#sh fic

[wrotethisat12]

Alone part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: talk of sh (nicer), temptations to sh.

Please talk to someone if you feel like harming yourself. I really do care, please don’t read this if it will trigger you ❤️

Natasha left you alone.

Natasha left you alone with the blades.

You pulled yourself up from your curled-up position on the floor, grabbing the blades off the dresser. You stared, the heaviness of what you wanted to do crowding your brain.

should I..?

The box fell from your shaking hands, landing on the floor and popping open. The silver blades spilling out… landing so close to you.

You stepped back, but you would have rather stepped forwards. Come on, y/n. The blade…

-later-

“Nat?” You asked quietly, your voice squeaky as you stood in the doorway to the bedroom Natasha was staying in. “Can we talk? I- I’m really sorry.”

“yeah,” Natasha sighed, “let’s talk.” She patted the space beside her on the bed. you walked over and sat down there.

“I’m gonna be more honest from now on, okay?” You said, squeezing her hand. “We’ve had a lot of problems, but I think that if we both try, we can fix it.”

Natasha nodded. “I should’ve approached it differently, baby. I’m sorry.” She put her arms around you, and that was all it took. You launched yourself into her arms and started sobbing.

Once you calmed down, the two of you laid down on the bed, her arms around you.

“I’m really sorry for how i reacted. I know that it isn’t easy for you, and just trying is okay.”

“I really do wanna stop.” You said guiltily.

“okay. And I’ll help you, and I promise, I won’t get mad at you when you slip up.” She brought her thumb to your cheek and ran it all the way down to your chin.

You buried your face in her chest and she wrapped her arms around you. With Natasha your back while she felt you breathe, you knew that you would stay like that for a while.

And it was all fine again.

tagging: @natashaswife4125

[lotussokka]

final chapter of itsb just posted mood

[half-bakedboy]

rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife

A Malec Fic | Rated E | WIP

Magnus Bane finds himself reluctantly entangled in the affairs of the Downworlders–a family legacy immersed in black market organ trading. Though he never chose this path, he takes control where he can. Those choices happen to lead him directly into the arms–or bed–of Alexander Lightwood, heir to the Lightwood family's empire of illicit drug sales and money laundering. As their worlds collide, Magnus and Alec navigate this thrilling and risky connection they’ve formed, and together, they must face the inevitable repercussions of their inextricably linked futures.

Read Chapter One Here

[buffyspeak]

Prometheus, who stole fire

Summary: There's always a consequence for bringing someone back from the dead. The real question is this: who's the one paying for it? 

ao3 link

It’s eleven-twelve, which means it’s almost the worst moment of Clary’s life, suspended in the stifling Institute air, the smell of death and salt-lake brine taunting her.

Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.

“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.

Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.

“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”

“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.

They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.

Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”

She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.

If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.

As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.

So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.

The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.

What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.

Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.

Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.

Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.

They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.

When he dies on her for real.

Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.

Yup, still dead.

Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.

All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.

Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.

She leans her head back against the wood.

It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.

Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.

Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.

“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.

Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.

“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”

“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.

They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.

Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”

She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.

If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.

As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.

So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.

The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.

What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.

Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.

Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.

Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.

They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.

When he dies on her for real.

Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.

Yup, still dead.

Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.

All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.

Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.

She leans her head back against the wood.

It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.

Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.

[dunster]

Something about your writing style is so satisfying to read. And usually i don’t like jealousy fics, but this made me swoon a little bit! Thank you for sharing!!!

Sweet On You

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[1.6k] prompt: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

“Wait a minute,” Steve grinned at you, eyes soft, something burning behind them.

The music was blaring, the lights low and the steady throb of the base made your heart thump, your bones vibrate. The living room was packed, the whole house rammed with teenagers who were looking to drink cheap beer and make bad decisions.

The floor was sticky and the air smelled like tequila and weed but Steve was staring down at you, leaning against the wall looking too pretty.

You could see the twist in his lips, the realisation hidden there and it made you feel too warm, like the heat from the party was sticking to your skin.

“Are you jealous?”

Your lips parted.

————

You hadn’t meant to interrupt Steve’s conversation with the girl. An unfamiliar face with big curls and bright pink lips, pretty in an MTV type of way. You hadn’t expected the flare of jealousy to ignite in the pit of your stomach, something sparking new and angry when she placed a hand on his arm, laughing.

Your chest had twisted, your legs carrying you over to your best friend before you could understand what was happening. You tasted like cherry vodka, the leftover buzz of the joint you had shared with Eddie making your body feel lighter than normal.

Stubborn and filled with something a little wild, you had pushed your way through the crowd, elbows in ribs as people danced around you, oblivious to the stormy expression on your face.

You were vibrating, eyes set on Steve, your best fucking friend.

The alcohol made you bold, the weed made you touchy and you slipped between them, gaze barely registering Steve’s surprised expression as you pushed yourself up onto your toes, just tall enough to wrap your arms around his neck and press your face into the crook of it.

You were a little too drunk, body still buzzing, head a little fuzzy but you knew it didn’t take him long to reciprocate, arms winding around your waist and pulling you to him, chests flush, legs tangled. You felt Steve’s smile, pressed against your temple and he forgot all about the girl as his hand found your chin, fingers tucked underneath so he could tilt your face up to look at him.

His smile was light but his eyes were warm with concern as he looked down at you, gaze roaming over your features as if he was searching for the problem.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that you felt through his chest to your own. “You doin’ okay?”

Neither of you noticed the other girl huff and roll her eyes, walking away and disappearing back into the swaying crowd.

You nodded at him, smile soft and lazy and there was something inside you that was purring now that his attention was on you. His fingers were still under your chin and he thumbed at your bottom lip, affectionate and a little too flirty, the beer he’d chugged all night making him braver.

“You’re lookin’ a little spacey,'' he hummed, eyebrows raised in amusement when you giggled. “Who’d you get the weed from?”

“Eddie,” you mumbled, pressing your chin to his chest, looking up at him with big, bright eyes, his hand falling back to your waist. You watched him scan the crowd, finding the boy in question in the kitchen doorway, unlit joint stuck behind his ear, curls astray and hand raised to his forehead in a salute.

You couldn’t see, but Eddie raised his brows at Steve, wiggling them suggestively as he looked at the two of you. He winked, making Steve roll his eyes and hold onto you a little tighter.

“Alright,” Steve mused, comforted by the fact that Eddie was a trustworthy source. He’d watched the boy give you hits before, careful eyes on you at all times, knowing when to tell you you’d had enough, even when you were tequila drunk and argumentative.

“You wanna go home?” He asked, voice softer now, hand hot on your side, lazy in the way that it shucked up the edge of your shirt, thumb sliding over dip in your waist.

The way he said the word made you melt a little, ‘home’ as if it were a place for both of you. In a way it was, Steve’s six bedroom house sitting almost empty for most of the months, his parents out of town, travelling from meeting to meeting, choosing hotel rooms and six figure deals over their son.

But Steve chose you instead, putting fresh sheets in the biggest guest room, an extra toothbrush in its en-suite, ready for you to fall into drunk after parties, after too many lukewarm beers in Robin’s basement.

It only took a few months before you both realised that it was easier to put each other to bed if you slept together, two best friends who were just drunk enough, just high and lazy enough to fall into Steve’s room. You liked the way his sheets smelled like him, mint and something woodsy.

He loved the way you curled into him, sleep mussed and tongue stained blue from raspberry vodka, eager to lay yourself on his chest, to push your head under his chin and sleep.

You always woke up the next morning, legs bare, one of Steve’s shirts rucked up around your thighs, with the boy’s arm heavy across your face, his hand close to somewhere it shouldn’t be. There was always just enough alcohol in both of your systems for it to feel nice, natural, lazy and warm.

You revelled in the way he moved slow against you as he woke up, your body stretched out long beside his and he’d take the time to smooth your hair back from your eyes, both of you sleep messy and sore, pillow creases on your cheeks that wouldn’t disappear until noon.

So yeah, maybe it was home.

But as good as that sounded, you shook your head at Steve, not ready to leave your friends, the music, the thump of the bass that made your body buzz with something a little magic. Not yet.

Steve nodded, a little confusion in his eyes as he tried to work out your reason for interrupting but he brought a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, happy to have you against him.

“So, d’you just come over to use me as a pillow, huh?” His voice was teasing and light by your ear, but there was an accusation underneath it all that made you stiffen a little, body taught and suddenly you were pulling away, eyes anywhere but him.

He called your name, brow furrowed at your sudden mood change and he gazed at you, brown eyes roaming over your features as if he was looking for something that told him what he needed to know.

But then he stilled, eyes widening, jaw a little slack, like he’d found what he was looking for.

————

“What?” You finally managed to get out, and it ripped from your lip in a half laugh, half gasp.

“You heard me,” Steve said and it was low and warm, like there was a smile hidden there. “I asked if you were jealous.”

You wondered if the booze had made him bold, had given him this sudden confidence to ask his best friend such a thing. Maybe it was the dark, the low lights and shadows making him brave.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d known all along, you thought.

“Of her?” You asked, voice stuttering, words stalling, chest burning. You jabbed a thumb over your shoulder, in the general direction of the crowd. “Your little friend with the pink and the hair?”

You gestured vaguely to your own head, as if Steve didn’t catch onto what you were trying to convey. He laughed, a soft huffing sound that got mixed in with the music but you watched it fall from his lips and suddenly, you couldn’t take your eyes off of them.

You hated how sober you suddenly felt. The haziness from the alcohol and Eddie’s shared joint leaving your body and brain with every second Steve was staring at you. It was replaced with something electric, a live wire straight to your chest and it popped and crackled with something new and exciting. A sweetness swelled in your chest and it burst.

The boy nodded, smile smothered and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, uhuh, that one.”

The song changed then, the heavy bass melting into the walls and floorboards as something a little softer replaced it, throaty lyrics and a guitar that made your skin tingle. Maybe it was just the way Steve was looking at you.

“What if I am, Harrington?”

Steve blinked, jaw slack, lips pretty and parted in surprise. You felt like your face was painted with the same expression, hardly able to keep up with your own bravery and you wondered if there was something stronger in the joint Eddie gave you, if there was something else making you act up.

But Steve was reaching back out to you, hand extended, palm up and fingers reaching. He waited, patient and still as you looked at him, as if you were weighing up the options, as if you were wondering what would happen if you took his hand.

You looked up at him, gaze greedy, trying to find what you were looking for. You found it in his brown eyes, behind the charm and the spark, a glimmer of sincerity, of lovesick nervousness.

You reached out, slipping your hand into his.

“Well shit, let's go home and talk about it,” he whispered, voice a little tougher than before.

[meraki-yao]

hi! i have see you before reblog shadowhunters post. are you a tv show fan or you have also read the books/saga?

Oh damn, a shadowhunters ask! Hi!

The short answer is, both.

The long answer is a little more complicated: I was introduced to the show during the autumn of 2019 by my now best friend, who was obsessed with the show (she's been a Harry Shum Jr fan since she was a kid). By then the show was already completed.

After watching the show and becoming absolutely obsessed with Malec, I started reading the books selectively. For some reason, I'm not that interested in TMI? I tried reading City of Bones and it took me ages, literally until I used up my book-borrow quota from the library. However, I did finish TID (which I kinda feel like is the shadowhunter chronicles magnum opus so far?), the shadowhunter coder, the short story collections, and all the eldest curse. I still know about whatever context I'm missing from the show and wiki and references, but yeah. Bane Chronicles and The Red Scrolls of Magic are two of my favourite books of all time (the other one is RWRB lol I am so predictable), and Alec's thoughts in "The Land I Lost" inspired a speech I wrote and did for a city wide public speaking competition that I ended up getting 2nd place for!

Both have their flaws that frustrate me: the show certainly have plotlines or moments and lines that I don't agree with and as a Chinese who loves reading about mythology, including Chinese mythology, I had a lot of issues with the world-building of The Lost Book of the White, but either way, I understand both of their values, and they both are extremely dear to me. It really got me through COVID.

Also! I write for shadowhunters! I mainly write for the show, because for whatever reason I'm more comfortable reading and writing fics for the adaptation instead of the original source material? But if that interests you you can check that out here!

[k0mmari]

Locked & Loaded - Chapter 20: Childish War

Can't believe I've been writing this for almost a year now

[isjasz]

bubbling up definitelynottober - day 6

from god in pieces by @raichett that i read a day or so ago. hi this fic made me feel fucking sick /vpos (and when i read "bubbling up" i just. eyes widen. i can commit crimes with this)

[stvharrngton]

ruby…. i don’t know what to say i’m so obsessed with this i’m SOBBING,,,,!!

love as sweet as honey (and lover, i’m hungry)

a/n: u can read me for literal filth in this piece, i won’t even lie to u lmao. it’s disgustingly full of praise and petnames and steve’s biggest turn on is being told he’s loved <3 big ups to em (@familyvideostevie) for literally being the reason this got written at all & if u haven’t guessed by now, practically ever single idea i have is consulted by kenny <3 (@hawkinsindiana) also thank u steve stans for being my cheerleaders love u guys sm (@spideystevie​ @harringtonbf) & sanne too (@sanguineterrain​) bcos talking w you helped sm <3

word count: 6.9k hehe summary: One Sunday, filled with too many kisses to count and a sureness in your heart that you are entirely in love with Steve Harrington. You tell him him for the first time in a flurry of love and lust, tangled in his sheets. [established relationship + smut, praise, petnames, + first i love you + fem!reader] MINORS DNI this piece contains nsfw content and is intended for 18+ readers. 

It was often a question on your mind: How does one know when they’re in love?

For you, it was as easy as a Sunday. 

When you wake on this Sunday morning, it’s in Steve’s arms. You’re in his bed, intertwined beneath the sheets and warmed by more than just the sun that peeks through the gap in his curtains. The room glows golden. His warmth creeps under your skin and his love finds you even when he sleeps, still snoozing against the pillow when you drift into consciousness.

He’s beautiful. Soft brown curls that crumple against the pillow, long lashes that you know even the girls at Hawkins High were envious of, faint barely visible freckles that hide under his tan. He’s beautiful and he’s yours. It makes you giddy to even think that. 

Keep reading

[pedrospatch]

secondhand smoke l masterlist

DBF! Joel Miller x Female Reader

I’m afraid you’ve ruined my lungs.

summary: When your mother leaves your father, you make the heart-wrenching decision to drop out of college, forfeiting your dreams in the big city to move back home to the suburbs of Austin, Texas—your dad needs someone to look after him and you’re all he has left. When his demons slowly but surely become too much for you to handle on your own, you find comfort and safety in the arms of his former best friend, Joel Miller.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) for substance abuse. reader’s father is an alcoholic. AU. NO OUTBREAK. DBF!Joel (sort of?) HEFTY AGE GAP (reader is 21 and Joel is 50) reader’s parents are separated, toxic marriage and infidelity (reader’s parents), reader has MAJOR daddy issues and more milder mommy issues, child has to be the parent type of deal, Joel is widowed (car accident), Sarah is 18 and going off to college but will make some appearances. secret relationship, angst, smut. very soft, protective Joel. each individual chapter will be tagged appropriately. no use of y/n.

*MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY. NO MENTION OF READER’S RACE OR SKIN TONE.

one - welcome home

two - truce

three- rescue

*more chapters to be added

divider credit to @/saradika 💛

if you’re interested in updates, please follow @pedrospatchnotifs for notifications!

[wrotethisat12]

Alone

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x reader

warnings: fighting, caps, swearing, yelling, mentions of sh (cutting).

please don’t read this if it will make you cut <3. This was semi based at how badly I wanna yell at everybody I see-

my dms are always open <3

“Seriously? A blade, again?” Natasha stormed into your room, hair messed up, holding your… special box.

“Nat, I haven’t been using them, I- they’re just for in case-” you pleaded.

“Bullshit! We threw them out, you said you were done!” She slams the book onto your dresser when she says done, making you flinch.

“And I am! I’m not cutting, I swear!”

“I don’t believe that- I CANT to believe that! You’re a liar, you’re just like everybody else!” Her face is red from yelling, and she’s shaking.

“Nat,” you pleaded, tears running down your cheeks, “I’m not. Please, baby, you have to believe me.”

“Then show me.” Her aggressive tone faded and she stood there, waiting.

“I- I shouldn’t have to show you, you’re my girlfriend! You should believe me!” You said defensively.

“I can’t believe you, not until I see.”

“Nat, please, I’ve changed!”

“Show. Me.”

“FINE, I’M CUTTING AGAIN, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR?” You screamed.

“WHY?” She yelled back,

“BECAUSE I FUCKING NEED IT. BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE IT. BECAUSE I. CANT. DEAL.” Tears started running down your face, your fists balled up at your sides.

“THEN WHY DID YOU STOP? WHY DID YOU CHOOSE ME, IF YOU LOVE THE BLADE MORE?” She screams.

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE MADE ME CHOOSE! I’M A LIAR, NAT, YOU KNOW THAT!” Silence rings after your words, Natasha’s expression morphing into a shocked “o”.

She stumbles back, hurt flashing across her face. “I thought I knew you,” she whispers, “but I guess I didn’t.”

As soon as she left, you collapsed into sobs.

[moonstruckme]

I am clean from sh for about 6 months now (yay me) and lately, idk why, I’ve just kinda been struggling with accepting my scars and the fact that I’ll have them probably forever and your writing is really comforting and actually helps, so I wanted to ask if u could maybe write something with Spencer helping reader feel ok with having them on reader‘s thighs?

totally understand that that’s a touchy topic and if u don’t wanna write it, I also completely get it, thanks anyway for even reading this xxx

Ahh yay you!!! Congrats baby, and thank you for requesting <3

cw: past self harm, some nudity that's really not sexual but they joke about it a bit

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You’re sweltering. D.C. doesn’t usually get very warm, but for the last week you’ve been on a streak of record-breaking temperatures that’s made your clothes stick to your skin and has caused even your perpetually chilled boyfriend to refrain from putting on his cardigan until he gets inside his work each morning. Just walking between your car and various air conditioned buildings is enough to make you consider moving to the Arctic. 

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping inelegantly down on the bed to peel your jeans off. “Can we turn the A/C down to sixty, please?” 

“Let’s start with seventy,” Spencer negotiates. You hear his footsteps stop halfway down the hall as he adjusts the monitor. “I think we still have some lemonade left, if you want some.”

“Ugh, yes.” You tear your jeans off your ankles with enough force to nearly send them flying across the room and sigh blissfully as the A/C kicks on. 

You change out of your sweaty shirt too, going for your pajamas despite it being hours from darkness falling. You have no plans to go out into that hellscape again until tomorrow. You hesitate over a pair of pajama shorts before slipping on loose pants instead, not quite as cool but still light enough to allow some air flow. 

“I love you,” you tell Spencer when he passes you your lemonade as you come into the living room, sitting beside him on the couch. Ice clinks inside your glass, which is already forming little beads of condensation. You have the urge to rub it on your face. “I mean, unconditionally, but especially right now.” 

“I’ll take it,” he jokes back, tilting his head back so his face is in the path of the A/C vent. When he looks up, he finds you pinching up the fabric of your pants around your knees, trying to create a pathway for the air to move up your legs. “Why are you wearing those?”

You know what he’s asking you, and you intentionally misunderstand. “I felt like it was pajama time. No way am I going outside again today.” 

“Right, but aren’t you warm?” Spencer tilts his head. He looks like a particularly cunning puppy, brown eyes soft and inquisitive.

“A little,” you admit. 

“Then why not wear something shorter?” 

“That’s awfully forward of you.” You do your best to give him a smile. It doesn’t stick around long in the face of your boyfriend’s serious expression, increasingly worried. “Maybe I don’t feel like parading my legs around for you.” 

You can see the cogs turning in Spencer’s brain, and the usually fascinating process is suddenly almost painful to watch. You know he’s thinking of what you refusing to wear shorts used to mean, how nobody ever thought anything of it because, again, D.C. doesn’t tend to get very warm. How evasive you were about it then, too. An uncomfortable weight settles in your stomach. 

“Is there a reason you don’t want them out?” he asks, and his voice is gentle but his gaze is unflinching. 

You try to hold it as you shake your head. “I’m still clean.” The words seem to take more air than they should. Your guilt and embarrassment are enough to choke on. “I promise.” 

Spencer nods. “I believe you.” 

His eyes don’t so much as twitch down to your covered thighs. Relief like a cool breeze passes through you. It’s no small thing, his trust in you. Not after you’d gone so far out of your way to hide the evidence of your hurt from him before. 

“But it’s still related to that, isn’t it?” He lifts his glass, taking a sip before wiping the corner of his mouth. You almost smile, picturing your boyfriend in an interrogation room asking questions with this same gentle tone and wide open, curious expression. You don’t think Spencer could ever be harsh. 

“Yeah,” you say. What felt like something private and humiliating a minute before you suddenly want to share with him. Spencer tends to have that effect on you; he makes divulging your most gut-twisting secrets feel natural and easy. “My scars just haven’t gone away. I don’t really want to see them.” 

Spencer’s mouth pinches. “You know they won’t ever fully go away, right?” 

“Yeah.” You sigh, but it doesn’t feel like letting anything out. “I know.” 

“They will probably fade, though.” His fingers circle your ankle loosely, calluses skimming softly over your achilles tendon. “Is it that you don’t want to see them, or you don’t want me to?” 

You rub your lips together. Shrug. “Both, I guess.” 

He tilts his head. Like your answer is expected, but nonetheless perplexing. “I don’t care if I see them,” he says. His hand coasts up your leg, over the fabric of your pants, until he grasps it by your knee. “Can I?” 

You nod. You know he’d let it go if you said no, but it’s not worth begrudging him. “Sure.” 

Spencer brings both hands to the fabric at your hips, and you lift your bum up off the couch as he pulls downwards. Your legs are happy to breathe, the cool air coming out of the vent even nicer than you’d thought it would be. Spencer keeps going until your pajama pants are balled up underneath your feet. 

“You really were hot,” he says. It’s neither teasing nor gloating, a simple statement of fact. His fingers come to rest at your ankle again, and it’s the only kind of warmth you’ll allow. “Is it actually worth it?” 

You look down at your thighs. Your skin feels better than it had covered up, but it’s also a physical reminder of things you’d rather forget. “I don’t know,” you reply. 

“I understand why you don’t like them,” Spencer says. When you look up, you expect him to be as stuck on your scars as you are, but he’s looking at your face. His stare is calm and unmoving, like they don’t command his attention the way they do yours. “But I think they may be with you for a while. It might help to start trying to get used to them.” 

You blow out a breath. “I want to.” 

“I know,” he says. Easily, the way he’d said I believe you. And you think that he probably does know. Spencer has things from his past he can’t fully leave behind, too. 

His forefinger moves slowly up and down the back of your ankle, an absentminded gesture for him and a comfort for you. Slowly, his eyes dip down to your legs. You fight the urge to squirm and hide. 

“You know,” he muses, “there’s actually one thing I sort of like about seeing them.” 

Your top lip starts to curl automatically, your brows pulling together. “What?” 

“Just, that they’re old.” Spencer seems not to have noticed your reaction. His gaze is contemplative. “I mean, it’s not that I’m looking for them all the time or anything, but it’s nice to see them and know there aren’t going to be any new ones. These ones will fade, and then that will be it.” 

Something new clogs your throat. It’s just as heavy as before, but far kinder. 

Spencer looks up at you. He looks sheepish, the corner of his mouth uptilted self-consciously. “Sorry, it’s a weird line of thinking. I don’t want you to think I’m always checking on them.”

“No,” you swallow, “I get it. That’s nice, Spence.” 

He shrugs. “It’s the truth.” 

You could almost laugh. He makes things so simple. “I’ll change into shorts.” 

“You don’t have to,” he says. “If you’re already cooling off.” 

“Oh, yeah?” You keep your voice light, grinning at him as you shuffle over to straddle his lap. His fingers brush over a couple of the lines on your thigh as he brings them around your back, and the sensation doesn’t make you feel as shuddery as usual. You hug him with your arms around his neck. “You’re cool with me just staying like this then? No pants?” 

“Not if you don’t want to wear them,” he says agreeably. 

You laugh and hug him harder. “Thanks,” you tell him sincerely. 

Spencer only makes a soft dismissive sound as he hugs you back. 

[cam-stopped-eating-candles]

Mini comic largely based on a little fic I read that made my brain explode

[saddleups]

𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 .

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 2.8k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . drabble , complete. JAMES SUNDERLAND X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . fighting for dominance (?) . oral ( m and f receive ) . guys its rough . explicit dirty talk . sixty nine lol . p_rn w/o plot.

★ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 . . .  james  sunderland  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  you.  after  a  long  day  on  the  road  ,  he  suggests  stopping  at  a  rundown  ,  grimy  motel  for  the  night.  the  place  is  far  from  inviting  ,  but  james  is  determined.  its  here  ,  in  this  dirty  old  motel  that  you  finally  uncover  what's  been  lurking  in  that  charming  blonde  head  of  his.

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . i cheated and looked at the poll results earlier ... it gave me a head start considering 58% of y'all yearned for the motel lol . ngl , this is kind of a mess but i am feral.

The drive home had stretched out longer than either of you had expected. James was behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but you could feel the weight of his exhaustion in his posture. The soft hum of music played in the background as you found yourself studying his profile—the sharp slope of his nose, the strong cut of his jaw, a perfect combination that made his handsomeness almost unfair. It was hard to keep your attraction under control. Your body reacted without permission, a quiet tingling sensation awakening inside you, but you did your best to keep those feelings tucked away. After all, your poker face was never quite as convincing as James’.

He always seemed to keep his emotions locked up, held at arm’s length. Unless he directly told you what he was thinking, it was nearly impossible to read him. You realized you’d been staring too long when he spoke, his voice calm and steady. "Everything alright?"

You quickly snapped your gaze forward, heat rushing to your face. "Y-yeah. Sorry."

"I'm feeling a little tired," he admitted, still focused on the dark stretch of road ahead. "I don't think it's safe for me to keep driving."

"Do you want me to take over? I don't mind," you offered, glancing at him.

James shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No, no. I know you're tired too. There's a motel up the road," he said, nodding toward it. "We can stop and take a break."

You nodded, relieved. "Yeah, that sounds good."

As James pulled into the motel’s parking lot, he parked the car and turned off the engine. The building ahead was far from luxurious—run-down and worn, with a flickering neon sign that made the whole place look like a relic from a forgotten era. Still, it was a place to rest.

James got out of the car first and came around to open the door for you, a gesture that made you smile despite your surroundings. It was such a small thing, but it felt thoughtful, like a reminder that he always took care of you in these subtle ways. You murmured a quiet "thank you" as you stepped out, appreciating the moment.

He walked with you to the front desk, his hand lightly guiding you. The motel lobby was just as rundown as the outside, with faded wallpaper and an odd smell lingering in the air. You couldn’t help but feel uneasy, inching closer to James as the man behind the desk asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Any room available?" James asked, his voice steady and polite.

The clerk grunted, tapping at an ancient computer before handing over a key. "Room at the end. Number seven."

You gripped James' arm tighter as he accepted the key, your nerves on edge in the seedy atmosphere. He glanced down at you, offering a reassuring look before guiding you out of the lobby and toward the room.

Once inside, you both took in the sight of the small, outdated room. It wasn’t much, but it would do for the night. You set your bag down and turned to you James soft smile. "Not exactly five-star, huh?"

James didn't respond. Instead he firmly shut the door behind him. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable as per usual, however the tension between you two was palpable. Your heart raced as you take a step back, body pressing against the wall.

"What are you doing?" You whisper.

James stepped closer, his gaze boring into yours. "What am I doing?" He sounds almost … irritated?

"After the way you were looking at me before, god. I nearly crashed the car." He huffed a breath. "Like you were begging for me to bend you over." It dawned on you, it wasn't irritation in his demeanor. It was sexual frustration.

Before you could react, James grabbed your waist and pressed his body into yours. His lips crash forming rough, punishing kiss. His hands move up your hips, pulling them closer until there was no space between you two. You felt the restriction on his jeans against your thigh, the thought of the length caused you to gasp in his mouth.

James wasn't letting go. He deepened the kiss, his tongue probing into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise as he grinds his erection against your thigh. So desperate for a sense of relief.

Your voice trembles as you plead, "P-please…"

But James only pulls back, his eyes dark, "do you want me to stop?"

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you shake your head, your desperation matching his intensity. "No, please don't stop…"

He kisses you roughly, tracing the edge of your mouth with a finger as he groans against your lips. "You're so fucking sexy. I can't stop thinking about you."

Your knees tremble under his touch, completely under his spell. "What are you thinking about?" you ask coyly.

James's hands roam over your body, lifting your shirt to expose your lacy bra underneath. "Your tits, your ass," he growls as his fingers squeeze and knead your breasts. A soft moan escapes from your stained lips. "And how tight and wet your pussy feels around me."

His dirty words sent a jolt of desire through you, and you couldn't believe that such thoughts existed in his pretty head. You weigh your options in this game of seduction and decide to play along.

"But that's not what good boys do, James," you tease, causing his erection to twitch in response. "You're such a dirty boy." The seductive tone in your voice only adds fuel to the fire as James's desire for you intensifies even more.

James's eyes darkened at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Are you gonna punish me for it," he almost laughs, his voice husky with desire. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips tightly as he pressed you harder against the wall.

You gasped as he ground his hips against yours, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans. Your head fell back against the wall, exposing your neck to him. James took full advantage, his lips trailing hot kisses down your throat as his hands roamed your body.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your skin, nipping at your collarbone. "Wanted you for so long."

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as pleasure coursed through you. "Then take me," you whispered, your voice breathy with need.

James growled, his eyes flashing with hunger. "I'll show you just how dirty I can be."

In one swift motion, he lifted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bed, tossing you onto the mattress with a bounce. Before you could catch your breath, he was on top of you, his weight pressing you into the creaky motel bed.

His hands were everywhere at once, caressing, squeezing, exploring every inch of your body. You arched into his touch, desperate for more. James's lips trailed hot kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You knew there would be marks tomorrow, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"James," you moaned, your voice a low, commanding whisper as your fingers slid through his hair, tightening your grip with each passing second. His lips traveled down the length of your body, but before he could indulge any further, you yanked him back, asserting control.

With a sharp tug, you pulled his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes were wild with desperation, a raw hunger that betrayed his need, but you held him firmly in place, denying him the satisfaction he craved. He was yours to command.

"I told you," your voice cut through the thick tension in the air, "that's not how good boys behave."

His breath hitched, and you felt the shiver run through him. You could see the struggle in his expression—the fight between his desire and the knowledge that you held all the power. He was teetering on the edge, waiting for you to decide his fate.

With a groan of pleasure, you pushed yourself off the bed and stood before him, the alluring picture of innocence undone. Delicate fingers urged James forward, his eyes locked onto yours as he remained on his knees in anticipation. The sound of fabric ripping filled the room as you freed yourself from the confines of your clothes, revealing your supple body to his hungry gaze.

Your hands slipped behind the lace of your panties and gathered the wetness that coated your fingers. You held the sight before him like an offering, a temptation he couldn't resist. "Open your mouth," you commanded softly, and James obeyed without hesitation - hungrily watching as you slipped your fingers between his lips and onto his tongue.

Heart racing, you placed your fingers against James's eager mouth and ordered him to suckle like a baby from your honeyed nectar. His cheeks hollowed out with the effort as he swirled his tongue around yours, lapping up every drop of your essence while sending shivers of delight through your core.

"Good boy," you breathed out, feeling the tension within you mounting unbearably. "Suck harder." And James did - pulling on your fingers with all the desperation of a man lost in desire for you, his tongue flickering wildly against yours as he drank deeply from the wellspring of pleasure that was flowing from between your legs.

As you watched James suckle greedily at your fingers, a warm glow of pleasure spread through your body. You couldn't help but reward his eagerness with a soft "good boy" murmur that made its way into his eager mouth. His tongue flicked against yours in response, as if he understood the praise was for him alone.

Removing your fingers from his mouth a string of saliva connects you both. James , on his knees, scurried forward. His teeth biting the strap of your panties, he slid the lacey number down.

"That's my good boy," you purred, stepping closer to him and running your hands over his shoulders before guiding him towards the rickety bed that creaked under their combined weight. You pushed him gently onto his back, admiring the way he arched under your touch as he allowed himself to be led like a lamb to slaughter.

Kneeling between James's legs, you free him from the confides of his clothing. Freeing his cock from the cage it was trapped in. You ran your tongue along the length of his shaft before taking it into your mouth and sucking greedily on its hardness. His hips bucked up off the mattress in response, demanding more from you as you teased him with short bursts of oral pleasure.

"Fuck, you're so good. I feel like I'm going insane." He groaned.

James reached out to pull at your hair, urging you deeper onto his cock while pleading wordlessly for release. His hands trembled against your skin as he fought for control over himself, but ultimately it was you who held the power in this game… for now.

"You've been such a good boy," you whispered against his throbbing member before pulling back to admire its length one last time. "But I think it's time for your reward."

And with that, you sank back onto James's cock with a satisfied moan, welcoming him into the depths of your mouth. The tip of his hard cock hitting against your throat, meanwhile rings of your lipstick linger along the shaft. Before he can loose himself completely in your game, James returned the motion you shared earlier. With a fistful of your hair, he yanked you from his throbbing member with a guttural groan.

In a fervent nature he situated your body on the dirty mattress. Involuntarily, you find yourself opening your legs wider for him, "James! You're being so bad,"

"Shut the fuck up!" He dejects, running the tip of his cock against your slick cunt. He enters, stretching your walls to their extent. You stretch your legs farther in a feeble attempt to earn more from him.

As you feel James's cock sliding in and out of your tight pussy, you can't help but let out a moan of pleasure at the sensation. Your breasts rise and fall with each thrust of his hips, an erotic sight that drives him even deeper into you. "You're so wet, so filthy." With a growl of possession, James wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your body closer to his as he takes you harder than ever before.

"That's it," you pant in response, arching your back to meet him stroke for stroke. "Fuck me like the dirty little whore that I am." And James does – grinding into you with a ferocity that leaves no doubt about who holds the power here.

Finally reaching his climax, James grits his teeth and buries himself to the hilt inside you one last time before pulling out with a sharp groan of release. His hot seed shooting across your stomach in a powerful eruption that leaves both of you breathless and satiated.

As the two of you lay entangled in each other's sweaty embrace, you rest your head on his chest, tracing circles on his abdomen. The old mattress groans under your combined weight. "You were worth every fucking second," he whispers into your ear, nibbling softly on your lobe. His cock throbs against your thigh, still wet with his essence and aching for another round of pleasure.

"So what's next?" You ask teasingly, arching your back to offer him a glimpse of your slick folds beckoning him forward. "Should we try something different, I can ride you." James responded with a gruff you couldn't discern.

Then he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he drags you into a sixty-nine position. You yelp at the unexpected motion. His depravity, perverted nature was running like a faucet. You lay atop of James his hardened, throbbing cock mere inches from your face. With a trembling hand you reach forward for his length, tasting the juices that were inside you moments ago.

Underneath you, James darts his tongue out to taste you once more while his fingers trace lazy circles around your clit. "Fuck... you're so fucking filthy," he moans against your cunt, licking and sucking at your swollen folds as if they were the most delicious dessert he's ever tasted.

You gasp in response, surrendering your weight on James face, grinding. Completely lost in the pleasure he was providing you. Unable to focus on the task of sucking his cock, your nails dig into his thighs. Sounds of pleasure rip from your throat, uncaring of who can hear the two of you outside the motel door.

"You like that?" He asks teasingly, nipping at your clit before diving back into his feast. "Tell me how much you want it."

"I need... I need you inside me," you moan out, bucking against his tongue as it delves deeper into your soaking wet cunt. The pressure is building again but this time there's no rush – this will be a slow burn toward orgasm after orgasm until you both collapse in a puddle of sweat and satisfaction.

James' demand is like a whip cracking in the air, spurring you into action. With a ravenous hunger for his touch, you hastily position yourself as he commanded. Your legs tremble with anticipation as his hands glide up your thighs, admiring every inch of your body with greed and awe. "Beautiful," he mutters in breathless admiration. A soft smile tugs at your lips, but it quickly turns into a moan as you plunge yourself onto him, feeling his hardness fill you completely. His skillful thrusts hit all the right spots, driving you wild with pleasure. You place your hands on his chest, using them to anchor yourself as your hips move in sync with his, pushing him deeper inside you. His fingers dance over your clit, sending electrifying shockwaves through your entire body.

The symphony of your combined moans fills the room, each one louder than the last as you both lose yourselves in this passionate battle of desire and ecstasy. As your climax approaches, James' name becomes a mantra on your lips. With a final burst of intensity, waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. James' release floods inside you, overflowing with primal satisfaction that can only be found in each other's embrace. You slowly dismount and snuggle into his arms, basking in the afterglow of pure bliss. In silence, you both anticipate what new pleasures await in the morning.

[daechwitatamic]

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 :)

[gremlinisjay]

There's your ghost in a mirror.

A scene from chapter 17 in To extend our reach to the stars above, by @cinnamin-is-a-star