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kingofbodyrolls · 12 days ago

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Sprouting Love (m) | knj

As snowflakes dance in the crisp winter air, you and Namjoon find yourselves wrapped in the warmth of each other’s company. The holiday season brings the aroma of freshly baked cookies, the magic of twinkling lights strung through the house, and laughter echoing in your greenhouse where you tend to flourishing plants, lovingly nurtured together. Amid the glow of Christmas cheer and shared moments filled with wonder, perhaps this season will sprinkle a touch of courage and clarity to finally define the blossoming connection between you. Will the magic of Christmas help turn what’s unspoken into something beautifully real?

→ Pairing: namjoon x reader (female) → AUs: non-idol!au, gardening!au, neighbors!au, christmas!au, holiday!au → Trope: (enemies to lovers) / neighbors to lovers / friends with benefits to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / romcom / comedy (+ a little angst) → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 13.7k → Warnings + triggers: unprotected sex (please be safe), degrading name calling, hair pulling, sexual tension, oral (male receiving), rough but also tender, a lot of kissing, a lot of tension, dirty talk, stupid innuendos, multiple orgasms, praise kink, begging, exhibitionism (unintentionally), impregnation kink, begging, big dick Joonie 👀 + glasses and turtlenecks. → Author’s note: ahhhh. I know a lot of you love this couple (and I do too!). So here’s another part to it, that’s almost as long as the whole mini series 😂 I hope you like it and happy holidays! 🎄 → Read the spoiler? [text messages] → Read on AO3? [link]

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You make the short walk to Namjoon’s house, each step tingling with the thrill of anticipation that never quite fades, no matter how many times you’ve walked to his house. The winter air whispers secrets against your skin, and when you reach his door, your knuckles barely touch the wood before it swings open as if he had been waiting on the other side, sensing your arrival like some instinctual force.

“Hi, Joonie—” you start, but your words catch in your throat, swept away by the vision standing before you. Namjoon leans casually in the doorway, barefoot on the cool floor, his loose gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. A black wooly turtleneck, soft and perfectly snug, accentuates his lean big frame, the sleeves gathered around his strong forearms. He shifts slightly, and you spot caramel-brown suede patches on the elbows, details that shouldn’t be alluring but are, somehow, because they are his.

Dear god, send help, you think, as you try to steady the wild flutter in your chest. How does a man make something so simple look so impossibly captivating? His hair is still that soft silver shade, a gentle stormcloud you’ve come to love, its unruly strands tempting you to reach out and run your fingers through them. Over the past few months, he has become more than just a fleeting presence in your life, even if you both refuse to define what you are to each other. You still remember the moment that changed everything—when you gathered the courage to apologize for your reckless behavior, and he, with the ease of someone who understood you more than he should, forgave you. That night at his housewarming party had led to your lips on his, your inhibitions crumbling, and his laughter echoing in your ears long after you both lost yourselves in each other’s warmth.

Namjoon has always had this uncanny ability to stir chaos within you, then anchor you with just a look or a word. No one has ever made you feel this way—unpredictable yet somehow perfectly at peace, like a storm that finally finds its calm. Yet, despite the countless nights tangled in his sheets and countless moments where his presence felt like home, neither of you has dared to put a name to what you share. It’s undefined, beautifully so, even if it gnaws at the corners of your heart sometimes. But for now, this is enough. It has to be.

His voice pulls you back to the present, warm and teasing, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “Hi, Y/N. Do you need help with something? Or,” he adds, a smirk tugging at his lips, “do you have an itch that needs scratching?” His eyebrows lift, suggestive and playful.

Your cheeks warm at his flirtation, but you recover quickly, slipping into the playful defiance that has always been your defense. “Well,” you say with a smirk and a giggle, leaning in just a touch, “I am ovulating.” The words hang between you, bold and taunting.

Namjoon’s mouth falls open, and he stares at you, wide-eyed, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in that adorably nervous way of his. “You know I’m not ready for kids, and we’re not even… together,” he stammers, his voice faltering. His statement is like a tiny fissure in the moment, and it stings, the reminder of what you are—or aren’t—but you cover the hurt with a laugh.

“Relax,” you reply, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You know I’m on birth control, and it was just a joke.”

You step closer, so close now that his breath mingles with yours, warm and sweet, the space between you charged and electric. “But,” you whisper, your voice low and wicked, “we could roleplay. I know how much the idea of impregnation turns you on, Joonie.” Your smile is devilish, delighting in the way his cheeks flush a deep crimson, the way you’ve come to know his secrets and use them to unravel him.

“It does not,” he protests, crossing his arms with a mock pout, the hint of a stammer betraying his feigned offense. You can’t help but smile at the way his brows knit together, his sulky act so endearing that it almost pulls a real laugh from your lips.

“Relax, that’s not why I dropped by,” you tease, a playful shrug rolling off your shoulders as your hand reaches out to rest against his chest. Beneath your fingers, you feel the familiar contradiction of his body: the softness of his black wooly turtleneck giving way to the solid, unyielding muscle beneath. God, you think, so soft, yet so perfectly taut, those sculpted pecs.

“It isn’t?” he questions, his eyes narrowing with a glint of something unsaid, a spark of curiosity mingled with heat. But this time, you’ve got more to offer than just teasing banter.

“No,” you say with a warm smile, the sexual tension melting away and leaving something more tender in its place. “I actually wanted to see if you’d come over and help me bake cookies for the local orphanage.” Your voice softens, sincerity peeking through, and a touch of vulnerability brightens your eyes.

You watch how his expression shifts, his features melting from playful disbelief into something far more gentle. First, his eyes narrow knowingly, but then his entire face softens, the warmth in his gaze like sunlight breaking through a heavy cloud. “Yeah, sure,” he says, his voice steady, sincere. “I’d love to.”

A rush of relief blooms in your chest, and you exhale with a beaming smile. “Thank you! Usually, Kookie helps me, but he’s busy today,” you add, lips pursing into an exaggerated pout. “It’s kind of a tradition for me to make cookies and bring them to the orphanage every Christmas,” you explain, your smile growing at the thought.

“Nice,” he replies, his eyes lighting up with a touch of amusement as he gestures at the festive Christmas apron tied snugly around your waist. “Are you going to make them now?”

You nod, your breath leaving in a small cloud in the cold air. “Yeah.”

“I can help now,” he offers, and with that, he steps back into his house, slipping on some cozy slippers before joining you. The snow crunches underfoot as you both walk the short, chilly distance to your house, where warmth and holiday spirit await. The driveways have been cleared, the path to your front door inviting, and when Namjoon closes the door behind him, the cold is immediately banished.

Inside, your kitchen looks like a Christmas explosion. Mixing bowls of various sizes clutter the counter, flour dusted liberally across every surface, with rogue sprinkles even trailing onto the floor. Bars of chocolate lie waiting to be chopped, and the oven hums contentedly, filling the space with soothing warmth. The chaos makes it clear: you’ve already begun the festivities.

“Wow,” Namjoon murmurs, eyes wide as he takes in the scene. “I can see why you needed help.” His voice is a mix of awe and playful judgment, and you can’t help but let out a small, sheepish laugh.

You scratch your head, an embarrassed giggle escaping. “Yeah, I always bite off more than I can chew,” you admit, your laughter brightening the room even more. You step toward the counter, already thinking of ways to channel Namjoon’s energy into something useful. “Do you want to chop the chocolate?” you offer.

He freezes, his eyes widening with mock terror, and his deep laugh rumbles through the kitchen. “I better not,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “You know how clumsy I am.” You think back to his infamous accidents: the greenhouse he demolished, the garden beds he obliterated—all unfortunate mishaps that had somehow led to these shared moments, bringing you closer.

“True,” you chuckle, the memory making you squeeze his bicep as you pass behind him. The muscle beneath your touch is solid, reassuring. “Okay, then,” you say, gently guiding him toward the mixing bowls. “If you mix the batter, I’ll handle the chocolate,” you suggest, and he nods, his laughter still dancing in the air between you.

You find your rhythm with Namjoon: a steady, unspoken dance of movements. He mixes the batter with those powerful biceps of his, muscles flexing beneath his sweater as he works the spoon through the thick dough. You try not to stare, but god, how can you not? The sight is distracting, dangerously so, and you have to remind yourself to keep your focus on chopping chocolate, the sharp knife clinking rhythmically against the cutting board. Your hands work swiftly, but your gaze can’t help but drift, lingering over the way his arms tense and move. Damn, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. You shouldn’t be ogling him like this… but resisting feels impossible.

The kitchen grows warm and sweet, scented with chocolate and flour, the air heavy with anticipation. Namjoon finishes mixing the dough, and together you shape it into perfect, palm-sized portions, setting them onto baking trays. He’s meticulous, and you can’t help but feel a small swell of pride as you watch him carefully pat each ball of dough into place. You slide the first tray into the oven, only one at a time—your old, temperamental oven too unpredictable for more. Patience will have to pay off if it means the cookies will be perfectly golden.

The two of you stand side by side, the silence suddenly thick, almost suffocating. The tension wraps around you like a taut string, ready to snap at the smallest movement. To break it, you grab a couple of glasses, filling them with cold water, hoping the simple action might soothe whatever current crackles between you. But even as you drink, neither of you speaks, the electricity palpable.

Before you can find something to say, a new presence cuts through the tension as Jungkook stumbles into the kitchen, descending from the staircase with the heavy-lidded look of someone freshly woken. His hair is a tousled, endearing mess, dark strands sticking out at odd angles as he drags a hand through them, yawning wide. “Hey, what are you guys doing?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, still rubbing the remnants of his dreams from his eyes.

“Baking cookies,” you reply, smiling at the sight of him, though you can’t help but wonder why he’s only just now waking up when it’s the middle of the day. He looks entirely too soft and adorable, making you feel a small pang of fondness.

Jungkook’s nose twitches, catching the scent of baking chocolate. “Smells good,” he says, eyes lighting up as he takes a few sleepy steps closer to the kitchen counter where you and Namjoon stand—close, but not touching. “Can I have some in my room?” he asks, hopeful, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, a pout forming on his lips.

“No,” you say firmly, fixing him with a stern look. “These are for the orphanage.”

“Just one?” he tries again, his expression a perfect picture of adorable desperation. But you hold your ground, shaking your head.

“No,” you repeat, more resolutely this time. Yet Jungkook, mischievous as ever, slides over to the bowls of dough, his eyes gleaming with determination. He reaches out, fingers poised to swipe a handful of unbaked cookie dough.

Before he can steal his prize, Namjoon’s reflexes kick in. With a swift, almost effortless movement, he intercepts Jungkook’s hand, swatting it away before it can come anywhere near contaminating your carefully prepared batter. You’re grateful for Namjoon’s intervention, and for a moment, the amusement makes the tension between you dissolve just a little.

Jungkook rubs his hand, feigning injury with a dramatic pout, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Namjoon. Something flashes in his gaze—curiosity, awareness—an unspoken question lingering in the air as he watches the two of you. The corners of his mouth twitch, as if he’s caught on to something unsaid, something charged. The look he gives you is knowing, but he doesn’t say a word.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Jungkook asks, his lips curling into a smirk that suggests mischief brewing beneath his sleepy demeanor. His eyes glint with a teasing challenge, the kind only someone who knows how to poke at your soft spots can deliver.

You tilt your head, brows knitting together, confusion settling over you like a mist. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice curious but cautious, already sensing that whatever he’s about to say will unsettle the fragile balance you’ve created here.

Jungkook’s smirk deepens, the troublemaker’s spark lighting up his gaze. He takes his time, savoring the pause, drawing it out like a slow intake of breath before the storm. “I mean,” he drawls, letting the anticipation build before delivering his question, “are you two official now, or what?” His voice cuts through the air, as sharp and casual as a knife slipped between armor.

The question pierces through you, freezing you for a heartbeat. You scramble for words, but they don’t come. Your chest tightens, because the truth is you don’t know. You’re not official with Namjoon, and the ambiguity gnaws at you in quiet moments, whispering doubts you try so hard to ignore. All you’ve shared is laughter, nights tangled together, and moments that feel like home—but nothing labeled, nothing secure.

Namjoon clears his throat, breaking the tension. “We’re just having a good time,” he says, his voice even, calm, as if those words don’t twist at something vulnerable inside you. “Why should we need to label things?” His question hangs in the air, breezy yet barbed, and it stings more than you care to admit.

Your heart gives a small, involuntary ache, but you swallow it down, as you’ve done so many times before. You’d love nothing more than to put a name to what this is, to solidify the feelings that swim in the spaces between you. But Namjoon’s words remind you where you stand, and you try to tuck those fragile hopes away, out of sight.

Instead, you plaster on a smirk, masking the sting, and turn to Jungkook. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on Jimin instead of meddling in our business, huh?” you tease, your voice light but with an edge of deflection.

Jungkook flinches, his face draining of color for a moment before flushing with a bright, mortified blush. He looks at you like you’ve unearthed a well-guarded secret, and his eyes widen in a way that makes you feel a small triumph.

“Yeah, we know,” you muse, the corners of your mouth lifting with satisfaction. Before the tension can thicken further, the oven timer beeps, and Namjoon turns to carefully pull the tray of cookies from the heat, the warm aroma of melted chocolate spilling into the air. He sets the tray aside to let the cookies cool, and you slide a new batch into the oven, trying to ground yourself in the familiar rhythm.

You grab a warm cookie and wrap it in a paper towel, turning back to Jungkook, who’s still blushing furiously. “Just because I like Jimin,” you quip, “I’ll give you a cookie for him—none for you.” You press the cookie into his hand, a grin curling at your lips. “Make sure to say hi from us. We know he’s up there in your bedroom.”

Jungkook’s blush deepens, his face blooming beet-red as he takes the cookie with reluctant, embarrassed hands. He mumbles something incoherent, then spins on his heel, hurrying back toward the stairs, too flustered to form a coherent protest. You watch him go, his retreat filling the room with a burst of humor that almost—but not quite—eases the ache still lingering in your heart.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in a flurry of flour and laughter, baking batch after batch of cookies. You try to push thoughts of your undefined relationship with Namjoon into the recesses of your mind, focusing instead on the gentle rhythm of your work. The cookies cool on wire racks, their chocolate-sweet aroma filling the kitchen and settling over you like a comforting blanket. Carefully, you pack them into glass jars adorned with festive ribbons, each one sparkling with the warm, nostalgic spirit of Christmas.

“Do you want to come with me to the orphanage to deliver the cookies?” you ask, your voice soft yet hopeful. Namjoon glances at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. He agrees, and together you load the jars into your car. The scent of freshly baked cookies lingers, weaving itself through the crisp, frosty air as you drive down snow-dusted roads. The landscape is a winter wonderland with treetops crowned with snow, branches shimmering with icy lace, and the streets lined with drifts that sparkle under the pale afternoon light.

When you arrive at the orphanage, the children’s laughter and wide-eyed smiles fill you with a deep, quiet joy. Their faces light up as they receive the cookies, little hands clutching the sweet gifts, and you can’t help but feel your heart swell. Namjoon stands beside you, watching you interact with the kids. There’s something tender in his gaze, something he doesn’t put into words, but it wraps around you all the same.

On the drive back, the silence between you feels serene, softened by the shared experience. Snowflakes begin to drift lazily from the sky, catching in the beams of the headlights. Namjoon turns to you, his voice curious yet gentle. “So you do this every Christmas?” he asks, breaking the comfortable quiet.

You smile, your hands steady on the wheel as you flick the blinker to signal a turn. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice tinged with the sweet ache of memory. “Always. It’s something my mom used to do. When she passed, I wanted to carry on her tradition, to keep her spirit alive in this small way.” The words come out soft, but they hold the weight of years, love, and loss.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Namjoon says, his tone low and sincere. You glance over at him, offering a gentle smile, the kind that carries acceptance and peace. “It’s okay,” you say, your voice a quiet reassurance. “It happened a long time ago.”

He exhales, the breath almost visible in the chill of the car, and he clears his throat, nervous but determined. “Do you want to help me decorate my place?” he asks, his words a gentle offering. “And I’ll help get yours ready for Christmas too.”

A genuine smile breaks across your face, a warmth sparking in your chest. “Yeah, that sounds perfect,” you reply. “I’ll need to pick up some new ornaments, though. I know just the place we can go.” The idea of shopping for holiday decorations together, of filling both your spaces with light and laughter, feels like a small but significant promise.

Namjoon’s hand drifts down to rest on your thigh, a quiet gesture of connection that makes your heart flutter. His touch stays there for the rest of the ride, grounding you, warming you, as snowflakes twirl and dance outside the windows.

“Hi, babe,” Namjoon says, and just with that one simple word, he manages to unravel you. The casual endearment sends a shiver of longing through your heart, a tiny thrill that sparks questions you never quite manage to silence—the ones about what you really mean to each other. Your heart flutters like the wings of a restless bird, and even though a part of you wishes he didn’t have this power over you, there’s no denying it. Deep down, you love that he does. You crave the comfort and warmth he brings, even if you sometimes wish it came with the certainty of a label.

“Hi, Joonie,” you reply, your voice soft but bright, as if it alone can welcome him out of the winter cold. A rush of freezing air follows him inside, nipping at your cheeks, and you gesture hurriedly for him to come in and shut the chill away.

He steps across the threshold, the scent of fresh snow clinging to his coat, and a smile unfurls on his lips, dimples deepening. “I was wondering if you’d show me your greenhouse again,” he says, and there’s a childlike wonder in his eyes, a curiosity that never fails to enchant you. “I’m curious to see what plants you have out there braving the winter. And maybe we could start some seeds for next season?”

His voice is filled with genuine interest, and the way he looks at you—wide-eyed and eager—melts something inside your chest. You can’t help but smile back. Those damn dimples of his, so disarming, so inexplicably endearing. “Oh, definitely,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “I’ve been meaning to sow some new seeds, actually. Peas, chilies, Asian greens—they thrive even in this frozen weather.”

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice soft and sincere, a gentle offering that wraps around you like a warm scarf. The idea of working side by side with him, hands deep in the soil, fills you with quiet joy.

“Do you have time now?” he asks, his words tender, like he’s afraid of shattering the moment.

“Yeah,” you respond, feeling a surge of anticipation as you reach for something warm to wear. You pull on an extra-thick pair of wool socks, a cozy sweater, and then layer yourself in a heavy parka and boots. Namjoon is already dressed for the bitter cold, bundled up but still managing to look effortlessly handsome. Even though you’ll be spending time in the greenhouse, the air there is only a degree or two warmer than outside—it’s a space that holds more promise than heat during the winter.

Together, you make your way outside, your footsteps crunching in the snow. You lead the way, the cold biting at your cheeks, but the warmth of his presence close behind keeps you from feeling the chill too deeply. Sliding the glass door of the greenhouse open, you step inside and usher him in, closing the door behind you. The stillness of the space wraps around you both, the smell of damp earth mingling with the crisp scent of winter.

“Have you thought about getting a greenhouse of your own?” you ask, a playful lilt in your voice. It’s a conversation you’ve shared before, a running joke ever since he accidentally wrecked yours with that wild ball throw months ago. You watch his face for a reaction, and he laughs, a deep, rich sound that seems to warm the chilly air around you.

“Yeah, I think I’d like to get one for the summer season,” Namjoon muses, his voice thoughtful, warm as a patch of sunlight breaking through clouds. “But I’m still not sure. That’s part of why I’m so curious about what you’ve managed to grow in the dead of winter. If I’m going to invest in one, I want to make the most of it, you know?” He pauses, a playful grin curving his lips as he glances at you. “But honestly, maybe I should just keep helping you with yours. It’s more fun together, don’t you think?”

He tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, wandering deeper into the greenhouse, his gaze sweeping over the lush, vibrant greens defying the frost outside. Even in the shelter of the greenhouse, the air is tinged with the crispness of winter, but Namjoon’s presence feels like a hearth fire—steady, comforting, and a little too warm when you think of how easily he fits into these shared moments.

“I understand,” you say, your voice as tender as the soft leaves unfurling in your garden beds. “And you’re always welcome in my greenhouse, you know that.” You follow close behind him, pointing out the resilient Asian salads thriving in their earthy homes: delicate mibuna, sturdy bok choy, crisp cabbage, and even the spicy thrill of wasabi salad. There’s purple kale, vibrant and defiant against the cold, and winter carrots, their secrets buried until it’s time to harvest.

Namjoon’s eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief. “Oh, so you did manage to grow something after I, uh, accidentally destroyed your greenhouse?” He gestures toward the patch of winter carrots, a sheepish look stealing across his face.

You chuckle, the memory of his well-meaning chaos warming you. “Yeah, I did,” you reply, a smile dancing on your lips. “You can even try one if you want.”

With that, Namjoon kneels gracefully by the garden bed. Even through the bulky layers of his coat, the contours of his body are undeniable, and your traitorous mind takes note of the way his dark jeans hug him in all the right places. He reaches for a carrot, pulling at the green stem with gentle strength until a large, brilliantly orange carrot emerges from the soil. As he brushes the dirt away, he raises it to his lips, and there’s something distractingly captivating about the way he bites into it. The crisp snap of the carrot echoes in the stillness, a sound that somehow makes your breath hitch.

“It’s good,” he says, his voice reverent, like he’s savoring more than just a vegetable. “Crisp and sweet.” His words are innocent enough, but heat blooms on your cheeks as your mind wanders to other things that are, admittedly, very sweet.

“So, what are we going to sow?” he asks, watching as you gather trays and soil. There’s an excitement in his gaze, an eagerness that makes your own heart quicken.

“Like I said earlier,” you reply, grinning as you lay out the seedling trays in a neat row on the workbench. “Peas first. They’re hardy, even in this cold, and planting them early means we’ll have a head start on the harvest. We can sow extra so you’ll have some to take home and plant in your garden. They’re amazing because they climb and flourish wherever they’re given even a little support.”

“And then, chilies,” you continue, your eyes sparkling. “We’ll start them here, but they’ll need to come inside to sprout, where it’s warmer. It’s always good to start them early so they can be transferred outside when spring rolls in. Later in the new year, we can put them in the greenhouse or straight into the garden beds.” You take a breath and continue, “And of course, more greens and salads. They’re slower to sprout in this cold, but they’ll make it, strong and resilient, like little winter warriors.”

Namjoon listens intently, his gaze never leaving you. There’s a peacefulness in the moment, as if the greenhouse holds its breath, cocooning you both in a world of shared ambitions and quiet dreams.

You suddenly realize you’ve forgotten the seeds. “Ah, I left the seeds inside,” you say, a small laugh escaping your lips. “Wait here while I grab them.” Namjoon nods, his eyes following you as you hurry back to the house, the cold nipping at your heels, urgency making you quick on your feet.

Inside, you snatch up the old tin where you keep your seeds—its surface worn and familiar, full of whispered promises of new life waiting to burst forth from the soil. When you return to the greenhouse, you pause for a moment, caught by the sight of Namjoon. He’s crouched low, his focus completely absorbed by a small bok choy plant, tracing the way its tender, jade-hued leaves meld into deep shadows where the veins run dark. There’s a quiet reverence in his expression, as though he’s marveling at the tiny miracle of survival in the cold.

“We can get started,” you say, a soft smile warming your face. Namjoon rises, his dimples peeking out as he grins back, and joins you in front of the workbench. You pour soil into a wide basin, mixing in perlite and vermiculite, the earthy aroma mingling with the crisp air. Your hands work with practiced grace, kneading the soil to loosen its texture, giving it life and breath.

“I’ve never added perlite or vermiculite to soil before,” Namjoon admits, wonder flickering in his voice as he watches the small white and gold specks sift through your fingers. You giggle, a sound as light and unburdened as petals drifting on a breeze. Most people don’t bother, but you’ve always been particular about these things.

“Try it sometime,” you encourage. “It makes for the best potting mix—less dense, better drainage, and the roots love it. And always use seed-starting soil. It has less fertilizer, so it’s gentler on seedlings.” Your hands press through the soil, feeling every grain and clump, savoring the dirt wedging beneath your nails. You’ve never cared for gloves; the raw, honest texture of the earth grounds you, as if reminding you that growth is always a little messy.

Namjoon tilts his head, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “I thought fertilizer was good?” he asks, and for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if his passion for plants runs as deep as he claims. But then again, you know that not everyone shares your level of obsession.

“It is—once the plant has grown a bit,” you explain, meeting his gaze with a patient smile. “Too much, too soon, and it can harm the seedling. Gentle care first, then nourishment.” You gesture for him to step closer, feeling the way the greenhouse seems to shrink around you, warm and cocooned.

He reaches for a packet of seeds—peas, full of promise—and you prepare the seedling tray, filling each cell with your custom soil mix. Using your dibber, you create neat holes for planting. Namjoon leans closer, and together you work in quiet tandem, dropping each tiny seed into its place, the rhythm of it comforting, like a shared heartbeat.

When you finish the tray, you dust your dirt-stained hands together. “Great. Now onto the next seeds,” you declare, and Namjoon dives in to help. His hands move alongside yours, scooping soil, pressing it down gently, but not too tight, and it feels strangely intimate, this act of creating life together.

Namjoon watches you, a hint of mischief curling at the edges of his thoughts. You’re skilled at this, at working with your hands—deliberate, sure, and endlessly fascinating. His mind drifts, unbidden, to the times your hands have moved over him, how your touch has lit up his world in ways that make him blush now, here among tender greens and the scent of new soil. Damn it, he chides himself, this isn’t the time to be thinking such thoughts.

But it’s hard not to, with the memory of your touch and the taste of your laughter tangled together in his mind, like vines climbing toward the light.

He flashes a mischievous grin. “You know, I love getting a little dirty with you in the garden,” he teases, his voice playful and warm as he gives you a gentle nudge with his shoulder. You laugh, the sound bright and ringing through the greenhouse, and a rosy blush colors your cheeks as the double meaning sinks in. It’s a shared, private joke, laced with an intimacy that makes your heart skip.

Together, you keep working, your hands growing numb from the cold, yet neither of you want to stop. The chill is creeping into your bones, but the way you work side by side, sowing seeds and exchanging glances, brings a certain kind of warmth all on its own. When the final seed is nestled in the soil and the last tray prepared, you finally shiver. “We should take the chili seedlings inside,” you say, your breath visible in the icy air. “And… do you want to come in for a bit? I could bake a cake and make some hot cocoa.”

Namjoon’s eyes light up, and he smiles wide, the kind that shows his dimples. “I couldn’t say no to that,” he replies, a hint of excitement in his voice. He grabs the glass door, holding it open for you as you step out, and he follows, closing it behind with a satisfying click.

Inside the house, warmth greets you like an embrace. You shed your heavy parka and boots, and Namjoon mirrors your actions, his movements unhurried, as if savoring this transition from the cold to the cozy. You carry the seedling tray over to the kitchen window, where a grow light waits to nurture the tiny plants. The sun has set, painting the world outside in hues of blue and shadow, but the light inside feels like hope.

Gathering ingredients, you set to work making hot cocoa, the rich scent of chocolate already beginning to fill the air. Namjoon pulls a stool from the dining area and drags it closer, settling down to watch you. He doesn’t say a word, but his gaze is intent, as though he’s entranced by the rhythm of your hands as they move. Your fingers skim over a packet of flour, measure brown sugar with precision, and whisk together the batter for a carrot cake with the greenhouse carrots you stored in the fridge.

Namjoon is captivated. He always is during moments like this—when you’re fully in your element, focused and graceful, your movements as fluid and sure as a melody. His eyes trace your hands, trailing from the way your fingers curl around a spoon to how you tilt your head slightly, concentrating. There’s something magnetic about it, the way you pour yourself into the simplest tasks, as if even the act of baking holds an unspoken promise of care.

But as he watches, the heat in his gaze deepens, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. His body betrays him, a familiar stirring between his thighs. It shouldn’t surprise him anymore—how easily you have this effect on him, even when you’re not trying. But he can’t help it, can’t control how the sight of your hands moving so deftly, so sensuously over everyday things, ignites thoughts he knows he shouldn’t entertain right now.

He shifts subtly on the stool, grateful for the kitchen counter that hides the evidence of his arousal, while you remain blissfully unaware, pouring the batter into a baking mold with a contented hum. Namjoon bites his lip and takes a steadying breath, trying to refocus on the warmth of this moment, even as temptation tugs at the edges of his mind.

When you slide the cake batter into the oven, the warm scent of spices already beginning to fill the air, you turn your attention back to Namjoon. Something in his expression seems off—or perhaps, not quite off, but different. There’s a tension in the way he sits, his body radiating heat, his eyes darkened with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

Curious, you move past the kitchen counter, your footsteps soft against the wooden floor. As soon as you round the corner and see him clearly, you stop in your tracks, your breath catching in a startled, husky “oh.” Your voice wavers, that simple exclamation filled with an undeniable hunger.

Namjoon lets out a low, teasing chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. Realizing there’s no use in hiding his desire, he shifts, spreading his legs wider in the chair. The movement makes the strain in his jeans even more obvious, the hard outline pressing against the denim, leaving nothing to the imagination. Heat rushes through your veins, your gaze flickering between his smoldering brown eyes and the undeniable evidence of his arousal.

“You’re so good with your hands, babe,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a sultry, resonant purr that drips with need. “Why don’t you put them to good use and help me with this problem?” His words are thick with desire, and he gestures toward the bulge, which seems to pulse with a life of its own, the denim stretched taut and unforgiving. You can’t help but wonder if the fabric is torturously tight, if he’s even comfortable in those form-fitting jeans.

You step closer, your movements slow, languid, like a feline circling her prey. Your eyes glitter with a mix of playful defiance and unrestrained want. A knowing smile tugs at your lips as you draw nearer, deliberately dragging out each moment to make him squirm. “Hmm,” you hum, batting your lashes provocatively, savoring the power in your hands. You trail your fingers lightly across his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle through his gray turtleneck, and he shudders under your touch.

Circling him, you let your gaze wander over his flushed face, loving how he stares at you like you’re the only thing he needs in this moment. “Jungkook isn’t home,” you muse, your voice a low, teasing whisper, “and the cake won’t be done for a while…” Your finger traces down his torso, each touch featherlight, leaving a trail of anticipation in its wake. “Which gives us plenty of time to deal with this very big problem.”

You finish with a suggestive wink, your hand curling into the soft collar of his turtleneck, drawing him forward. His eyes burn with the kind of desire that makes your knees weak, and you can’t help but marvel at how turtlenecks have never looked so delicious until now. His lips part, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him, your bratty side flaring up, eager to take control of the moment.

“Take off those offending skinny jeans, and maybe I’ll help you out,” you purr, your voice a delicious blend of tease and command. You lean in to press a swift, hungry kiss to his lips, the taste of him lingering as you pull back, and in a fluid motion, you’re down on the cool floor. Namjoon’s fingers are fumbling with urgency, unbuttoning and dragging his jeans and boxers down, setting himself free. His cock springs out, flushed a deep, angry red, heavy and aching for your touch. The sight of him makes your mouth water, anticipation crackling in the air between you.

He lets out a mock pout, breathless yet endearing. “But I thought you liked me in skinny jeans,” he mumbles, a half-smile curving his lips.

You can’t help but laugh, your voice warm and laced with desire. “I do,” you reply, your eyes dancing with mischief, “but they look so damn tight. Besides, I’d much rather see you in loose sweatpants—so shameless, the way they cling to you, showing off that big cock of yours.”

His cheeks flush a deeper pink, but the blush is short-lived. The moment your hand wraps around his thick length, he’s groaning, a low, unrestrained sound that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His head tips back, and you pull your hand away for a moment to spit in your palm, the motion slow and tantalizing. His breath catches, and then your hand is back on him, gliding over his cock with a slick, practiced rhythm.

You start slow, your touch light, your strokes deep and deliberate, savoring the way he shudders under your hands. Namjoon stumbles backward, his back meeting the counter for support, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edges. You follow him, still on your knees, looking up at him through your lashes, loving the way his brows knit together, his jaw slack with pleasure.

“So good with your hands,” he praises, his voice raw and wrecked, and you preen under the compliment, your lips curving into a wicked smile. His words fuel you, and you tighten your grip, picking up speed, letting your hand work over him with a skill that has his hips stuttering.

“Yeah, I know,” you muse, a playful lilt to your tone, eyes wide and feigning innocence though your actions are anything but. “You’ve told me before, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it.”

He lets out a breathless chuckle, his chest heaving. “Ah, yeah,” he pants, his voice a beautiful, strained melody. “I know how much you love praise.”

You shrug, your expression one of nonchalance, though your heart is racing. “Guilty as charged,” you admit, your voice softer, but no less mischievous. His praise drives you, makes you work harder to draw out every bit of pleasure, reveling in the way his body reacts, knowing that your hands—and your lust—are the only things holding him together.

He begins to make those sounds—oh, those sweet, broken sounds that send a thrill dancing down your spine and make you preen with pride. The husky groans slipping from his lips are like music, raw and intoxicating, and you drink them in, feeling the power in every shudder of his body.

“Shit, if you keep that up, I’m going to come soon,” he pants, his voice strained and desperate.

A playful smile curves your lips as you chuckle, the sound dripping with mischief. “That was my plan all along,” you tease, your strokes never faltering. “But maybe,” you whisper, your voice honeyed and inviting, “you’d like to fuck my throat a little. My hands are good, sure, but my mouth…” You let the words trail off, your intentions clear in the way your eyes glint with lust.

He groans again, and he swears his heart must be doing wild backflips as he watches you kneel between his legs, looking up at him with those wicked, innocent eyes. “Fuck,” he chokes out, his breath hitching, and you know you’ve got him.

“Is that a yes?” you ask, batting your eyelashes, the very picture of innocence that you most certainly are not.

He nods, his voice nearly a whisper, “Yes, yes it is, babe.”

That’s all the invitation you need. Your mouth opens, and you slowly ease his cock past your lips, wet heat enveloping him inch by inch. He shivers at the sensation, and you relish the tiny, desperate noise that escapes him when you take him all the way to the back of your throat. You hum, sending vibrations along his length, and saliva spills from the corners of your mouth, glistening as it drips down your chin.

Namjoon looks down at you, eyes blown wide, and you can feel the way his cock pulses at the sight—how the vision of you, mouth full of him, drives him wild and hurtles him closer to the edge. His hands clutch at the countertop behind him, knuckles white, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

You work him with a fervor, sucking like you’re drawing the very life from him, your hands pressing into his thighs for balance. Your nails dig into his skin, and the sharp pleasure-pain makes him hiss, a shudder rippling through his frame.

“Oh, babe,” he groans, the sound rumbling deep and sinful, making your core clench around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly. His words are rough, a plea and a praise all at once, and you moan in response, the vibrations making him jolt.

Saliva spills from your lips, pooling beneath you, and you feel the way his cock twitches and throbs against your tongue. Namjoon’s breathing is ragged, each pant a testament to how close he is, how you’ve unraveled him. He’s hanging on by a thread, and you revel in knowing you’ve brought him to this point, trembling and undone.

“Babe,” he gasps, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure, like he’s unravelling from the inside out. His whole body is taut with need, and you feel a thrill course through you, knowing how deeply you affect him.

You pull away, your lips leaving his cock with a wet, teasing pop, and you look up at him, eyes glittering with mischief. “Come on my face,” you whisper, the invitation dripping from your lips like honey, sultry and certain.

He bites down hard on his lower lip, a deep, guttural groan escaping him. One of his hands releases its white-knuckled grip on the kitchen counter, and he wraps his long fingers around his cock, stroking himself to his climax. You watch, utterly mesmerized, as he comes undone. His release is spectacular—thick ropes of hot, pearlescent white paint your skin, catching on your cheeks, lips, and eyelashes. You gasp, tongue darting out in a futile attempt to catch some of his warmth on your lips. The rest splatters messily across your face, dripping down your chin and streaking across your closed eyelids. The whole moment feels heady, unrestrained, and you can’t help but savor it.

Namjoon’s chest rises and falls heavily, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts, like he’s run a marathon just to reach this peak. A satisfied chuckle spills from his mouth, and he drags a trembling hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “You,” he says, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and lingering desire, “are a dangerous woman.”

A wicked grin blooms on your lips as you giggle, sticking your tongue out to lick the semen you can reach. Your fingers swipe up the rest, and you suck them clean, savoring him like sticky, decadent BBQ sauce on tender ribs. Delicious. The sight makes Namjoon shiver, another groan rumbling from his chest, his eyes never leaving your face.

Just then, the oven chimes, the sound almost absurdly cheerful, signaling that the cake is ready. You rise to your feet, wiping your face with a towel, and make your way over to the oven to retrieve it. Namjoon watches, dazed, as he tugs his jeans back into place, still trying to catch his breath.

Once the cake has cooled, you sit together at the kitchen table, sharing warm slices of carrot cake and steaming mugs of rich hot cocoa. The two of you laugh and talk, savoring the warmth and sweetness of the moment, reminiscing about your favorite Christmas traditions, as the world outside shivers in a cold winter’s embrace.

Namjoon doesn’t often find himself behind the wheel, but today, you’ve let him take charge of his SUV, navigating snowy roads en route to the superstore for Christmas ornaments. It’s not your usual go-to place for holiday decorations, but he’d been so eager, so insistent, that you couldn’t resist. Now here you are, braving the cold with an unusual sense of adventure.

Though Namjoon handles the SUV with a tentative grip, you can’t help but question, as you have many times before, why he even bothered to get a driver’s license in the first place. He never seems fully at ease, and his response—“Everyone has one, and I need it”—always strikes you as a half-hearted excuse. But still, you get it. Out here, where the stores sprawl far and wide, the independence a car brings is a necessity, not a luxury.

He finally pulls into the parking lot, choosing a spot absurdly far from the store’s entrance, the car a lonely island surrounded by an ocean of untouched snow. You laugh, breath misting into the winter air. It’s such a Namjoon thing to do: a cautious maneuver, the kind either born from nervousness about navigating tight parking spaces or, perhaps, the desire to protect his vehicle from rogue shopping carts and careless door dings. But you know him too well—he’s not someone obsessed with material possessions.

Bundled up in your thick coat and scarf, you trudge across the frigid parking lot, boots crunching on the ice-slicked pavement, silently cursing Namjoon’s overcautious choice. The cold gnaws at your cheeks, and you can’t hide the frown forming on your face.

Namjoon notices, and his expression softens with apology. “I’m sorry,” he says, his breath forming tiny clouds in the frosty air.

“It’s fine,” you grumble, though there’s no real heat behind your words. “But I’m driving back.” Your voice holds a note of mock seriousness, and he breaks into a chuckle, the sound light and airy, dissipating into the wintry sky like a whispered secret.

Inside the superstore, the air feels warm and festive, the smell of pine and cinnamon drifting faintly from somewhere. A dazzling aisle dedicated entirely to Christmas ornaments stretches before you, shimmering with glitter and tinsel. You watch in mild disbelief as Namjoon gleefully fills his cart with gingerbread house kits, plush stockings, strings of tinsel, garlands, and ornaments that glitter like captured starlight.

“Don’t you have decorations from last year?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as the cart reaches a borderline ridiculous state, nearly overflowing with festive cheer.

He scratches the back of his head, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Well,” he starts, laughter bubbling up, “I did.”

You cross your arms and turn to him, your eyes narrowing with mock suspicion, silently demanding the story behind this sudden lack of decorations. Namjoon’s laughter grows, filling the space around you, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself, bracing for whatever endearingly clumsy tale he’s about to share.

“I dropped all the boxes with the Christmas decorations while moving,” Namjoon mumbles, his voice soft as a snowfall, almost swallowed by the warm air. His embarrassment paints his cheeks with a blush that’s sweeter than mulled wine, and you can’t help but burst into laughter. Without a second thought, you wrap your arm around his broad frame, a warm, playful gesture that feels as natural as breathing.

“Thought so,” you tease, laughter spilling from your lips, echoing like bells ringing through the icy parking lot.

Namjoon’s blush deepens, a rosy warmth that makes him look endearingly boyish. Still, he continues with his mission, selecting ornaments with the earnest focus of someone determined to reclaim lost holiday cheer. Once the cart is brimming with festive treasures, he pushes it outside, the wheels wobbling and skidding over the snow-dappled asphalt.

“I can’t believe they haven’t cleared the snow yet,” you scoff, tugging open the hatch and helping to load up his haul. Each ornament feels like a little promise of magic, waiting to light up the winter nights.

“Yeah, not the easiest thing to push through,” he chuckles, his laughter a quiet rumble, like distant thunder softened by clouds.

He returns the cart, clumsily navigating the slippery ground, and then hands you the keys with a smile. Sliding into the driver’s seat, you take the wheel and guide the SUV back to his place, where the real magic begins.

Inside his warm home, Namjoon hauls the bags and boxes indoors, and you peel off your thick coat, the heat wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. His house feels almost like your own now, a second heart beating in rhythm with your own. You move easily into his kitchen, making tea with the practiced comfort of someone who belongs there. The kettle sings as you pour hot amber liquid into cups, steam curling like ghostly ribbons.

Namjoon, meanwhile, sifts through his purchases, creating little piles of tinsel, baubles, and gingerbread house kits, organizing the chaos with a delighted gleam in his eye. You join him in the living room, stringing up fairy lights that twinkle like fallen stars, draping garlands of tinsel over every surface. He paints his windows with swirling snow scenes and delicate winter landscapes, and you marvel at his handiwork, secretly wishing he’d come and transform your windows, too.

Christmas music fills the room, and the two of you sing along, voices blending together in a harmony of laughter and half-remembered lyrics. You dance around the room, giggling until your cheeks ache, joy blooming warm and bright against the winter outside. When the final ornament is hung on the tree and the garlands rest perfectly in place, you both collapse onto the couch, still breathless with laughter. Your playful energy lingers, bubbling over into gentle touches and mischievous smiles, and you find yourselves tangled together on the sofa, the festive glow softening every shadow. Time slips away until it’s late, the kind of late that feels heavy with dreams, and you realize it’s time to go home. But even as you leave, Namjoon’s warmth and the laughter you’ve shared linger, lighting up the cold night like the twinkling stars outside.

You take a step back, your eyes wide and brimming with a sense of wonder, marveling at the world you’ve created within the cozy walls of your home. The decorations glow softly, string lights shimmering like constellations, and every garland and ornament seems to dance in the warm embrace of the holiday spirit. Namjoon’s snowy landscapes even grace your windows, delicate swirls of frosted white transforming your view into a winter fairy tale. It feels so perfectly Christmas—Hygge, as the Danish call it, a word that holds all the warmth and comfort of shared moments and quiet joy.

In the corner stands your plastic tree, tall and proud, adorned with an eclectic mix of ornaments and lights. Its colors catch the twinkle of the lights strung around the room, a joyful echo of Namjoon’s more organic tree. You think back to the way he had explained, with that earnest passion of his, why he chooses to get a real tree each year—to support local farmers and give back to the environment in his own way. You remember laughing and teasing him about the effort, happy with your fuss-free tree, but secretly admiring the way he cares so deeply for the world around him.

“Do you want to come with me to the plant store today?” you ask, your voice soft, floating like the steam curling up from your cup of hot cocoa. Namjoon smiles wide, his dimples deepening, and the warmth of that grin feels like a little burst of sunlight on a winter day. He’s wearing glasses today—big, bold black frames, because he lost his contacts—and with his cozy wool turtleneck, he looks every bit the sexy professor you’ve always daydreamed about. You have to stop yourself from staring, but God, the man is a vision, and he’s right here beside you, yours. Well, hopefully he’s yours—there’s always that tiny flicker of uncertainty, but for now, it feels enough.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says, his voice rich with warmth.

You drain the last of your cocoa, savoring the sweetness, and soon the two of you are bundled up, making your way across the icy path to his SUV. You take the driver’s seat without hesitation, your hands confident on the wheel. The snow-laden roads have always felt thrilling to navigate, and the car hums softly with the gentle croon of Christmas music drifting from the radio.

The silence between you is comfortable, wrapped in the magic of the season, until Namjoon turns to you, breaking the quiet with a question. “What are you doing this Christmas?” he asks, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

You flick the windshield wipers on, watching the snow melt away in streaks. “Just spending it with Kookie,” you say, your smile bittersweet. “Without my mom, and with my dad’s Alzheimer’s… well, I just stay home now.” Your voice carries the weight of old memories, the ones that sting a little but still feel precious. You can’t help but think of past Christmases, filled with laughter and warmth, and the ache of their absence lingers, but so does the gratitude for what you still have.

Namjoon shifts, his concern evident. “You’re not going to visit your dad?” he asks, his curiosity mingling with worry, and he quickly realizes it might be a painful subject.

“I do visit him,” you explain softly, your voice gentle, like a snowflake drifting down. “But… he doesn’t remember me as his daughter anymore. It’s hard, sitting there and watching him struggle to place me. But I still go, even if he doesn’t know who I am. Because, well, it matters.” The sorrow is there, but it’s wrapped in acceptance, a quiet strength you’ve carried for years. You catch the sadness in Namjoon’s eyes and smile, a small reassurance. “It’s alright. Really. I’ve made peace with it. And Kookie makes Christmas feel like family again.”

Namjoon’s frown lingers, but there’s something tender in his expression, an unspoken promise that he understands, or at least wants to. And in that shared moment, with snow whispering against the windows and the world cocooned in winter’s embrace, it feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“What about you?” you ask, your voice warm with curiosity as you guide the car onto the road leading to your favorite sanctuary—the plant store, a haven of greenery and seasonal enchantment, where Christmas decor shimmers among leafy life.

Namjoon’s eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. “I’m spending Christmas with my sister, nephew, and my parents. They’re all coming to my place because, you know, I’ve got that big house now,” he says with a laugh that dances in the air. You recall the image of him from months ago, holding that little boy’s hand. You’d once mistaken the child for his own, only to learn he was the devoted uncle, always stepping in to help his sister.

“That sounds really lovely,” you muse, your voice softening with a wistful undertone, like the ghost of a melody from a long-lost song. The ache is familiar: a yearning for the warmth and chaotic joy of Christmases past, for the easy laughter and the irreplaceable comfort of family. A tear slips, unbidden, down your cheek, and you quickly brush it away with the back of your hand, hoping he won’t notice. But Namjoon’s gaze, gentle and perceptive, catches everything.

He reaches out, his hand warm on your thigh, a grounding touch. “Maybe… we could have a Christmas dinner?” he suggests, his voice hopeful. “Just for our friends. Maybe the day before Christmas Eve, since that’s when my family arrives.”

You sniffle, pulling the car into the bustling parking lot, where cars glisten under a light dusting of snow. Unlike Namjoon, who prefers the solitude of the far-off spaces, you park right up front, as close as you can get. “That sounds really nice,” you admit, though your words carry a hint of guardedness. “But, please, don’t turn it into a pity party for me.”

Namjoon nods, understanding shining in his dark eyes. “That wasn’t my intention,” he promises. “I just think it’d be nice for all of us. No pity, just good company and holiday cheer.” His smile is genuine, disarming, and he unbuckles his seatbelt as you cut the engine, the car falling silent save for the occasional thud of snow hitting the windshield.

Stepping out, the cold air nips at your skin, each breath a puff of white mist. The snow falls steadily, blanketing the world in a quiet, crystalline beauty. You hurry to grab a cart, already anticipating the treasures you’ll load into it.

Inside, the store is an odd middle ground between brisk and balmy, chilled enough to keep the plants thriving but not as bone-numbing as the winter outside. The first thing to catch your eye is the dazzling array of string lights, tinsel, and an extravagant display featuring Santa’s sleigh, his reindeer poised mid-flight over faux snow, glistening like diamond dust. Namjoon’s eyes widen with childlike wonder as he drifts toward the scene, marveling out loud at every intricate detail. His awe is contagious, and you find yourself grinning as he disappears into a life-sized gingerbread house, its candy-cane pillars twinkling.

Together, you weave through aisles of holiday magic. You pick up a snow globe with a penguin bundled in a sky-blue scarf, the world inside it swirling with glittering snow. It makes you smile, so into the cart it goes. Purple ornaments catch your eye—rare and radiant, the perfect find for your collection. You toss them in with a feeling of quiet triumph. Your hand lingers on a wooden reindeer, beautifully carved and rich with detail, a rustic piece that seems to carry the very spirit of the forest. You trace its elegant antlers with your fingertips, then place it carefully in the cart.

Namjoon catches your eye, his glasses slightly fogged from the store’s temperature shift, and your heart does a little flip.

Namjoon stands in the store, eyes wide with wonder, looking at everything like a child waking up to magic on Christmas morning. His excitement radiates, pure and joyful, igniting the air around you with an energy that is impossible to resist. Yes, the store might resemble a festive explosion—every aisle drenched in holiday cheer as though Santa himself had painted the place with his overflowing bag of marvels—but watching Namjoon, awe-struck and glowing, is everything. A smile blooms on your face, gentle yet irrepressible, as your heart picks up speed. It flutters wildly, as if it holds a kaleidoscope of butterflies desperate to take flight. Warmth rises to your cheeks, a blush deepening and spreading, while your mind surrenders to thoughts of him and only him.

A quiet realization unfolds, maybe you should finally have that “where is this going?” talk with Namjoon. Because, damn, you know you’ve fallen hard, hopelessly and beautifully.

Your eyes catch sight of an aisle bursting with rolls of gift wrap, and you drift over, searching for the minimalist designs that you love. Just as you reach out for a roll in understated gold, Namjoon clears his throat, drawing your gaze back to him. There’s that smile, the one that makes your heart skip and your knees feel like jelly. He points upward, and you follow his gesture to the ceiling. String lights twinkle in every hue, casting a soft, whimsical glow. Hanging there, nestled amidst the colorful illumination, is a sprig of mistletoe; vivid green with playful red berries, promising a bit of holiday mischief.

A laugh escapes you, light and melodic. “Oh, so you want a kiss?” you tease, your voice brimming with warmth.

Namjoon chuckles, and the sound feels like a spark lighting up something inside you. “You know,” you murmur, leaning in just a touch, “you don’t need mistletoe to kiss me. I always want to kiss you.”

He doesn’t need any more prompting. Both of you move at once, lips meeting in a rush that’s tender yet hungry. The world falls away as your mouths meld together, and his hands find their way around your waist, pulling you into his embrace. You melt into him, a soft moan slipping from your lips, echoing the need that simmers between you. When you finally break apart, a breathless laugh leaves your mouth, the air between you charged and electric. Namjoon’s gaze is dark and glassy, his desire plain to see, and you know yours must mirror the same intensity.

“Are you done with your shopping?” he asks, his voice husky and threaded with want. His words make you bite your lip, heat pooling low in your belly as you nod, barely able to think straight.

“Great,” he replies, his tone velvet and commanding. He takes the cart from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours with a touch that leaves you reeling, and he pushes it toward the checkout. His assertiveness makes your pulse race, a delicious thrill running through you. Somehow, you manage to pay for the Christmas treasures and help load everything into his car, though your mind spins with anticipation. Namjoon returns the cart, his long strides carrying him back to you as snow continues to fall, whispering secrets to the earth.

You climb into the car, turning it on. The heat slowly creeps in, but the temperature between you and Namjoon is already scorching. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken desires, the kind of tension that crackles and leaves you breathless. He hums along to the Christmas song playing softly on the radio, but your thoughts wander, fixating on his voice, his lips, the memory of the way he kisses you, the way his mouth explores your pussy. You shift uncomfortably, desire making you restless, and you catch yourself before you lose focus on the snow-laden road.

Namjoon chuckles, a low, knowing sound, but he doesn’t move to touch you, though his presence is intoxicating. A part of you craves his hands, his warmth, his everything, but you’re grateful for his restraint. Not while you’re driving, you think, exhaling in a blend of frustration and exhilaration. It would be dangerous, especially on these slick, icy streets. Yet even without his touch, the tension coils tightly, promising a night that will be anything but cold.

You pull into your driveway, snowflakes swirling and dissolving in the twilight air, and as soon as the car engine cuts off, anticipation buzzes through your veins. With a swift click of your seatbelt, you’re out of your restraints and leaning over. You grab the thick collar of Namjoon’s jacket, tugging him closer, your mouths colliding in a heated, desperate kiss. Your lips part, breaths mingling, and a low growl escapes you, primal and hungry, as if you’ve been starving for this moment. You don’t know how long you devour each other like that, your hands fisting his jacket, your heart racing as he groans into your kiss.

When you finally break apart, Namjoon’s chuckle rumbles between you, warm and infectious. “Shouldn’t we… maybe… take this inside?” he teases, his voice husky, eyes glittering with barely restrained desire.

You bite your lip, a playful grin spreading across your face. “Yeah, we should.” Without a second thought, you scramble out of the car, forgetting the mound of Christmas decorations packed in the back. You only have one thing on your mind. Grabbing Namjoon’s hand, you lead him through the cold afternoon, hurrying to escape the winter air and into the sanctuary of warmth inside.

Once you’re in, both of you shed your coats and kick off your boots in a frenzy, laughter echoing in the foyer. His eyes are dark, stormy with arousal, and your pulse quickens, a delicious anticipation settling in your core. “I don’t think Jungkook’s home,” you say, your voice breathy as you nibble your lip, taking his hand again. He lets you drag him up the stairs, his grip firm, electrifying.

Inside your room, you don’t waste a second. You pull him close, your hands cradling his face as you kiss him with a ferocity that makes your knees weak. His hands slide to your waist, guiding you back until your legs hit the bed, and you can’t suppress the shudder that rolls through you.

“Namjoon,” you pant, lips brushing his, “I want you. I need you.”

His eyes burn with intensity as he rasps, “I know. I need you too, baby.” The low, gravelly timbre of his voice sends a wave of heat coursing through you, but frustration boils over.

“I want your cock,” you admit, desire raw in your voice, making no room for subtlety.

He pauses, then breaks into a chuckle that’s rich and rough, slicing through the tension with ease. “My cock, huh?” he teases, eyebrows arching. “Is that all I’m good for?”

You pull back slightly, heart lurching at the implication, and your eyes widen in disbelief. “What? No,” you insist, voice softening, sincerity bleeding through. You turn your gaze to him, your expression fierce but tender. “Your cock is nice and very good, but it’s you that I love,” you confess, the words tumbling out, bare and vulnerable.

For a beat, there’s a silence that seems to suspend the universe. Your heart stops, bracing for his reaction, hoping you haven’t ruined this, that you haven’t scared him off. But then his lips curve into a smirk, one so full of warmth it melts your doubts.

“Good thing I love you too,” he murmurs, pulling you close again.

You don’t get the chance to respond; his mouth is on yours, urgent and consuming. He presses you down onto the bed, his lips trailing from your cheek to your ear, where his breath ghosts over your skin, sending shivers of delight racing down your spine. You moan, your eyes fluttering shut, breath hitching as he whispers in your ear, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m going to fuck you so good, babe,” he promises, his words sending a molten thrill straight through you. “So good that no one else will ever compare.”

The sheer need in his voice makes you pant, heat pooling between your thighs. “I don’t want anyone else,” you whisper, your hands splaying over his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart.

��Me neither,” he murmurs, before dipping down to suck a mark into the curve of your neck. The sensation makes you moan, your pussy clenching with anticipation. God, you’re already soaked, desire pulsing through every nerve, and as he lays claim to your skin, you know you’ll never want anyone but him.

He pauses, lips still flushed from the kiss, and pulls back with a soft, playful sigh. “These glasses are in the way,” he mutters, sliding them off and setting them aside. Your immediate frown makes him laugh, a deep, resonant sound that you feel in your chest.

“What?” he asks, eyes dancing with amusement. “Do you actually like my glasses?”

You bite your lip and nod, a smirk curving your mouth. “Yeah. You look stupidly hot with them on—like some impossibly sexy professor,” you giggle, the words spilling out like a secret you’ve been holding in.

His eyebrows lift, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Oh?” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again, lips brushing yours with renewed heat.

You giggle, the lightness of the moment threading through your desire. “But can you even see me?” you tease, your voice lilting.

He chuckles, a warm rumble against your skin. “Not very well. You’re just a blurry outline.”

“A sexy blur,” you correct with a laugh, playfulness and arousal weaving together.

He hums in agreement, nuzzling your neck, his lips leaving a trail of fire. “My sexy blur,” he whispers, sending shivers racing down your spine. But you gently push him back, your eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I want you to really see me,” you say, your fingers searching the bed until they find his glasses. You carefully slip them back onto his face, adjusting them so they sit just right. “There,” you whisper. “Now you can see me again. My sexy Joon.”

Namjoon grins, the lenses framing his eyes in a way that makes your pulse race, and he slowly straightens, standing at the edge of your bed. His hands move with purpose as he undresses, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal hard planes of muscle and soft, warm skin. When he’s down to his black boxers, his arousal straining visibly against the fabric, you can’t help but draw in a sharp breath, desire crackling in the air between you.

He watches as you sit up, your gaze locked on him, and you lift your shirt over your head, casting it aside. Your bra follows as does your pants and panties, and the sound Namjoon makes—a low, guttural moan—sends a flush spreading over your skin. His gaze drinks you in, dark and reverent.

He leans toward your pussy, his intentions clear, but you stop him with a playful chuckle, pushing lightly at his chest. “Please,” you say, your voice husky, “just fuck me already. I’m ready, and I want you so bad.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh, shedding his boxers in one swift motion. He wraps a hand around his cock, giving himself a few firm strokes to steady himself, and you lie back, spreading your legs in invitation. Your body trembles with anticipation, your need palpable.

“Hm,” you tease, wiggling your hips with a grin. “I’m ready to open my petals wide for you. Come and claim me.”

He laughs, a delighted sound, his hands warm as they grasp your thighs. “Cute,” he says, but his smile is laced with desire as he lines himself up with your entrance. Just as he begins to push into you, a wicked gleam sparks in his eyes. “I’ve got a pun too,” he pants, his voice thick as he stretches you open, inch by inch.

“I think it’s time to fertilize this relationship.”

You hold your breath, feeling him fill you, your body arching in response to the exquisite pressure. His words finally register as he settles fully inside, and you gasp, a laugh bubbling up through the haze of pleasure. “Wait—did you just say you want to fertilize me?” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows, your voice breathless and amused.

Namjoon groans, his laugh turning into a deep grunt as he moves, your bodies pressed together, the playful intimacy of the moment making everything feel impossibly right. “Maybe I did,” he whispers, his breath hot on your skin, his hips beginning to move in a rhythm that leaves you breathless.

His breath catches in his throat, a strangled groan spilling out, thick with pleasure. “God, you’re so tight, babe,” he murmurs, voice rough, a velvet rasp that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers grip you with a fervent need, and his hips meet yours in a dance of primal rhythm. His lips brush your ear, whispering sin into the dark. “Yes,” he growls, each word laced with yearning, “I want you to take all my cum.”

A heat unfurls within you, wild and untamed, and a fevered cry breaks from your lips, back arching, body yearning for more. “Fuck yes,” you gasp, your voice trembling, a symphony of need and desire, “fill me, stretch me, make me yours.” He pulls back, a tease of agony, before plunging in again, deeper this time, and a wave of sensation washes over you, stealing your breath, making your world fracture into shards of pleasure. Toes curl, your heartbeat roaring in your ears, and you claw at his biceps, desperate to hold onto something solid.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracking with urgency, “Fill me up. I want to feel you everywhere, for you to watch your cum drip from my pussy—” A shudder courses through you, and you add, breathless and trembling, “And then fuck it back inside, and give me more.”

A groan rumbles in his chest, and you feel his body tense, the delicious twitch inside you betraying how your words unravel him. “Fuck,” he gasps, the curse a melody wrapped in desperation, his thrusts becoming brutal and consuming. His eyes darken, a storm threatening to drown you both. “My perfect little cockslut,” he grits out, voice threaded with awe and possession, “always so needy for my big cock.”

You wrap your legs around him, pressing your heels into his lower back, desperate to pull him deeper. His thrusts find that secret spot inside you, and the world around you shatters. Your cries echo in the room, a crescendo of ecstasy. “Joon-ah!” you cry, voice a broken plea, and he responds, hips driving harder, chasing your unraveling.

“My beautiful little slut,” he pants, voice cracked and shattered, “made to take me. Made to come for me.” His rhythm is relentless, and the coil in your belly winds tight, snapping like a bolt of lightning. Pleasure blooms through you, so vivid it turns your vision to a white, a brilliant blur. Breathless, undone, you tremble, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He catches your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans, and he drives into you, each thrust deeper, leaving you raw and oversensitive. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling, clutching as your body convulses, waves of bliss surging through you. You feel yourself unravel completely, and he moves with you, relentless, sending you spiraling further into the pleasure you never want to escape.

“So good, my love,” he murmurs, a reverent hymn of praise, and your body responds instantly, your core clenching, a desperate, needy flutter. His eyes darken, desire a tangible force between you. “You ready for me to fill you up?” he asks, his voice a teasing growl, and before you can answer, his strong hands grip your thighs, pulling you open wider, pinning you beneath him as he begins to thrust harder, deeper.

“Yes!” you cry, your voice raw, your need laid bare in that single, breathless scream. His hips snap against yours, each movement carrying a delicious, reckless abandon. One hand drifts between your bodies, and his fingers find your clit, drawing tight, wicked circles that send electricity racing through you. The buildup is sudden, overwhelming—a storm surging through you with a force that steals your breath. You’re undone, surprised by your own body’s eager surrender.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, every nerve alight, toes curling from the rush of pleasure. “I’m going to come again,” you moan, and your head falls back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat, every inch of you arched, straining, craving.

“That’s it, babe,” he coaxes, voice raw and full of awe as he watches you come undone. His gaze never leaves you, and he drives into you with relentless precision, chasing his own high as he feels you pulse around him. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he rasps, his voice cracking with the strain, his own pleasure just out of reach. He’s relentless, a man driven by your shared ecstasy.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, and the words unravel you further. Your head tosses back and forth on the sheets, body a trembling, heaving wreck of sensation. His eyes meet yours, a connection sparking between you, and your breath comes in frantic pants. “Namjoon,” you plead, and his mouth softens, the intensity in his eyes tempered by tenderness.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice a soothing whisper, “I’ve got you.” His thrusts quicken, become erratic, and his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in as he hovers at the precipice. “I’m almost there, babe,” he promises, and with a few more deep, punishing thrusts, you feel him shudder, a guttural groan escaping his lips. His release pulses into you, warmth spilling inside as he cries your name, his face twisting in a perfect symphony of pleasure.

You watch him, utterly captivated—his glasses slipping slightly, his jaw slack with bliss—and the sight alone threatens to push you to the brink again. His movements slow, hips stuttering, his body collapsing gently into yours as the high fades. Still trembling, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s as soft as it is reverent, and you can’t help but giggle, delight spilling over.

He slips out of you, eyes darkening once more as he watches his release trickle from you, and your pussy clench around the emptiness, a final echo of your desire. With a satisfied groan, he flops down beside you, laughter bubbling up between you both. His hand rakes through his tousled hair, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

You turn your head toward him, the world around you spinning with a dizzying, intoxicating mix of something sweet and wild. Your heart pounds in your chest, a cocktail of longing and reckless abandon. You know you have to ask him, and you have to ask now. The words spill from your lips before you can stop them, raw and urgent. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” you breathe out in a rush, like you’ve been holding your breath for far too long.

His eyes catch yours, a grin spreading across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Of course,” he replies, his voice warm and steady, like he’s known all along.

You smile back at him, and in that instant, the weight you’ve been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Your heart feels lighter, like it’s fluttering in your chest, freed from the gravity of uncertainty. He leans in, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His voice is soft, but there’s a sincerity to it that makes your heart ache in the best way. “You’ve got me blooming in ways I’ve never felt before.”

A laugh bursts from your lips, spontaneous and full of joy. “You’re corny,” you tease, the warmth between you igniting the spark of something real, something tender.

He chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your pulse race. “Good thing I love you, you nerd,” you add, his eyes gleaming with affection, the kind of love that feels both easy and electric.

You bite your lip, feeling a rush of warmth crawl up your neck. “Ouch. Just be happy that I love your bitchy and bratty mouth,” he smirks playfully, his hands moving to pull you closer.

The air shifts as he sits up on the bed, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Speaking of,” he says, voice dropping low with a teasing edge. “Should I clean you off, or give it some time to let my seed settle inside you?”

Heat rises in your cheeks, the words hanging heavy between you, and you nearly choke on the air. “Please fuck me again, Joonie,” you whisper, the rawness of your need almost too much to take.

His lips curl into a slow smile as he lowers his mouth to your stomach, kissing you with a reverence that steals your breath away. His lips trail upward, brushing across your breasts, your neck, and finally landing on your mouth in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Then give me a moment,” he murmurs against your lips, “and I’ll be ready to go again.”

But before you can lose yourself completely in the heat of the moment, your phone vibrates multiple times on the nightstand, the interruption sharp and unwelcome. You glance at the screen, curiosity piquing in your chest, and your stomach sinks when you see the flood of messages. They’re all from Jungkook.

You groan in embarrassment, cringing at the thought of what might be waiting for you in those texts.

“What is it, babe?” Namjoon asks, his voice laced with concern as he notices the change in your expression.

“I guess Jungkook was home all along…” you mumble, heat spreading across your face like wildfire. The realization hangs heavy in the air between you, and both of you understand what it means. Namjoon bursts out laughing, the sound full of warmth and affection. He pulls you into his embrace, his lips trailing soft kisses along your neck, inhaling your scent as if he can’t get enough.

Your laughter bubbles up, the embarrassment melting away in the comfort of his arms, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, lost in your own world of joy and tenderness.

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→ Author’s endnote: I hope enjoyed this one, and please let me know what you liked; you’re always welcome to leave me a comment, a reblog or an ask 🥰 Thank you so much for reading, love you 💜 © @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

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