catches your gaze. ‘If your trash talk’s as good as your flying, Kokinchan, we’ve got this,’ he says, easy.

‘My flying’s even better, Hawk, it’s your lucky day.’

Jungkook laughs and follows you to the locker rooms to suit up.

***

You’re tight on Jungkook’s tail, keeping up with him even though the terrain’s unfamiliar to you both.

He pulls his nose up. There’s a SMARD missile a few hundred meters away that he’s intentionally going to fly within radar detection range of, and then he’s relying on his own flying and your flares to evade.

He’s activating his mic to speak when your voice sounds in his in-ears.

‘Flares are ready when you are, Hawk.’

‘Glad you’re paying attention, baby.’

‘Maybe I’ll let them burn your ass for that.’

‘Sorry, Kokinchan. If it helps, I once called Durumi, baby. He’s never let me live it down.’

‘Durumi’s kind of a baby though, I see it.’

Jungkook laughs.

‘Let’s go, Kokinchan.’

He adjusts his position, heading straight for the target.

He’s just entered the detection zone when his in-ears crackle with the voice of Hyemi from control.

Jungkook has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

‘Hawk, there’s a bandit, due North.’

It’s one thing to evade a SMARD, it’s another to evade a SMARD with a bandit, a hostile plane on you.

You’re already descending, trying to get out of range on the off-chance that Jungkook hasn’t triggered the SMARD.

He admires your optimism but he’s a realist.

Your voice is steady in his in-ears. ‘Ready to drop, Hawk.’

Jungkook says, terse, ‘Stay on me.’

He sees smoke, pulls back on the throttle, hard, to ascend, and you drop your flares like you’ve rehearsed it.

Your timing’s impeccable.

The SMARD zips past Jungkook just as you say, ‘don’t think he just wants to say ‘hi’’.

The bandit’s approaching too fast, right in your flight path.

He can hear you shouting, but he can’t make out any actual words apart from ‘motherfucker’, clear as day, as you fire your cannon.

The bandit implodes in front of them, a ball of burning shrapnel.

Then ‘ah shit, Hawk, I’m an engine down.’

Jungkook’s reassured by the tone of your voice, calm despite the fact you’re two octaves higher in pitch than you normally are.

‘Hey,’ he says, going for levity because you need to detach yourself from what’s just happened before the adrenaline overwhelms you. ‘Is that why they call you Kokinchan?’

‘Why?’ you ask, playing along, grasping at the hope of a punchline that you can actually laugh at to release some of the tension.

‘Because of that squeaky voice,’ he says.

His stupid joke doesn’t warrant the full-bodied laugh you let out, but Jungkook likes hearing it all the same.

‘You know what they really call you, Hawk?’

‘What?’ Jungkook asks, watching you carefully as you head back to base.

‘The boba-eyed fuckboi.’

‘Shut up, no one calls me that.’

You both laugh.

Then, soft in his in-ears. ‘I can make it back with one engine right?’

‘Yeah,’ he says immediately, wanting to reassure you. ‘Just don’t break the other one.’

‘Yeah. See you on the ground, Hawk.’

‘I’ll be in your afterburner, Kokinchan.’

The last thing he hears before you land is your soft laughter.

He’s reminded again of how much he likes the way you sound.

***

Jungkook climbs out of his cockpit, looking around for you.

He finds you hunched over a bin next to the hangar, eyes watering, hand on your stomach.

Wordlessly, he hands you his water.

You flick your eyes at him as you accept and take a big swig, wiping your mouth.

Jungkook leans against the wall next to you, head back, not wanting you to feel like he’s intruding. The setting sun warms the skin on his face and neck.

When he opens his eyes, you’re looking at him.

The ends of your hair are on fire, backlit by the sunset.

You’re beautiful.

‘I’ve —‘ you stop, swallow. ‘I’ve never killed someone before, Hawk.’

Jungkook knows what you’re really asking. He’s taken down two fighters in combat because he had to. It’d taken him a while to feel normal again.

He’s not sure he even still knows what normal is.

‘You think about it less over time,’ he says carefully, wanting to reassure you but not wanting to give you unrealistic expectations.

You’re looking at him intently, searching his face.

Jungkook lets you look, stays still, gazing back at you steadily, unflinching, until you find whatever it is you’re looking for.

You both seem to realise how close you’re standing to each other at the same time.

You take a step back because he can’t, pressed with his back against the wall.

‘Hey, let’s get a beer,’ he says.

‘You buying?’ you ask, reverting to your default spiky personality.

Jungkook has the urge to hug you, to tell you that you don’t have to put up your spikes with him, that he’ll toe whatever boundaries you put in front of him.

Instead he says, ‘yeah. I’ll even spring for dinner, Kokinchan.’

Back at the locker room you drop your boots next to his. ‘I think I dropped my locker keys,’ you say, frowning.

Jungkook says, gently, ‘you don’t have to worry about me stealing your boots.’

Again, he gets the odd sense that he’s missing something when he sees your expression.

All you say is, ‘I’d like Italian for dinner please, Hawk.’

Jungkook’s ready to buy you whatever you want to eat.

***

The restaurant’s busy for a Thursday but Jungkook gets you in, no problem. He doesn’t even have to use his ‘boba eyes’ although he’s sure that’s not a thing.

You’re smiling at him, open and so pretty he’s wondering how inappropriate it would be to kiss you, when your eyes focus on something behind him.

The guarded, carefully blank expression that drops across your face reminds him of curtains being drawn, of shutters being snapped shut.

‘Hyeok,’ you say tightly, and Jungkook doesn’t have to know you well, at all, to hear the tension in your voice.

Your shoulders are around your ears.

Jungkook feels tense himself as Hyeok and Sungcheol, another pilot from 492nd, stop by the table.

‘Hey, Kokinchan,’ Hyeok says.

The words are harmless enough, but Jungkook doesn’t like the way he sounds. He especially doesn’t like the way he looks at you.

Hyeok nods to Jungkook. ‘Commander.’

‘Heard you took down an F-15 today,’ Hyeok says.

‘What’s your point?’ you ask, voice low, barely veiled hostility in your eyes.

Jungkook wants to tell you he’s got you but you’re not even looking at him.

‘Is that what it takes to get the Commander to buy you dinner?’ Hyeok asks.

The insinuation is clear.

‘Why don’t you try it and let me know?’ you ask.

There’s a taunting, defiant note in your voice that Jungkook can’t help but admire.

He stands. ‘If you’ll excuse us, I promised Kokinchan dinner for saving our asses earlier,’ he says firmly, indicating they should move on.

When he sits back down you’re quiet until he says, ‘hey.’

The look you give him is very different from how you’d been until now. He’s reminded of that first time he sat across from you at breakfast, how you’d finished your scalding hot coffee in record time in your haste to move.

‘Why are fighter pilots such assholes,’ you mutter.

‘I don’t know. A baseline disrespect for authority or anyone who tells us ‘no’? A deluded sense of god-like power from cheating death repeatedly?’

You’re looking at him again, and Jungkook’s not going to let you hide back in your shell.

‘You and I are still the same, Kokinchan, and today we’ve earned these carbs. Eat up.’

‘I didn’t know you’d ever met a carb,’ you say, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips now.

‘Thank you for noticing,’ Jungkook says, flexing.

The smile on your face is brief, only lasting the gap between bites, but it’s enough for Jungkook.

By the time dessert comes round Jungkook’s gently teasing you, revelling in your embarrassment as he reminds you about the choice swear words you shouted into his in-ears during the mission.

‘You’re one to talk,’ you say. ‘You sound really breathy when you’re gaining altitude.’

Jungkook raises a brow.

‘It’s practically pornographic,’ you continue.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. ‘Please, Durumi is more pornographic than me. You should hear him when he’s pushing g’s.’

‘Oh my god, Baby G’s the worst,’ you say, but there’s affection in your voice.

‘That’s because his voice is sexy as a baseline,’ Jungkook points out.

‘Yeah, we used to share a flat before I got fed up with hearing all his sex talk,’ you say.

‘He does seem like the kind of guy who’d talk a lot during sex,’ Jungkook agrees.

‘Just noises are fine for me thanks, throw in a couple of oh baby’s and I’m good,’ you say, lightly.

Jungkook realises you’ve made it all the way to your door.

You say, ‘thanks for dinner, Hawk,’ but you don’t move, standing with your back pressed against the door.

Jungkook feels like he’s not ready to say goodbye, but he’s not going to push you into anything.

‘It does get better,’ he tells you.

You smile. ‘The aftermath of taking down another pilot or Baby G’s sex talk? Because Taehyung only gets worse, I can tell you.’

You’re joking of course, deflecting again.

Jungkook can feel your eyes on his face.

He leans forward a little, putting his weight on the closed door, giving you time to move if you want to.

Instead you stay put, face tilted to his.

There’s no reason to be standing like this apart from that he very badly wants to kiss you.

‘Hawk,’ you breathe. You’re reaching up, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to his cheek.

‘Thanks for dinner.’

Jungkook smiles at you. ‘Anytime, Kokinchan.’

You smile at him again, then turn and let yourself into your apartment.

Jungkook’s left with a vague tightness in his pants and a sense that this thing with you could be something good if you let it.

***

Jungkook wakes the next morning thinking of you.

His hand brushes his erect cock, fingers tightening around himself.

He pumps his fist once, the memory of your pretty lips on his cheek making his dick harden even more.

He’s no virgin but the thought of getting to see you in the pale lace lingerie he’d glimpsed that night he’d run into you at that restaurant and accidentally looked down the low neck of your top makes him keep moving his fist.

Shit. Is he really doing this?

Even as he ponders the morality of it his hands are moving, uncapping the lube he keeps under his mattress like he’s some teenager and not a full grown adult who changes his own sheets.

Jungkook groans at the slide, dick hardening even more as he remembers how firm your breasts felt against his chest when you kissed him.

Fuck, you’d kissed him! With those lips he’s been a little too respectful to imagine around his cock.

God, you’d smelled so good.

He’s gasping now, hand moving faster, other hand cupping his balls.

He thinks of the breathy gasp you’d let out when you landed the F-15, the way your voice sounds when you say ‘fuck’ and he’s gone.

As he’s cleaning up he wonders, a little guiltily, whether he’ll be able to look you in the face at breakfast.

***

As it turns out, he doesn’t see you at breakfast.

He’s picking up his gear from the locker room, when he notices that your boots have moved from where they were next to his.

He frowns. It takes him a while to spot them, longer to realise why they look odd.

Your laces have been cut, all the way across the middle, laid open, useless.

He picks them up, heads for the mess lounge.

Stops in front of the stupid bulletin board no one ever looks at, including him.

There’s a picture of you, but not as he’s ever seen you before.

It’s your face, certainly, pretty and smiling, stuck onto a printout of a naked female body.

It’s glaring, crude, invasive.

Jungkook stares at it incredulously, startles guiltily when he hears your voice.

You tear it off the bulletin board, crumpling it in your fist.

‘I’d chuck it in the trash but there’s no guarantee someone wouldn’t just lift it out and put it up again,’ you say, voice carefully, cautiously flat.

You nod to the boots in his hand.

‘I have a new set of laces, I always have a spare pair with me,’ you say.

Jungkook lets you take the boots from him.

He finds his voice.

‘Has this happened before, Y/N?’

You wince at the sound of your real name instead of your callsign.

You shrug.

‘I don’t have anything to say about it, Commander.’

Like you, Jungkook blinks at the sting of his title instead of the more familiar ‘Hawk’ he’d got accustomed to you calling him.

‘Kokinchan,’ he says, willing you to trust him.

You’re looking above his head, through him instead of at him.

‘I can help. If someone in the squadron is doing all this I can help make it stop,’ Jungkook says.

You’re looking at him now, eyes softening.

‘It’s a society that enables this kind of hateful misogyny that has to change, Hawk, not you.’

There’s a sadness to your smile that punches him in the chest.

You turn, back straight, and leave the room as he’s trying to think of something to say.

***

You’re sitting with Jimin at dinner when Jungkook turns up.

‘You ok?’ Jungkook asks. He hasn’t seen you since the lounge, he’d had to go to another brief.

Your expression is difficult to read.

‘I’m good, Hawk. Heard you got called in by Colonel Park.’

Jimin’s looking at him expectantly, so Jungkook allows the change of subject.

‘We’ve got another job to do,’ he says, reluctantly. ‘We’ll get a full brief tomorrow but it’s another drop.’

‘Who’s going?’ Jimin asks.

‘We need six,’ Jungkook says, ‘and two alternates.’

He looks at you.

‘You’re flying with Skua.’

Skua is Hyeok’s callsign.

‘Fuck that. I’ll fly with Skua,’ Jimin says, instantly, vehement. ‘You can’t put Kokinchan in with that asshole.’

You’re looking at Jungkook, expression blank. It’s only the tenseness in your shoulders that gives any sign that any of this affects you.

‘I’m guessing you and Durumi are up front, and me and Skua and Baby G and Snoopy are wingmen?’

Jungkook says, ‘if you and Skua have a problem you need to let me know.’

He’s open to changing things around, hell, he’ll lie through his teeth if there’s any genuine risk from pairing you with Skua.

He’ll get you the hell out if you ask.

Instead you say, ‘there’s no problem, Hawk.’

‘That asshole —-‘ Jimin starts indignantly.

You put your hand on his arm. ‘Durumi, I can’t fly if I can’t work in a team with everyone,’ you say.

‘Swap me out with Baby G, he can fly lead and Snoopy and Skua can pair up. I’ll fly with Kokinchan,’ Jimin says to Jungkook.

You say, so lightly Jungkook’s almost fooled, ‘you’re too good to fly wing, Jimin. Also, come on, me and Skua have flown together before.’

Jimin argues, ‘before he tried to grab your ass? Before he tried to pull your top down? Before the hundredth time he cut your laces? Before he left that obscene picture of you on the billboard?’

Jungkook’s stunned. ‘It was Hyeok who did all that?’

You say, very firmly, ‘I can’t prove that he cut my laces or printed that picture.’

You put your hand on Jimin’s arm again. ‘Jimin, if I made a formal complaint, you know I’d be grounded whilst an investigation took place.’

Jungkook says, ‘you wouldn’t be grounded—‘

He breaks off at the look you give him.

‘He’s never done anything whilst we’ve been flying,’ you point out. ‘He wants to fly just as much as I do, as we all do.’

You’re pushing away from the dinner table, lifting your tray.

‘It’ll be fine, Hawk,’ you say. You put your hand on Jimin’s shoulder, and, reluctantly, he puts his hand over yours.

‘I’m gonna get some downtime before tomorrow,’ you say.

You’re walking away like there’s nothing left to say.

***

You’re almost late again, sliding in the seat next to Jungkook at the brief the next morning with barely thirty seconds to spare.

He glances at you.

Your hair is pulled back, the collar of your jumpsuit folded neatly.

You’re crisp, clean, and you give him a smile so detached he wants to shake you.

The brief is quick, it’s a route you’ve all flown before, and you’ve been training together for weeks now.

Jungkook’s getting changed into his g-suit when he realises you’re not in the locker room with the rest of the team.

He’s about to go looking for you, when you emerge from the single shower cubicle, fully suited up.

‘Thanks, Durumi,’ you say quietly.

Jimin’s been getting changed himself outside the cubicle door whilst you got changed inside, blocking any access to you.

Jimin replies, ‘no problem, Kokinchan. Laces all good?’

Jungkook looks at your feet and realises you’ve swapped out your regulation black laces for bright orange.

‘They’re great,’ you say, beaming at him. ‘Aren’t they, Hawk?’

‘You’ll be visible from space in those,’ teases Jungkook.

You’re looking around as you reach the runway.

Jungkook says, cautiously, ‘Skua got swapped out.’

You glance at him, surprised. ‘What happened?’

‘Baby G’s taking the lead on this one.’

You’re listening, waiting for him to continue.

‘I’m flying with you,’ Jungkook says.

You raise an eyebrow warily. ‘What’s behind this, Hawk?’

Jungkook says, ‘Colonel Park felt Baby G needed a push to step up.’

You’re not letting him off the hook that easily. ‘Did you suggest it to him?’

‘Yeah,’ Jungkook confesses. He says, carefully, ‘I spoke to Hyeok.’

You’re quiet, guarded. ‘What did he say?’

Jungkook’s got no desire to go over the comments Hyeok had made about you.

‘He didn’t help himself,’ Jungkook says, finally.

You’ve reached the F-18. You climb into the front seat.

From where he’s sat in the back Jungkook can’t see your face clearly.

You connect your helmet, turn on your mic.

‘I don’t know whether it’s worse to have someone be contemptuous of you or to feel sorry for you,’ you say.

Jungkook’s scrambling for something to say, but you’re not waiting for him to speak anyway, nodding to your tech.

You give the signal, the canopy comes down and then you’re going through your checks, flipping switches, checking your status with control.

Then you’re speeding down the runway, burning your way into the horizon.

***

Jungkook’s concentrating, focusing in on your target as you navigate the terrain.

You’re fast, confident, and Jungkook likes your style.

For making a drop though, your speed means his window for firing is limited if you’re to have any hope of hitting your target.

Neither of you can afford to mess up the timing.

Up ahead, Baby G and Durumi are blazing through, and Snoopy’s timed the first drop beautifully.

You descend smoothly, and Jungkook’s knows he’s timed it perfectly when the target implodes.

You’ve already got the throttle pulled back, hissing through your teeth at the g-forces holding you down, fighting through it.

Then you’re gliding, evening out.

You sigh shakily, and Jungkook, on autopilot, checks his peripherals.

There’s smoke.

‘Shit.’

‘What is it Hawk?’ you ask, instantly on guard.

Jungkook knows you’re a good pilot, but in this moment he sure as hell wishes he was in the driving seat.

‘It’s an MD45,’ he says, clear, calm.

You’re quiet a moment.

An MD45 is tech beyond your own military capabilities, a missile that’s reportedly impossible to evade.

Two of your own were taken out by an MD45 last month.

You say, ‘well shit.’

Jungkook’s thinking of your squadron in front of you and the terrain up ahead.

‘How do you feel about flying into the side of a mountain, Kokinchan?’

‘At this speed, our time to die is five seconds, if that, Commander,’ you say. To your credit, your voice is steady, neutral, as you process his words.

‘Have you ejected before?’ Jungkook asks.

‘I usually wait for a third date before I let a guy eject on me,’ you say.

Jungkook’s bark of laughter surprises you both.

‘I guess we’re going to second base. Don’t worry baby, I’ll make it good for you.’

He can see the craggy rock of the side of the mountain coming up fast.

It takes four seconds from pulling the ejection handle to being ejected.

The speed you’re going, it’ll be ten seconds to impact.

A time to die of ten seconds.

‘Canopy the fuck up, Hawk,’ you say, turning the plane.

He can see you reaching down between your legs, pulling up the ejection handle.

Four.

A beat of total stillness.

Three.

The canopy slides back, bringing with it a rush of wind.

Two.

Jungkook can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart, can’t see anything but the back of your helmet, the way your shoulders are squared.

One.

Jungkook closes his eyes as he’s shot into the sky.

Below him, there’s the sense of tremendous impact as the F-15 flies straight into the mountain, followed by the MD45.

Jungkook’s chute unfolds, a ceiling of cream protecting him from the sky.

He wonders where you are.

***

When he opens his eyes, there’s a swirling blue sky above him, clouds floating across his field of view.

He’s on his back. He can move all his limbs.

Jungkook unclips his harness and rolls out of his landing gear.

He sits up, slowly, taking stock of his injuries. Apart from an almighty crick in his neck and grazes on both his knees, he’s unharmed.

Now he’s looking for you, squinting against the sun.

There’s a spill of cream a hundred feet away, so much parachute he can’t even see you.

He approaches, lifting the parachute, looking for you amidst the folds of fabric.

There’s a flash of neon orange laces, a booted foot, and Jungkook drops to his knees as he tugs the material off you.

Your arms are strapped in, a safety mechanism in your flight jacket. It looks like you landed on your back. You’re still out cold.

He touches your face.

‘Kokinchan.’

He can hear the panic in his voice. He doesn’t sound like himself.

Fair enough. He doesn’t feel like himself.

He’s checking you over for injuries when he hears your voice.

‘Fuck,’ you say, peeking down at him. ‘Thank fuck you swapped out with Skua.’

Jungkook’s leaning over you, close to your face.

Your smile makes him feel like he can breathe again.

Apparently you feel the same.

‘Hey, Hawk,’ you say, pulling him down to you. ‘Can we go to third base now?’

Jungkook’s lips are already pressed to your skin, next to your mouth.

You turn your head the slightest fraction, and your lips meet.

The adrenaline washes out of his veins, replaced by a sweet, singing pleasure as he kisses you.

Your hands grab fistfuls of his g-suit, tight, as you part your lips and take him in.

‘Fuck, Hawk, fuck,’ you murmur, breathless, warm, gasping as he leaves your lips to kiss around to your ear, down your neck.

Jungkook reaches for the zipper down your front only to realise you’ve beaten him to it.

He tries for his own zipper, realises you’ve beaten him to that too.

‘Let me help, Kokinchan,’ he says. He means it to sound teasing but it comes out urgent, breathy.

‘Don’t make me wait, Hawk,’ you reply.

Jungkook’s tugging down your undersuit, revealing pink lace, so pretty he wonders if the fall affected his vision.

He splays his hand over your panties, dizzy, elated, verging on drunken wonder.

‘Are you always this pretty?’ he wonders. ‘All this under that stupid flight suit?’

He’s rubbing his thumb over your cunt, and the way you whimper and roll up into his hand makes him realise how hard he’s getting.

You cup his face. ‘I need you, Hawk,’ you plead.

‘I’m here,’ he says, pulling his own suit down, pushing his undersuit down just enough.

Then he’s on top of you, pushing into you, trying not to come as you take all of him inside you and wrap your arms around him like you’re afraid he’ll leave.

Jungkook can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

He can’t think.

So he moves, because if nothing else he knows how to do this, even when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere and you’ve just crashed a fucking plane into a fucking mountain and almost fucking died in the process.

He knows how to do this, knows how to please you.

He moves, holds on long enough to hear you crying out his name as you come, holds on long enough to reach his own pleasure.

Then you’re sobbing, tears on his neck as he holds you, and then, fuck all this shit, Jungkook’s crying too.

***

Jungkook’s amused to know you tuck a credit card in one of your breast pockets whenever you fly, for the express purpose of if you ever got stranded anywhere.

He’s grateful when your credit card gets you a hire car.

He’s laughing when you discover he also carries his wallet and ID whenever he flies but didn’t bother to tell you, enjoying how goshdarned cute you were when you waved your credit card at him triumphantly.

Jungkook volunteers to drive, and you badger him until he stops at a gas station for snacks.

It’s not badgering, even though you seem to think it is. He likes it.

Now you’re in the passenger seat, reclined all the way back, looking up through the sunroof, singing along to digital radio, getting all the words wrong.

When he joins in you stop and stare at him.

‘What?’ he asks, self-conscious.

‘You have a pretty voice, Hawk,’ you tell him.

It’s not the first time he’s heard it, but he likes hearing it from you.

You put your hand on his arm, tracing along his skin.

You’re both stripped down to your regs, plain t-shirts and pants, your helmets and g-suits, your survival kits in the backseat.

You keep looking over at him, oohing and aahing over his tattoos.

Jungkook holds out as long as he can, but when the sun starts to set and you’re still looking at him like you can’t stop he pulls the car over and makes love to you in the backseat.

It’s all new still, a little awkward but Jungkook doesn’t care because he’s already decided he wants to learn all of you.

He wants to know you, to treasure you.

You’re sat up, holding on to his shoulders, bodies sated but still pressed against each other.

‘Hawk,’ you say, nudging under his chin with your nose.

Jungkook opens his eyes. ‘You’re insatiable, Kokinchan.’

‘It’s not that, you idiot,’ you say, although you’re giggling at him. ‘Can I drive?’

‘The last time you drove us, we flew into the side of a mountain and cost the government just over a mil,’ Jungkook points out.

‘You told me to!’ you say, indignant.

Jungkook kisses your sweaty cheek, twice because he wanted more after the first one.

You turn your head to kiss him full on the lips, slip him some tongue.

Jungkook reaches up to pull you closer, but you’re already pulling away, pulling up those lacy panties, covering up your pretty ass that Jungkook would look at until he went blind if you let him.

‘I want more,’ Jungkook tells you.

You pause with your hands on your pants button. ‘Me too, Hawk.’

‘I’m not –’

He waits until you look at him again.

‘I don’t just mean sex,’ Jungkook says.

You turn to face him. There’s a hesitant note in your voice.

‘I put in a transfer request yesterday,’ you say. Your eyes search his face. ‘I’ve requested a move to 489th, under Min Yoongi.’

Jungkook’s surprised. ‘Were you going to tell me?’

‘Right after the mission,’ you say, instantly, so convincing he doesn’t doubt your honesty.

‘It’s just easier,’ you continue. ‘I’ve worked with him before. There’s another woman in his squadron. There’s no Skua.’

Jungkook’s still looking at you.

‘I don’t have to worry about the man I’m dating being put in a difficult position.’

Jungkook’s so busy thinking about your words it takes him a while to realise what you’ve said.

‘I don’t just want to date you,’ he says, finally.

Your smile is so bright he kisses you again.

‘We should take it slow,’ you say, but there’s a mischievous sparkle in your eyes.

Jungkook asks, ‘When have you or I ever done that?’

‘There’s a first time for everything,’ you say.

Jungkook reaches out and grabs your hand as you’re climbing out to get into the driver’s seat.

‘We can go as slow as you want, Kokinchan.’

***

Jungkook hovers above the runway, having cut his speed to the point that he’s at a complete standstill in the air.

Like this, he can barely tell he’s flying.

A flick of a button and he’s into another vertical descent.

This time, it’s perfect. Even he can’t fault it.

He climbs out of the cockpit and steps down onto the runway tarmac.

He glances at his watch. He was meant to meet you for dinner tonight, he’s got enough time to pick you up some flowers before he meets you.

At first he thinks it’s a trick of the light, but when you start walking towards him he realises it really is you.

You’re so pretty in your dress, Jungkook stops in his tracks just to watch you.

You stop just in front of him, shorter than usual without your boots.

He has to lean down a little more to kiss you but he doesn’t mind.

You roll your eyes as he takes the opportunity to squeeze your ass under the pretense of lifting you up more to reach him.

‘Hawk,’ you chide.

‘Kokinchan,’ he teases, dragging out the syllables like you did with his callsign.

He keeps his arm around you as you walk towards the locker rooms together.

‘What do you want for dinner, Kokinchan?’

‘Can we have dessert first?’ you ask, feigning innocence, looking up at him through your lashes.

God, he loves the look of you.

‘Yeah,’ Jungkook agrees, readily. He leans down to kiss you again. ‘Anything you want.’

#fic rec: jeongguk #fic genre: smut #fic genre: angst #fic genre: fluff #fic genre: action

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