A/n: More b00ngi prose bc I'm tired and need hugs and maybe you also need hugs
Pairing | Yoongi x (gender neutral) Reader
Warnings | None, I love you
Sometimes Yoongi's favorite place in the house is the library.
He loves it. It's a home for all his books, each shelf built by hand, each panel lovingly painted; precious tomes in repose behind glass cases, worn, retiring paperbacks (dog-eared and faded) basking in the sunlight.
Sunlight, streaming in through the tall windows, the high arches from the floor to the ceiling. The moon and the stars, fixtures visible peeping down at night keeping you, often beneath warm blankets, company.
The way there is no rhyme or reason to which corners the books reside in, besides this is where I was left after the last read, this is my home for now, yellowed pages from age and the sun welcoming you familiarly, the warm embrace of coming home.
The way the hardwood floors are smooth and stable, and friendly to bare feet, and soft enough for backs to lie on, beckoning, for the corners where the floor hugs the wall is mysteriously more inviting than a chair.
This is how you find him, flat on his back facing the tall windows, the sunbeams like gold dust on his fairy lips, lashes spidering on his cheeks, in a white shirt and shorts on a hot summer day.
Shiro the hypoallergenic cat (he insists), curled up, head jammed into his armpit, possessive.
Sometimes your favorite place in the house is the library,
Because this is where he professes for you,
This is treasure island, this is that scene in Beauty and the Beast where Belle walks into the room and knows she'll fall in love with love if it's like this, if it's sharing and giving and opening up and your books belong on these shelves the way you belong with me, in my heart, in my home, with me, in my bed, come undone, but with me, with me, with me,
Fingers, tangling, lips barely kissing, just touching for now, pressed together, faintly a smile, soft shirts and warm skin and holding hands and bare feet on sun-warm wood, with me, with me, with me.
A mantra pulling you through hallways where you like to find him sprawled on the floor.
The way his grin stretches and grows, sunlight across the sky, seeing sci-fi novels interspersed in the architecture and math, the unicorns and lighting fixtures beside the settlers of Mars, the dragons telling the history of tea, the way he sprinkles fairy tales and quaint romance in hidden nooks just for you to find, for you to disappear into, where he'll follow slowly, two steps behind until his fingers creep around your waist and he’s humming into your hair, content.
Where luckily your favorite place in the world is portable (in his arms).
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