I Haven't Been In A While. I Think I Was Just On Last Week, Reblogged One Post And Logged Off. Work Has

I haven't been in a while. I think I was just on last week, reblogged one post and logged off. Work has been dreadful.

Drinking wine... in my feels... I miss you guys... I get zero notifs on here it sucks... 🥺 where are my moots?🥺

@gimmethatagustd @kiestrokes @theharrowing @sailoryooons @cutest-bunny-writings @pamzn @kithtaehyung @jjkeverlast @supernoonanyc @bonny-kookoo @here2bbtstrash @here4kpopfics @eoieopda @agustdsciggy @sopefactory @moni-logues @namchyoon @jihopesjoint and everybody else!!!!!

💜🐈‍⬛💜

I Wanna Hold Your Hand | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Genre: friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, fluff, Roommates!AU

Rating: T

Warnings: pining, a lil’ smooching, Yoongi is very persuasive, reader is easily duped, it's as fluffy as freshly fallen snow

Word Count: 1.4K

Disclaimers: None, other than obviously I don’t own BTS - they simply inspire me

Summary: It's hand-holding season, according to your roommate.

A/N: I wrote this off a prompt from the Winter Wonderland Fic Event, run by the lovely @hellojeongkook ! I know it's early in the holiday season yet, but I was inspired. Unbeta'd as usual. I'd love to know what you think - my inbox is always open! 💕

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

“It’s hand-holding season.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you don’t question him. You’ve been roommates with Yoongi for almost a year now, and he’s always dropping these little tidbits of knowledge, sprinkling them in at random as you go about your days together.

“Back in the 17th century, they paid taxes with rice,” he informs you as he prepares a delicious meal of bibimbap for lunch for the two of you, topping it with a perfectly fried egg.

“Did you know that ‘whisky' means ‘water of life?’” he inquires as he pours you a nightcap, which you share on your balcony overlooking the small, busy neighborhood where your apartment resides.

“The first oranges ever grown weren’t actually orange,” he comments as he peels a tangerine, offering you the first slice as always.

Yoongi is many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. He’s overflowing with this obscure trivia, and you long ago stopped doubting that his facts were true. So when he announces it’s hand-holding season and reaches out, you assume it’s some weird winter tradition you’re not familiar with, not being from this area, and accept his hand.

But it’s not just that one moment. No, Yoongi grabs your hand all the time now. On the couch. In line for the bus. At dinner with your friends, all of whom seem unable to stop grinning every time they look at you. Weirdos. Your fingers interlace as he tugs you to his side everywhere you go.

It’s a little awkward at first. It’s been so long since someone held your hand that you’d almost forgotten the way it feels, palm pressed against palm, fingers curling around each other. But you get used to it, and before long you’re the one extending a hand, grasping, seeking him out.

“Why are you two holding hands?” Jungkook queries one movie night with your friends, sprawled out on the floor in front of the couch where you sit by Yoongi’s side. The movie is paused while you wait for Hobi to return from his kitchen with more snacks. Namjoon looks up from his perch on Hobi’s armchair, eyes going wide at Jungkook’s question.

“Because it’s hand-holding season,” you answer succinctly, sipping on your hot cider.

“Hand-holding… season?”

“Yeah, Jungkook, you know. That time of year when you hold hands. Hand-holding season. It’s pretty self-explanatory,” Yoongi jumps in, looking at Jungkook.

Jungkook nods slowly. “Right… forgot about that one.”

A week later, standing in a cluster with your friends at the bar, listening to some local band perform a mind-boggling mashup of “What Child Is This?” and “Sweet Child O’Mine,” Yoongi excuses himself from the group to get you another drink. His hand drops from yours as he pulls away, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jimin and Taehyung snickering.

“What?” you inquire, frowning as you realize they were laughing at you. You lower your head, eyes narrowing to thin slits as you glare at your friends, waiting.

“Nothing,” Jimin insists, but you aren’t convinced and only after threatening to expose his deepest, darkest secret (he didn’t break his nose two years ago after getting into a fight defending your honor at a party; he just got so drunk that he ran into a glass door) does he continue, “It’s just… the hand-holding. It’s cute! But like… you know that’s not a thing, right?”

“What do you mean, it’s not a ‘thing?’ It’s some sort of local winter custom or something. Isn’t it?” Your voice falters as you catch the look on their faces.

“Sweetie,” Taehyung begins, his voice kind, almost pitying, “no. He just wants to hold your hand.”

There’s no time to process this before Yoongi returns. He clasps your hand and you stare at where your fingers are laced with his, wondering.

The night rolls on and eventually your friends drift off. Soon it’s only you and Yoongi, but once he sees you fighting to stifle a yawn and failing miserably, you head out into the snowy night, homebound.

Snowflakes swirl around you on the trek home, but the air feels heavy with something else. Something unspoken. Everything around you is covered in a fluffy white blanket that shimmers slightly under the streetlights, and you could easily get lost on these streets just as easily as you get lost in your thoughts. But that familiar sensation at your side, Yoongi’s fingers clutching yours, reassures you. It’s a comforting weight, anchoring you in the moment.

Back inside your place, you collapse on the couch, wrapping a velvety throw around you as Yoongi brings you both some water. He sits next to you, hand seeking yours immediately. He natters on about something someone did at work but you’re not listening, thinking about Taehyung’s words.

“Yoongi,” you interrupt him, and his mouth draws into a straight line as he waits to hear what could be so important that you’d cut him off. “What other seasons should I know about?”

He cocks his head questioningly. “Huh?”

“It’s hand-holding season,” you state. “What’s next?”

His face remains blank. But he’s quiet a little too long, so you go on.

“Is cuddle season next?” you ask, sliding closer to him until your thighs touch. He peers at you through hooded eyes, swallowing before speaking. “It could be. I’m not sure. I’d have to check.”

“Mmm,” you reply, nudging his arm with your own until he lifts it. Nuzzling into him, head resting on his shoulder as his arm falls into place around you, you sigh contentedly. “If it isn’t, it should be.”

Yoongi is uncharacteristically silent for once, but his fingers rub soothing circles on your side as he holds you close.

“Yoongi,” you murmur after a moment, voice muffled by his hoodie. Tilting your face up, you peer at your roommate. “I should probably go to bed.”

His dark eyes contain several shades of brown, you realize, with tiny golden flecks glimmering as he gazes warmly at you. From so close, they’re even more beautiful than you thought.

“Yeah, probably a good idea,” he mumbles after a minute, and you rise and bid him goodnight.

Glancing over your shoulder as you pad towards your bedroom, you spy him still on the couch, his fingers tracing gingerly over the spot you just vacated, as if he is searching for your hand even now.

In the morning, Yoongi finds you waiting for him in the kitchen, a mug of coffee ready exactly how he likes it (black). He thanks you, and you wait for him to take a few sips, letting the caffeine jumpstart his brain before you speak.

“So, I figured it out,” you announce excitedly.

“You figured it out?” he repeats, brow furrowing.

Nodding, you grab his hand, weaving your fingers together as you tug him towards the hallway by the door.

“I looked it up while you were sleeping. It’s kissing season next.”

You point up. He does a double take, noticing something tiny and green hanging overhead.

A clump of spinach, tied together with kitchen string, dangling haphazardly from a heating vent.

“Why is the spinach for our lunch hanging from the ceiling?”

“I told you, kissing season is coming! But… we don’t have any mistletoe. So I had to make do.” You beam at your roommate as he stares at you, blinking sluggishly, the gears slowly clicking into place.

“Kissing season.”

“Yes.”

“And you determined this…”

“When I looked it up this morning. Online,” you proclaim, embellishing your lie.

“Online.” His eyebrow quivers minutely, as if he wishes to challenge you, but his expression remains vacant.

“Yes.”

“And it said kissing season comes after hand-holding season.”

You giggle. “Do you need a little more coffee, sleepyhead? Yes, that’s what it said. I couldn’t find anything about cuddle season. It said to prepare for kissing. So, voila!” You gesture over his head. “I think we’re ready, don’t you?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. His face gives nothing away.

So you wait, humming to yourself, hands folded behind your back.

Until he finally breaks.

“I can’t believe you bought it for so long,” he laughs, and you shove him away playfully.

“Hey! You’re no better, thinking you had to make up a stupid excuse to hold my hand.”

He grabs your hand again, thumb tracing lightly over your knuckles. “So I don’t need one?”

“No, dumbass,” you chide affectionately. “You never did.”

The sweet gummy smile you’ve always adored spreads across his face, and you reach out for his other hand, pulling him closer.

“We’re both just a couple of dumbasses, aren’t we?” he mutters softly, nose brushing against yours. You loop both arms around his neck and nod.

“I’m afraid so,” you inform him with a sigh as his lips finally land on yours.

Kissing season, to your delight, never ends.

© 2021-22-23 by sunshinerainbowsbts/minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

How fucking cute is this! Also, now I want fries.

HELLO YOU JUST WROTE ME AN AMAZING DRABBLE FOR MY ANGST PROMPT BUT I AM GREEDY GUTS AND AM BACK FOR MORE

PLZ DO you're the first person to ever ask AND I just feel stupid, okay? IN SOME KIND OF NAMJOON FLUFFY MUTUAL CRUSH SHIT 😚

(hello again miss rose i am so glad you're back~ this one kind of got away from me but i loved writing it so i hope u love reading it!! ♡)

"you're the first person to ever ask" / "i just feel stupid, okay?"

pairing: namjoon x reader

wc: 4k (what's a drabble never heard of it)

warnings: swearing, alcohol usage, mentions of sexual situations & content (nothing explicit in this fic but minors please dni regardless), side sope bc it's me and rose, i didn't edit this bc i'm lazy, ??? this is just a best friends who are idiots 2 lovers fic idk what else to say.

send me drabble requests!

“This is so weird.”

Namjoon looks over at you, his cheeks bulging like a hamster around a buttered dinner roll. Yoongi hadn’t been thrilled with their existence. He’d stressed the importance of serving authentic Korean food, said his grandparents would throw a fit if not, but that’d thrown the resort into chaos, so Hoseok had to step in, smooth out the wrinkles, tell them the five-star menu looked great, thank you so much—

“What is?”

“That,” you say. At the end of your pointer finger are Yoongi and Hoseok, heads knocked together as they speak in a code only they understand. Hoseok’s laughter rings out, prompting a gummy smile from Yoongi. Beside you, Namjoon sighs—a breathy, lovestruck sort of sound. “I can’t believe they’re married.”

Namjoon mirrors Yoongi’s smile. Looks at his two best friends like they hung the stars in the sky. Like they’re relationship goals, or whatever the kids are saying nowadays. “They’re perfect together.”

A choked sort of sound escapes you, prompting a sharp glare from Namjoon. “Don’t look at me like that,” you scold him, handing over another roll on a tiny, fancy dish.

Taehyung frowns, reaching for it back. “Hey! I was gonna—”

“No, you weren’t.” You slide it closer to Namjoon, not wanting to risk another lecture on your romance-based cynicism. Over the years you’ve heard them all, and the thought of enduring another—especially at Yoongi and Hoseok’s fucking wedding—nearly has you retching in your seat.

Because—okay, you can see where Namjoon’s coming from. Where he’s all flowers on the first date and proper courting methods and you don’t have to let me know you got home safe because I’m going to walk you there myself, you’re more… well, none of that. Dating app hookups, horror stories told over brunch about the guy you’d taken home from the bar who didn’t even bother to go down on you before trying to stick it in, months-long situationships that are more like a flashbang than any kind of real relationship.

Namjoon says you’ll have more luck if you’re more receptive. You say he needs to stop taking dating advice from Disney movies.

You sigh. Yoongi and Hoseok are cute. They spark a little bit of hope in your chest, a little bit of longing, but you swallow it down along with the rest of your drink. Something fruity and disgusting Jimin had handed you, claiming Taehyung didn’t want it because all the sugar would give him a migraine. Something definitely not strong enough if you have any hopes of lasting until the first dance.

“I’m going to the bar,” you announce. “Anyone want anything?”

Jimin and Taehyung immediately pipe up with their orders. Seokjin and Jeongguk don’t pay you any attention at all, too busy ripping off pieces of bread and rolling them into tiny balls, trying to toss them into each other’s mouths from across the table. Namjoon watches them, jaw slack with horror, and immediately announces he’s coming with you.

You immediately forget what you’re supposed to order the kids so you just order two more fruity things and something strong for yourself. Something from the top shelf that’ll burn as it goes down. Namjoon orders something boring your grandfather would drink and looks very pleased as he mixes it around with a little cocktail straw, ice clanking against the glass as it’s twirled around.

It’s at this exact moment that you realize, not for the first time, how attractive he is. How devastating his dimpled cheeks are—all the time, but especially when he smiles. How golden his skin looks under the amber lighting of this fancy hotel ballroom. How his eyes seem to twinkle when he looks at his two best friends so overwhelmed by love and happiness and the pure joy that accompanies a lifelong promise to love someone forever.

And this—this simply will not do, so you order another drink. Something stronger than the last one, which had been infinitely stronger than the first.

Namjoon doesn’t notice, too busy pointing out people you’d supposedly gone to school with that you wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to your head. He smiles at each one, whispering their names to you before they approach to say hello and you’re put in an awkward situation. But Namjoon’s just like that. Remembers all these little details about everyone—not because he has some crazy strong memory, but because he genuinely cares enough to learn.

It’s horribly endearing.

It makes your stomach hurt.

Because this is not the first time you’ve looked at Kim Namjoon and felt the world tilt. Sometimes you look at Kim Namjoon and you’re overcome with such fondness it feels like it’ll come spilling out of your ears. Sometimes you look at Kim Namjoon and you start to believe all those ridiculous poems he makes you read about destiny and love and soulmates. But sometimes you look at Kim Namjoon and you want to cry, because Kim Namjoon doesn’t look at you the same way.

Time for another drink.

Four turns into five turns into too many. By the time you return to your table, everyone else is gone, taking up space on the dance floor or mingling at other tables like socially well-adjusted adults do. Yoongi and Hoseok are making rounds of their own in between making heart eyes at each other and stealing little kisses that make everyone coo. Which is fine. You’re beyond buzzed, well on your way to full-on wasted, and seeing Yoongi and Hoseok kiss doesn’t fill you with existential dread the way it normally does.

Namjoon would be proud, you think. Maybe the secret to being more receptive to love had been at the bottom of a bottle the entire time.

A displeased scoff pulls you back into the moment. Namjoon’s beside you again, frowning at the empty bread basket. “I’m going to murder Jeongguk and Seokjin.”

“Why?” you ask, despite thinking it’s not a bad idea regardless of the reason.

Namjoon tilts the basket in your direction. “I’m fucking starving and there’s only little bread balls left.” Pure agony flashes across his face. “I’m fucking wasted, too. Drank too much on an empty stomach. Hey, did you know—”

As if by divine intervention, your stomach growls, too. “Yeah,” you say, cutting off whatever fun fact Namjoon was about to share with you. Probably something gross about ruminants and camelids. “Shit, I’m hungry, too. When’s dinner supposed to be?”

“No clue. Some fancy place like this, though? Probably late. Hobi said something about springing for the extended cocktail hour.”

You frown. “Not one person in a weird bow tie has offered me a bacon-wrapped scallop on a skewer or a tiny quiche. I feel ripped off.”

“I’m way too drunk to eat a quiche right now. I’d probably throw up.”

A snort escapes you. “Good, because there aren’t any.” You sigh, then, a wistful look on your face as you recall all the nights in university that you and Namjoon had gone to parties. Got too drunk and had to stumble back to your dorms, stopping every so often so he could groan and throw up in some poor bastard’s shrubbery. Sometimes you’d drink a lot but not too much and stumble into a McDonald’s instead, order way too much food, and eat it on a curb in the parking lot.

“Oh my god.” You moan in a way that’s not appropriate for a wedding reception. Namjoon chokes on a bread ball. “You know what I just thought about?”

“McDonald’s? Because that’s what I’m thinking about.”

Chicken nuggets dance at the edge of your vision. Greasy, soggy fries call to you like a siren song. You can feel the burn of that demonic Sprite in the hinges of your jaw, your lips puckering in anticipation. “Yeah,” you reply, tone a little dazed. “Fuck, I’m so fucking hungry.”

Namjoon looks around the room. Takes note of where everyone is, what they’re doing, how long it’ll take before they’re done doing it. “We couldn’t,” he says, but the wistful look in his eyes gives him away. “We shouldn’t.” A pause. “We shouldn’t?”

No, you probably shouldn’t. “No, we probably shouldn’t,” you agree, “but I know from experience we can bribe Taehyung to cover for us if we bring him back a McFlurry. And, really, if you think about it, Yoongi and Hobi can’t even be mad because who lets their wedding guests starve.”

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “That’s a good point.”

“You say that as if I don’t always have good points,” you quip, almost offended at the insinuation.

“You don’t.”

It’s full-blown offense, now. “Excuse you. What the hell does that mean?”

Namjoon looks ready to fight to the death over this, a PowerPoint presentation full of bulleted lists practically shining behind those eyes of his, but then his stomach rumbles embarrassingly loud and he flushes. “Do you wanna…?”

Those goddamn chicken nuggets are calling to you again. “Yeah,” you decide, no hesitation as you stand and hold your hand out to him. Well, you try to stand. All those drinks you’d thrown back are hitting you at once and you teeter a little on your feet, your hand missing Namjoon’s the first four times he tries to grab it. “Let’s go,” you say once there’s finally contact. Namjoon’s hand is warm, steadying.

You pluck a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, unable to cope.

For some reason, Namjoon does the same.

***

“I always told you I’d take you to dinner in Paris.”

You snort, choking on a piece of chicken nugget. The replica Eiffel Tower gleams behind you as you both sit on the sidewalk, too drunk to care about ruining your expensive clothes. “Not once have you ever said that.”

Namjoon frowns, looking far too serious for a discussion like this. “I definitely have.” Looking over at him, you shake your head as you fight off a smile. Namjoon has never told you he’d take you to dinner in Paris. That’s not something you’d forget. “Well, I’ve definitely thought about it, then.”

“I don’t think that counts,” you say, shoving a handful of fries in your mouth. Your lips are greasy when you smack them together, the salt making them burn a little. “What good does it do me if you just think about it and never do it.”

The words seem to strike a chord with him. He looks over at you, gaze sharp and stone cold sober. Not like he’s seeing you for the first time, but—there’s definitely something there. Something new.

You think he might say something. Feels like the time and place for a confession. Namjoon’s definitely antsy like he’s talking himself up to deliver one, but he just snaps his jaw shut each time he opens it. Shoves more food in his mouth each time you think he might finally do it. Then he’s reaching into his coat pocket to pull out two tiny bottles of liquor he’d nicked from the mini bar in his hotel room.

He offers you one and you take it, unable to wipe the disappointment off your face.

***

The inside of your mouth tastes like battery acid.

Not to mention the throbbing in your skull, the way your entire body protests as soon as you open your eyes to golden sunlight. Your brain seems to be protesting most of all, seemingly taking the day off from recalling everything that happened once you and Namjoon had left the reception the night before. Fast food seems to have been involved, judging from the way your stomach roils, but there’s only a Windows shutdown screen beyond that.

“Wow, I feel like shit.”

You startle, barely resisting the urge to scream. Whether it’s out of fear or the overwhelming sense of disappointment that you’d taken someone back to your room that was almost certainly subpar, you’re not sure. You’re far too hungover to deal with the awkward this was great, but I have places to be talk.

But that voice—you’d know that voice anywhere, and that overwhelming sense of disappointment turns into an overwhelming sense of dread. Having sex with Namjoon has always been at the very top of your list of No Good, Very Bad Ideas. A logistical nightmare, if you’re being honest and completely putting aside the two billion daydreams you’ve had about how it’d feel to get railed by your best friend. Not to mention you’d done it drunk, because now you know how it feels to get railed by your best friend and you can’t even remember.

You swallow, trying desperately to keep the nausea at bay. You’re never eating McDonald’s again. “Um. Did—did we…?”

Namjoon’s silent only as long as it takes for him to take stock of the situation. The gears are clearly whirring in that giant brain of his, and if you didn’t feel like your entire world was falling apart, you’d spare a moment to appreciate how fucking hot he looks when he’s thinking. “I don’t—” He takes a peek beneath the duvet and immediately looks less green. “Well, I’m still wearing my suit pants, so I don’t—I don’t think we did.”

“Oh.” You take a peek, too. “I'm still in my dress.”

Namjoon nods. “That’s… that’s good, right?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Do you remember anything after we left the reception?”

You stay planted on your back, refusing to meet his eye. The ceiling is nice. A great ceiling. Has probably seen lots of debauchery. “I vaguely recall choking on a chicken nugget.”

“Okay. That’s—it’s a start.”

“Yeah. Do you?” Namjoon shakes his head. “Okay. Well, I guess—maybe we just ate McDonald’s and went back to the reception?”

Namjoon nods again, but it’s very weak and not at all convincing. “Yeah, maybe. Hey—maybe we can try, uh, checking our phones? We promised Tae a McFlurry. He definitely would’ve thrown a fit if we forgot.”

“Good point.”

You can see Namjoon smile in your peripheral vision. “You say that as if I don’t always have good points,” he teases gently, parroting your words from the night before.

Despite the clusterfuck in which you’ve found yourselves, you smile, too.

And it’s immediately wiped off your face once you grab your phone and take a look at your lock screen.

Because there, set as your wallpaper, right below the time and the onslaught of text messages asking where you were, is a picture of you and Namjoon, clearly taken the night before.

Because you’re in your dress—the expensive one Jimin has insisted on, and thank god he did because you look incredible—and Namjoon’s in his suit.

Because there’s a man you’ve never seen before standing in between you, smiling at you both.

Because he’s dressed like Elvis.

Because you and Namjoon are kissing, each of you holding up one side of a sign that says JUST MARRIED!

“Oh no,” Namjoon wails. “Oh no, oh fuck, please no—”

You want to say something, maybe give him some kind of reassurance or comfort, but you can’t stop staring. Your life is in shambles and all you can think about is how good you look together. How it must’ve felt to finally kiss him, if those plush lips felt as good as you’ve concluded they must.

Namjoon holds his left hand in front of him. It’s shaking horribly, but not badly enough to obscure the thin gold band on his ring finger. “Please tell me we didn’t…” He takes in a deep breath, tries not to hyperventilate. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.”

He reaches for your hand, then. Finds it beneath the comforter and holds it up, face crumpling immediately as he sees a matching ring on your finger.

And it’s not really the point, all things considered, but Namjoon’s reaction makes you want to cry. Of course he doesn’t want to be married to you, but the obvious and enthusiastic rejection still stings. You’re not sure what other response you expected, but this one’s about as bad as it can get.

You roll onto your side. Pretend to be rifling through your things so Namjoon doesn’t see the swell of tears on your lash line. “I, um. I’m sure it wo-won’t be hard to get it annulled.” You thumb away the wetness beneath your eyes. “I’m sure there’s a million places. We’re—we’re not the first people to get drunk and wake up married, you know?”

Namjoon hears the thickness in your voice. There’s no way he doesn’t, because you can hear it too and it’s impossible to hide. And he just sighs, places his hand cautiously on the swell of your hip. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you’re not sure he’s ever sounded so small. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, clearly unsure what he’s apologizing for.

“Yeah. It’s—it’s fine. Maybe we should just… take some time. Come up with a plan. We can reconvene in a few hours once we’re thinking more clearly.”

Namjoon just nods. He doesn’t say another word as you gather your things and slink down the hall to your own room.

***

“You did WHAT?”

Sighing, you pinch the bridge of your nose and tell yourself not to cry. You’d done enough of that in the shower. Over all four cups of coffee, too. “Don’t—please don’t yell at me.”

“Why not?” Hoseok huffs on the other end of the phone. You can hear Yoongi asking stupid questions in the background.

“Because,” you argue weakly. “I—I just feel stupid, okay? You know I’ve had feelings for Namjoon forever, and maybe something could’ve come from that, once upon a time, but we just fucked up so bad there’s no coming back from it.” A shaky exhale.“He’s probably never going to speak to me again, so not only do I have to mourn a relationship that never was and never will be, I’m also going to lose my best friend. And get a divorce. All before noon.”

Hoseok scoffs. “First of all, I’m your best friend, so that part is clearly untrue. And secondly, you’re not getting a divorce, you’re getting an annulment.”

Let no man say Jung Hoseok isn’t comforting.

“Wow, thanks a lot, Hobi. You’re a real pal.”

He clicks his tongue. “Wow yourself! You’re the one who called me in a panic the day after my wedding! I was blissfully getting railed by my husband—”

“Okay,” you sigh. “I get it. I’m sorry, I’ll let you go.”

“Hey, no, that’s—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I just… didn’t expect this. I’m sorry.”

“You and me both.”

Hoseok’s tone is impossibly soft when he speaks again. “What are you gonna do?”

“What choice do we have? We’ll obviously get it annulled and pretend this never happened.”

He hesitates. “Yeah, I—I guess that’s the best idea, huh?”

Before you can answer, there’s a knock on the door. You bid Hoseok a quick goodbye before you move to answer it, feet dragging the entire way. You’re not surprised to see Namjoon, but that doesn’t stop your hands from shaking. Doesn’t mean the sight of him doesn’t take your breath away.

“Hi,” you say, trying to offer up a smile. “Come in.”

You’re not sure what to do with all your nervous energy so you perch on the edge of the bed, run your sweaty hands up and down your thighs. Namjoon doesn’t seem to be faring much better. Can’t seem to leave his hair alone. Can’t keep his eyes off the floor.

Finally he sighs, sits next to you on the bed. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for you to feel his body heat. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest with me, okay? And I mean honest-honest. There’s no wrong answer here.”

You gulp. “Er, okay.”

Namjoon gulps, too, Adam’s apple bobbing obviously in his throat. “Doyouhavefeelingsforme?”

You blink. “What.”

“Doyouhavefeelingsforme,” he repeats.

“Joonie, can you slow down? I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying.”

He whimpers. Takes a deep breath. “Do. You. Have. Feelings. For me.”

Oh. Well, this certainly feels like a question that has a right or wrong answer. Feels like a question that’ll decide the fate of the universe, one that has an impossible amount of consequences.

“Uh,” you respond eloquently.

Eyes still locked on the floor, Namjoon grabs your hand. You try to ignore the feeling of his wedding band against your skin. “Honest-honest, remember?”

Of course you remember, but how can you possibly put years of feelings into words? How can you justify being in love with your best friend for so long and never telling him despite there being no secrets between you? How can you tell the truth and be selfish enough to ask him to stay, to fix the mess the two of you have made? Because you can be honest, you can deal with the repercussions, but you can’t stomach losing your best friend.

But, if nothing else, you can at least give him what he’s asking for.

“Yes.”

Namjoon slumps. Releases a very fractured breath, and this is it, you think. This is the part where he lets you down with a kindness only Namjoon possesses. This is the part where he regrets to inform you he doesn’t feel the same and extends a half-assed offer to still be friends because he feels obligated to.

Instead, this is the part where he says, “Thank fuck,” and laughs at your dumbfounded expression. Then he moves in to kiss it off your face entirely, and yes, those plush, pillowy lips of his do feel just as good as you’ve imagined. Better, even.

The two of you kiss for what feels like hours. He kisses you slowly and with intent. Kisses you until you feel all the love you have for him returned tenfold. Kisses you until you’re dizzy and drunk on him. Kisses you until you’re laughing until you cry that the first time the two of you are kissing is as husband and wife. Kisses you until you don’t care about the consequences. Kisses you until he’s pulling away to say—

“Maybe it’s too soon to ask, but do you want to, maybe, like… stay married?”

And then you’re laughing again, tears staining your cheeks that Namjoon thumbs away even though he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know why you’re laughing, if it’s at him or with him or at the situation.

“Sorry,” you giggle, “it’s just—you’re the first person to ever ask me that.”

Namjoon’s smile is large and infectious. Has his dimples displayed prominently. “Oh, really?” He presses another kiss to your temple. “So this isn’t a habit of yours, getting drunk at weddings and waking up married?”

You press your no into his mouth. “Just this once.”

“And what’s the verdict?” he asks, tone teasing but there’s vulnerability beneath it. “No wrong answer again. I know this is really backwards.”

You go quiet. “You’d want to stay married? You, Kim Namjoon, the most traditional man on the face of the earth?”

He scoffs. “I am not—”

“Mr. House in the Suburbs With a White Picket Fence?”

“Come on—”

“Mr. Two Kids and a Dog? Mr. Five-Hundred Wedding Guests? Mr. One True Love? Mr. Wifeguy—”

Namjoon groans. “I want a divorce.”

“It’s an annulment, not a divorce.”

“Then I want that, too.”

You shriek with laughter, rolling onto your side to face him. Namjoon is gorgeous all the time, but he’s most gorgeous when he’s happy. That pure, untainted happiness you see on him now. “Do you really?”

“No,” he answers, whisper-soft. “Do you?”

Maybe it’s the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, or maybe it’s the smartest, but you press another no into his mouth.

Shut up, this is so damn cute!

from my notes app:

Just picture it: Yoongi who just... never had a crush. Sure, he has felt attraction that sometimes evolved into something more through dates or other encounters. But a crush? Feet kicking, face blushing, giddy giggles? No, he couldn't say he ever experienced that.

Until you.

Until you showed up, a new manager at the company, and left him shaking in his disconcertingly large boots. You were bright, witty, charismatic and hard working and he stood there, arms hanging by his side awkwardly like a damn emoji, hovering around you unsure about what to do, what to say, how to act.

It was so frustrating! He never felt this way before and at 30 years old he felt as if he was going through a late puberty: voice cracking when he tried talking to you, waking up sweating from a dream way too realistic, poorly timed boners when he saw you walking around the office with skin tight pencil skirts.

His so called friend weren't making it any easier for him: Yoongi had officially become the butt of every joke as the members collectively regressed back to the 5th grade, murmuring everytime you showed up "here comes your wife, hyung, here comes Mrs. Suga".

Thankfully, you seemed unaware of their jabs, even as yoongi's pale cheeks blushed fiercely at the name.

He didn't know whether to be greatful or resentful for your obliviousness. On one side, you didn’t seem to hear the constant on going teasing from the other 6 raccoons he shared a band with, which saved yoongi from the swift death at the pearly hands of embarrassment, ripping his dramatic soul from his even more dramatic body.

On the other hand, you couldn’t seem to take a hint! He tried all of his best moves: standing there silently next to you, offering you a single tangerine, playing the guitar when you walked in whilst offering absolutely no explanation or context, even wearing his most scandalous, whorish outfit: a white tshirt that showed his collarbones instead of his usual 37 layers of clothing.

He didn't know how to make it any more obvious! Should he just take you against the wall of his studio (he totally should!, his lower brain unhelpfully provided as you once again strutted past him leaving him sniffing after your perfume like the fucking dog he was)?

He even tried asking his friends for advice, the lowest form of humiliation possible: Jungkook offered only baby oil and told him to lose a couple buttons. Hoseok made him couple matching beaded bracelets. And Namjoon, scorpio venus horndog, told him to actually go through with the wall taking idea.

Funnily enough, Jin was the one with the most plausible idea: give her a gift, bake her something! Homemade goods would show her how much you care.

So there he was, at thirty years old, holding onto a plate of cookies like a lifeline, cold sweating in front of your office, ready to flee the building and suck up those cookies like a hungry Kirby and mop in his own lameness like the international grammy nominee celebrity he was.

And then you opened the door and his body just reacted on his own, thrusting the plate towards you silently as his eyes screamed pure panic.

"For me?" You asked and he just nodded "Thank you so much, you are so sweet!"

Yoongi felt his lips curving and even without a mirror he could tell he had a dumbstruck smile on his face.

"What's the occasion?"

Ask her out, he urged himself. Tell her how you feel, how you can't stop thinking about her face, how her smile fuled his daydreams and her perfume haunts his days, bleeding into his psyche and sinking its claws into his heart, turning every song he wrote into a proclamation of adoration and lust, tell her how...

"Hm, for all y-your hard wo-work" he sputtered, mentally face palming himself at his own words.

Bugger.

Bugger it all to hell.

I just want to put him in my pocket and kiss his little nose.

he's got the prettiest smile 🥺 (cr. qdeoks)

"Where did he learn...? 🐹🐨💘💌💋 based in @darklephise-art "Ship dynamics idea" Full nsfw version [HERE]