. ❛ ༉‧₊˚ · Summary ─── An intense making out with your boyfriend James on the dorm’s sofa is a bold choice. But who are we to judge?
. ❛ ༉‧₊˚· Content ─── established relationship · idol au · fluff · reader has braids cause I said so · lap sitting · dry humping · long ass making out · skinship · kissing (obvi) · 2.0k wc
The coffee had gone lukewarm in your hands, but you did not really mind. James had finished his hours ago and left the mug on the floor near the TV, forgotten against the baseboard. You were both sunk deep into his couch, that oversized grey sectional that swallowed people whole, legs tangled under a blanket that smelled like his detergent and the faint trace of the vanilla candle he had lit earlier and promptly ignored.
You had been there since ten, still in your stuff from the gym, your small braids pulled back from your face with a soft band, a few loose ones framing your temples where they had dried weird from your washday. James looked even more undone. Sweatpants riding low on his hips, an old faded tee from some predebut photoshoot, hair still messy from sleep. He looked normal. Not like the guy you had watched on that music show last week, all sharp angles and stage makeup. Just James.
He had the remote but was not really using it. Some autoplay garbage ran on the TV, travel vlogs bleeding into clips of people falling off skateboards, whatever the algorithm decided to serve. Every so often he would laugh, this low huff that vibrated through the couch cushions, and his foot would nudge yours under the blanket like he was checking you were still there.
"You are not even watching," he said, nodding at your phone. You were scrolling through nothing, some food blog you would never cook from.
"I am. That guy just broke his tailbone."
"That was three videos ago."
"Multitasking girlfriend right?."
He smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and stretched. His shirt rode up enough to show his stomach. He did not fix it. He never did. His hand landed on your knee when he settled back down, casual as breathing, thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric of your leggings. Warm. Distracting.
The afternoon light came through the blinds in stripes, cutting across his shoulders. He looked soft in it, touchable. You felt yourself leaning in before you even decided to, drawn by the smell of his soap and the way he was looking at you, all soft focus and intent.
He noticed. He always noticed. His hand slid up your thigh, not grabby, just present, grounding. "Come here," he said, voice gone quiet and rough.
That was when your brain caught up. You glanced at the door, solid and locked but still, and felt your shoulders tense. "Wait."
He stopped immediately, hand stilling on your leg. "What?"
"What about the others??"
James blinked, confused for a second, then his face cleared into something gentler. "They’re at the studio. They are all at the studio. Training until six. I told you."
"I know, but..." You sat up a little, the blanket slipping to your waist. "What if one of ‘em forgets something? You know they always do. Keonho came back last Tuesday..."
"At four," James interrupted, soft but firm. He sat up too, turning to face you properly, his hand moving to your waist instead. "It was Tuesday at four, yeah, but that was a vocal lesson day. Today is choreography. They do not break from dancing. The choreographer would beat their asses if one of them even thought of leaving."
You bit your lip, still looking at the door. "And the manager?"
"He always calls first." James reached out, his fingers finding your chin, turning you back to look at him. "You know that. He calls. He waits. He complains. He is not gonna just kick the door down." He waited, thumb brushing your jaw. "We are good. I promise."
He was looking at you with that expression, the one that made you feel silly for worrying but also safe for admitting it. His thumb traced your cheekbone, back and forth, patient.
"You sure about that?" you asked, quieter.
"Positive." He leaned in, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow from some predebut accident he never fully explained. "It is just us. For like three more hours. Just us."
Something in your chest unclenched. You nodded, small and sure.
He smiled again, real and relieved, and closed the distance. His mouth found yours soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that started like a question and got answered yes. His hand at your waist pulled you closer, easy, and you went, shifting up onto your knees so you could lean into him better. The blanket got messed up, kicked aside somewhere to the floor, but neither of you cared.
He tasted like the mint gum he had been chewing earlier, sweet and sharp. One of his hands came up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your braids at the nape, not pulling, just holding, learning the shape of them. The other stayed at your hip, thumb tracing circles that you felt through your whole body.
When you pulled back to breathe, he did not let you go far. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half open. "Better?" he whispered.
"Yeah."
"Good." He kissed your nose, then your cheek, then your mouth again, deeper this time, less careful. You felt him smile against your lips when you sighed, embarrassed at the sound, but he just pulled you closer, his hands guiding you until you were fully in his lap, your knees settling on either side of his thighs.
He leaned back into the corner of the couch, taking you with him, his hands moving to your waist to settle you against him. The position brought you chest to chest, close enough that you could feel his heartbeat through his thin shirt. He looked up at you for a moment, really looked, his eyes tracing your face like he was memorizing it. Then he tilted his chin up and brought you down to meet him.
This kiss was different. Hungrier. His mouth moved against yours with purpose, firm and demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips to taste you deeper. His hand slid up your back under your hoodie, palm hot and flat against your skin, while the other cradled your jaw, angling you where he wanted you.
He kissed you like he was starving, tilting his head to get closer, pulling back only to breathe before diving back in, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging gently before soothing the spot with his tongue.
You gasped against his mouth, your hands finding the front of his shirt and fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in his throat, something between a groan and approval, and his hand at your waist tightened, fingers pressing into your hip. Your braids fell forward around your faces, creating a curtain, and he pushed them back with one hand, his fingers getting tangled in them, gripping slightly as he deepened the kiss.
"James," you breathed when he moved to your jaw, his mouth hot and open against your skin.
"Right here," he murmured against your throat, his voice rough, vibrating against your pulse. He kissed the spot hard enough to bruise, then soothed it with his tongue, his other hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling you flush against him. You felt him everywhere, the heat of him through his clothes, the solid muscle of his chest, the way his hips shifted under yours, seeking friction.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, his mouth swollen and wet. "You good?" he asked, but his hand was already moving again, sliding up your side, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your hoodie.
"Yeah," you managed, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. "You?"
Instead of answering, he kissed you again, harder this time, his hand at your back pulling you down so you were pressed fully against him, chest to chest, hip to hip. His tongue swept through your mouth, tasting, claiming, and you met him with equal hunger, your fingers threading into his hair and pulling slightly. He groaned against your mouth, the sound sending heat pooling low in your stomach, and his hips bucked up slightly, seeking pressure.
"Fuck," he breathed against your lips, his hand at your thigh gripping tighter, his fingers digging in just enough to mark. "You feel so..."
He did not finish the sentence. He kissed you again, deeper, his hand sliding up to tangle fully in your braids, gentle with the tension but firm, holding you where he wanted you. His other hand roamed, tracing your spine, your side, the curve of your hip, then sliding back up under your hoodie to touch skin.
You shivered at the contact, his palm warm and slightly calloused against your ribs, and he swallowed the sound you made, his tongue stroking against yours in a rhythm that matched the slow rock of your hips.
The couch creaked beneath you, loud in the quiet apartment, but neither of you stopped. You were too far gone, lost in the heat of his mouth, the way his hands moved over you like he could not get enough, the way his body rose to meet yours with every downward press of your hips. His breathing was ragged against your mouth, his chest heaving against yours, and you could feel his heart hammering, fast and hard.
He broke the kiss to drag his mouth down your jaw, your throat, sucking at the skin there hard enough to make you gasp, his hand at your waist holding you steady while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. "Tell me," he demanded softly, his voice rough against your skin.
"Yeah?"
"If you want to stop." He looked up at you, his eyes dark, serious despite the flush on his cheeks, the way his hair stuck up where you had pulled it. "Tell me. I will stop."
You shook your head, your braids brushing your shoulders, and rolled your hips down against him deliberately. He hissed out a breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, his grip tightening. "Do not stop," you whispered.
He opened his eyes, looked at you for a long moment, then surged up to kiss you again, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your head spin. His hands moved to frame your face, holding you still for his kiss, his tongue stroking deep, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
You felt every point of contact, the warmth of his skin under his shirt, the solidness of his thighs under yours, the hard line of him pressing against you through his sweatpants, the way his fingers trembled slightly against your jaw.
He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, like the afternoon was not enough, like he needed more. And you gave it, your hands fisting in his shirt, your body moving against his, lost in the heat and the weight of him, the taste of mint and coffee and James.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard, chests heaving, his forehead pressed against yours, his hands still framing your face. "You okay?" he asked, voice rough, wrecked.
You nodded, your lips feeling swollen, your body thrumming. "Yeah, how about you?."
He made a soft noise, something like satisfaction, and pulled you down against him, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close, his face buried in your neck. You felt his heartbeat against your chest, fast and steady, his breathing hot against your skin.
The afternoon sun moved across the floor, striping the coffee table. Neither of you moved to fix the blanket. James's hand traced slow patterns at your lower back, though his fingers still trembled slightly, his body tense beneath you like he was holding himself back.
"Was it good?" he asked again, muffled against your collarbone.
You nodded, your chin brushing his hair, and carded your fingers through the mess you had made of it. "Do I have to answer?"
He held you there, tight and warm, and you both listened to the quiet, waiting for nothing, expecting no one.
