childhood bsf!anton x yn | wc: 8.9k
angst, pining, emotions, dry humping & make out at the end
do not fear.. if this does well, there will be a pt. 2 & anton at the end is based off of how he looked on youngji's show.. yummy
anton has broken your heart three times, and counting.
the first time was at the sandbox, when you were both four. he didn’t say hi when you joined him, and he didn’t offer you any of his shovels. your mom laughed when you cried about it later at home.
the second time was in the third grade, when you saw him for the first time in years at an arts summer camp. the two of you were in different camp groups, but you happened to share the same time slot for music class. he was still cute and quiet. he smiled the same way he used to.
you sat beside him with a shy smile. he scooted away.
“anton,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
he looked at you from the corner of his eye before slowly turning toward you.
“we went to preschool together. i’m yn.”
you watched anton open and close his mouth.
“oh, really. that’s cool,” he said dryly, before turning away.
your heart dropped straight to your stomach. it was a worse reply than anything you could have imagined.
your mom laughed about that incident, too.
because your parents knew each other, you heard about anton every now and then. when your mom told you he’d be attending the same middle school as you, you really didn’t care. after the failed conversation at summer camp, you had sworn him off.
but then you saw him.
anton at twelve years old was handsome. his hair had been freshly cut, leaving the back of his neck clean and exposed. he stood slightly taller than the other boys, all long limbs and awkward movements, like he’d grown too quickly and hadn’t figured out what to do with the extra inches yet.
you shared the same homeroom, and this time he greeted you first. you pretended not to care, and he shrugged in response and gave you a tight-lipped smile.
a few weeks into the school year, you learned that anton was musically gifted compared to the rest of your peers, some sort of cello genius. you also learned that he was awkward in more ways than one. not only in the way he moved, but socially, too.
from across the courtyard, you watched him take a step back when a girl approached him with a smile. anton’s cheeks turned pink when she reached up to poke his shoulder. he nodded slowly at whatever she was saying, and you couldn’t help but wonder what could have possibly made him blush like that.
you felt frustrated and wronged at the sight of another girl standing so close to anton. you decided it couldn’t happen again.
after school, you found him slouching outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building.
“anton!” you waved from the door and walked toward him. he didn’t step back the way he had with the girl in the courtyard, and that made you smile.
“hey, yn,” he smiled back.
you wish he wouldn’t. you had to look away before he noticed the pink blooming across your cheeks.
“i’m sorry i didn’t say hi back to you earlier.”
anton watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, only to pull it free and tuck it back again. you were chewing on your lip. he realized he hadn’t answered you.
“it’s ok, i get it,” he gave you a tight-lipped smile.
you let out a relieved sigh and told him that was great. then you waved goodbye and told him you’d see him tomorrow.
anton had been your best friend ever since.
your eyes follow anton as he walks into the cafeteria, shoulders slouched beneath a backpack that is definitely full of things he could get rid of.
he sits at a lonely table in the corner of the room and pulls out a meal-prepped lunch of ground beef and rice. he doesn’t take a bite until he’s put on his expensive noise-canceling headphones and started his music. His eyes stay fixed downward. his leg bounces frantically beneath the table.
you think anton should be more confident. he’s smart, talented, kind, and everything about the boy is gorgeous. you wish he could see himself through your eyes. but then he would be in love with himself.
“i still don’t understand how you’re such good friends with him,” giselle follows your gaze and points her yogurt spoon in anton’s direction.
“i genuinely don’t think i’ve ever seen him open his mouth to speak.”
your other friends glance up from their phones and giggle, looking between you and anton before returning to their screens.
“it’s just been so long. we’re comfortable. we grew up together,” you shrug, and it’s true.
you and anton have grown into completely different people.
he’s continued with orchestra, eventually becoming section leader and making most of his friends there. outside of orchestra, he’s a record-breaking swimmer who, ironically, can barely speak above forty decibels.
no one pays Anton much attention unless he’s standing beside you.
when high school began, you found yourself in the center of everything. teachers loved you, you had friends in every class, and your grades were good. while anton was always alone, you found yourself constantly surrounded by people.
“but do you think that'll last?” giselle stirs her yogurt without looking at you.
“what? me and anton being friends?”
“yeah.”
you furrow your brows. giselle finally looks back up.
“boys and girls can't just be friends,” she says knowingly.
“it’s worked all this time. i can’t see why it would stop,” you answer.
the look on her face makes you want to eat your words, because she knows you like anton, and you know you like anton, and everyone besides anton knows you like anton.
“you’ll meet someone better in college, anyways.” one of your friend offers, nudging your shoulder.
you ponder the reality of college. for the first time in eight years, you and anton will be going separate ways. what if everything between you really does end?
you stop by the orchestra room at the end of the day, as always. anton is sitting on the ground with his back to you. his head hangs low over his phone.
you think he’s adorable.
maybe it’s because he’s so earnest. maybe it’s because he’s so nerdy and quirky. there’s something endlessly endearing about him, something that makes your chest ache whenever you look too long.
you walk over quietly and wrap your arms around his neck.
anton knows it’s you.
he knows how you smell, and he knows how you feel. it’s crazy, but anton thinks he could even recognize the way you breathe. even so, he still freezes every time you’re near. he doesn’t know why.
“i’ll be over after cheer practice,” you say against his ear.
you know his face is red. he brings one of his large hands up and closes it around both of yours, gently pulling you off him.
“i know,” he says so softly, you almost think you imagined it.
the way anton looks at you makes it seem like he wants something more. the way he keeps holding your hands makes it seem even more possible. he shifts his body until he’s facing you completely, and for a moment—just one—you think he might kiss you right here in front of everyone.
then he breaks into a smile and stands up, offering you a hand.
anton is a sweet boy. he’s always been a good boy. sometimes you worry he might be too sweet for his own good. especially in moments like this, when he offers you his hand to help you up. when he insists on carrying your backpack all the way across campus to the gym, even though his car is parked in the opposite direction. when he does things that feel so much like love and never once calls them that.
it would feel right to kiss him on the cheek before you part ways. it would feel natural.
but you know you can’t. so instead, you punch his arm lightly and tell him to drive safe. and anton smiles that small, gentle smile that has been breaking your heart for years.
it’s the end of your last summer with anton and you’ve finally figured out the breaststroke he’s been trying to teach you every week.
being a fresh alumnus on a swimming scholarship to a big university, anton had been granted personal hours at the pool whenever he wanted. the hours you two didn’t spend bussing tables for pocket money were spent at the indoor pool, where anton and you played coach and student.
you’re wearing your lucky bikini when it finally clicks.
the first time you wore it, last summer, anton had been completely lost for words. he’d turned red and coughed whenever you got too close. by the end of the day, after working up an almost painful amount of courage, he’d quietly told you that you looked pretty. you think about it more often than you should.
when you emerge from the water, anton is grinning from the next lane over, shaking his head. You immediately swim beneath the lane line until you’re only a foot away from him. he hasn’t smiled at you like that in a while. it means more than usual.
“i really didn’t think it’d happen this summer,” he admits.
his voice is so soft you probably wouldn’t have heard it from any farther away. so you move closer.
your chest is still rising and falling from the swim when you make your way toward him. underwater, your footing slips. before you can lose your balance completely, anton’s arm wraps securely around your waist. he catches you without hesitation.
one second you’re falling, and the next you’re pressed flush against him.
you’re suddenly terrified that anton can feel your heartbeat through your chest.
the last time his arm had been around your waist like this was when he kissed you in the basement of his family’s lake house.
you never thought your parents would agree to let you and anton spend a few days there together. anton’s parents, sure. yours, never. it was a testament to how much they trusted anton, they’d said.
you brought giselle, and anton brought a friend, too.
even though you’d spent the entire summer in swimsuits around one another, everything felt different at the lake house.
the lake house was skin against skin and stolen glances. it was lingering looks quickly disguised whenever the other person noticed.
every time you climbed out of the water, anton was there waiting with a warm towel. every morning, after his run, he brought back an iced latte for you before you’d even gotten out of bed.
one morning, anton disappeared on a hike with his friend without telling you. so when he came back, you picked a fight with him out of pure spite. you’re not proud of it. in the middle of your anger, you stormed down to the dock and slipped off the edge.
the moment panic set in and your arms began flailing, anton dove in after you. one second you were alone. the next, his familiar arms were around you. he pulled you back to shore.
“are you okay?” his voice had sounded frantic. his eyes looked even worse.
wet hair dripped onto your shoulders as he waited for an answer.
you already knew you loved anton. you’d known for years. but in that moment, it was staring you in the face.
he hadn’t even stopped to take off his shirt. his clothes were soaked through with lake water. all because he’d been worried about you.
a few tears escaped before you could stop them. thankfully, they blended in with the water on your face.
you searched his eyes for any sign that he didn’t love you back. you couldn’t find one. you couldn’t find the courage to speak, either. so you just nodded.
anton spent the rest of the day convinced it was his fault. if he had told you about the hike, you wouldn’t have gotten upset. if you hadn’t gotten upset, you wouldn’t have wandered off. if you hadn’t wandered off, you wouldn’t have fallen. the logic didn’t make much sense, but neither did anton whenever it came to you.
he spent the rest of the afternoon hovering nearby, catering to you in every way he could think of. anton hated when you were mad at him. he hated feeling like he’d done something wrong. sometimes you thought he would do absolutely anything if it meant seeing you happy.
after dinner, giselle puts on a movie that no one is particularly interested in. it’s the last night and you need to pack, so you retreat to your room first, then followed an hour later by giselle, then anton’s friend. around midnight, you sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the creaky floorboards as you make your way downstairs.
the basement was dark except for the television.
anton was still there. another movie played quietly across the screen while his head rested against the back of the couch.
he looked up when he heard you. he scoots over when he sees you at the foot of the stairs, but you sit right beside him anyways, resting your head on his shoulder.
“thank you for saving me earlier, anton.” your voice always sounded softer around him.
“of course, yn,” he replies before sitting up.
“i’m glad you’re ok.”
he’s looking into your eyes again. the basement was dim, but somehow that only made him prettier. your faces are only inches apart, and you think he’s getting even closer.
you were suddenly aware of every breath, every blink, every tiny movement.
“i’m sorry for getting mad at you, too,” you whispered.
anton’s eyes kept dropping to your lips, the same way yours kept drifting toward his. he shook his head.
“it’s okay,” he mumbled. his voice was barely audible.
“you’re the only thing that matters anyway.”
for a moment, neither of you moved. then anton kissed you softly.
the world seemed to stop. you felt detached from your own body, as though you were floating somewhere above the room, watching it happen to someone else.
your first love became your first kiss.
when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your lips.
his hand found yours. he pulled you closer until there was nowhere left to go, gently trapping you between the couch arm and the warmth of his chest.
it was clumsy and messy, but it was anton, so you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
after kissing for what felt like an hour, anton tucked you under the covers in your room and kissed your forehead before retreating to his own room. neither of you ever brought it up again.
“i didn’t think a lot of things would happen this summer,” you admit softly, your fingers tracing absent-minded shapes through the water droplets scattered across anton’s chest. anton coughs and immediately drops his arm from your waist.
anton has been different since the lake house. he’s been more awkward. distant.
you let your hand fall from his chest, but you stay where you are. you’re close enough to see the way his jaw tightens, and to notice that he still won’t look at you. that’s how you know something is wrong. because anton always looks at you.
“our time slot’s almost over,” he says after a moment with a quick glance at his watch. his voice is flat and careful.
when he turns away again, you feel something sink inside your chest.
he doesn't even offer you a hand to get out of the pool.
it’s incredibly hot outside.
the second you step into the sun, you almost groan. the heat presses against your skin like a heavy hand. the pavement shimmers. the air feels thick enough to drink.
but you don’t. you don’t want to do anything that could possibly upset anton. you already think he’s mad at you.
normally, he opens the passenger door before you even reach it. today, he walks straight past you and gets into the driver’s seat.
your stomach sinks.
the heat trapped inside anton’s car is almost as suffocating as the silence between you.
he starts the engine and immediately cranks the air conditioning. then he pulls out of the parking lot without turning on any music. he doesn’t offer you his aux cord, so the two of you drive in silence.
by the time anton parks outside your house, you feel confused and nervous and scared all at once. everything is ending. you move into your dorm next week, so today was the last swimming session of the summer. you and anton don’t have any plans after this. the thought sits heavily in your chest. the way he’s acting makes it worse. the fact that he’s been acting like this ever since the lake house makes you feel sick.
because what happened at the lake only deepened your feelings for him. it solidified them and made you completely confident that he liked you too. because who kisses someone they don’t like? not your anton, you’re sure of it.
you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward him.
“thank you again,” you say, leaning closer.
anton leans toward you, too. almost unconscious, almost instinctive. a small smile appears on his face, shy and reluctant, like he doesn’t entirely mean for it to happen.
“for what?” his voice is quiet, always quiet.
“teaching me the breast stroke.”
neither of you say anything.
you could kiss him right now. you could close the distance and relive that night at the lake house, when everything felt simple and life seemed to settle into the shape it was always meant to have.
your eyes drift to his lips, soft and pink. only inches away.
anton notices. he watches your gaze drop before it returns to his eyes.
his chest tightens. he thinks his heart might burst out of his chest if you get any closer. he’s been a nervous wreck since he picked you up this morning. his pulse hasn’t slowed down once.
everything is a mess.
“i should never have kissed you.”
the words come out suddenly. anton pulls away as if he’s been burned and sinks back into his seat.
for a second, you think you misheard him.
“what?” your heart drops. you watch him drag his hands down his face. the motion looks exhausted. desperate.
you think you stop breathing.
“i never should have kissed you, yn.”
“anton—” you reach for his wrist, but he pulls away immediately. the rejection is so quick it stings.
“i kissed you and i messed everything up, and now things are never going to be the same.”
“wait, stop—”
“i didn’t want to go to college without kissing a girl, okay?”
you shake your head. tears immediately fill your eyes. you know anton. you know him better than anyone, and you know that isn’t true. he wouldn’t care about something like that. he wouldn’t use you. he couldn't.
anton keeps talking, but the words blur together. you can see his mouth moving, and you can hear his voice. but you’re somewhere else. you’re back in the lake, and the water is dark and cold. you’re reaching for something solid, but this time, anton isn’t there to pull you out.
“anton, i’m in love with you.”
the words escape before you can stop them. tears spill down your cheeks, and your bottom lip trembles. this isn’t how you wanted to tell him. you imagined a hundred different confessions over the years. none of them looked like this.
none of them happened inside a sweltering car with tears on your face and your heart hanging open between you.
anton freezes. his brows furrow. he looks confused, flustered.
you tell yourself it’s because he didn’t expect you to say it first. you tell yourself he likes you too. that even though he’s shaking his head right now, he’s going to smile in a second. you tell yourself he loves you the same way you love him.
that he’s going to reach for you. that he’s going to kiss you again before you go inside.
“you shouldn’t have said that.”
silence follows. only the hum of the engine remains. the steady rush of air from the vents fills the space between you.
you feel your heart physically shatter. your chest aches so suddenly and so sharply that you struggle to breathe. anton’s voice sounds unfamiliar. it’s still hushed, but now there’s something harsh underneath it, something final. the worst part is that you know he means it.
“what?” is all you can manage to croak.
anton refuses to look at you. “you shouldn’t have said that, and i shouldn’t have kissed you.” he swallows hard. “everything is all… fucked up now.”
you stare at him. you don’t know who you’re sitting beside anymore. the anton you knew seems to have disappeared sometime during this conversation. this person looks like him, sounds like him. but it isn’t him. it can’t be.
“i’m not someone you can like, yn,” anton says it after a long pause. you don’t understand what he means. the sentence sounds absurd. it sounds insane, and so not anton.
“i love you, anton,” your voice cracks on his name, and it feels like a plea. it feels like a final attempt to save something that’s already sinking.
anton turns farther toward the window, away from you, and everything.
the closest thing you get to a response is a slow shake of his head, followed by a heavy silence. the last five minutes is all it took to destroy the future you’d spent years dreaming of.
your mind drifts back to the sandbox, where anton first rejected you. then the summer camp, where anton ignored you.
maybe he’s always been the same. the realization settles quietly inside your chest.
this is the third time anton has broken your heart. when it finally sinks in, you open the car door and this time, you don’t look back.
you leave in tears.
you haven’t seen anton since.
for the next four years, you do everything you can to avoid going back home.
during the summers, you stay in the same city as your university and work as much as you can. when winter break comes around, you spend most of it shut inside your house, only leaving when absolutely necessary.
you become good at avoiding places that might still remember you.
there is only one sighting of anton during your entire college career, when your only serious college boyfriend wanted to meet your parents.
it was your twentieth birthday, the second one you would celebrate without anton. you'd been missing home lately, and taesan thought surprising both you and your parents would make the day feel special. he told you he was taking you somewhere nice for dinner. you believed him. it isn't until he merges onto the interstate that your stomach drops. you know exactly where he's taking you.
when taesan insists on stopping at the grocery store to buy your mom a bouquet of flowers, you convince yourself it'll be fine.
it's the end of september. anton would be at school. there's no reason for him to be home. there's no reason for him to be here.
but there he is, standing in front of the cake display near taesan.
you hear him before you see him and somehow, that's enough.
his younger brother has shot up over the past few years, nearly as tall as anton now. anton himself has grown even taller. broader. stronger. his shoulders stretch wider beneath his sweatshirt than you remember, the kind that could probably block out the sun if he stood in front of it.
he's wearing a baseball cap. from the strands of dark hair curling out beneath it, you can already tell it's the longest you've ever seen him wear it. you can't bring yourself to imagine what he looks like from the front.
then he laughs, and suddenly you're back in the basement of the lake house. your first kiss. his hand in yours. his smile against your lips.
you wonder if he remembers it's your birthday. you wonder if that's why he's standing in front of the cakes. you wonder why he's here. you wonder if you still love him.
it becomes too much.
your chest tightens and the grocery store disappears.
you're back inside anton's car, the air conditioning blasting against your skin while you struggle to catch your breath. two years of running away haven't changed anything. you're still the same girl and somehow, anton is still the same boy.
you hear someone say your name. you aren't sure whether it was anton, or junyoung, or taesan. you see anton begin to turn and you dash. you text taesan that you forgot your purse in the car, that you’ll wait for him there. you broke up with him two months later.
anton can’t wait to see you. or rather, he can’t wait for you to see him. he knows it’s selfish of him. you still have his number blocked and he’s never been able to find your instagram. still, anton believes you'll find your way back to each other. because if you weren’t meant to, you wouldn’t have spent so much energy avoiding him. people don’t run from strangers, they run from the people who still matter.
he hears through your mom that you'll be moving back home after graduation while you search for a place in the city, just like him. he thinks it's fate. he can't wait to see you. he wants to show you that he's different now. better. he isn't the painfully quiet boy you left behind four years ago. he's confident now, almost too confident. his body he built through swimming at the collegiate level is something he’s proud of. he’s read so many self-help books in the past three years he prides himself in his mindset. he likes the person he’s becoming. anton thinks everything he’s done to improve himself was to ultimately benefit you. he thinks he’s finally deserving of you. that now he could be someone you can like.
when he runs into your mom at the grocery store, it feels like confirmation that he's right. she smiles at him with the same warmth she always has, like she's finally found a son who wandered too far from home. his own grin appears before he can stop it. when he tells her he'd love to see you sometime soon, she gives him a hint about where you spend most of your weekdays.
anton smiles for the rest of the afternoon.
it’s been a month since you’ve graduated, and you’ve accepted that seeing anton again is a possibility. you’ve spent that same month hoping it never happens.
a part of you believes you’ll be ok if it does. you don’t think you’ll feel the same anymore. you’ve grown. you’ve lived. you’ve dated, you’ve broken up. you’ve learned to move on. anton is a memory at most.
“you’d never guess who i ran into at the store, yn.” your mom’s voice drifts in from the kitchen along with the rustle of grocery bags. anton comes to mind. you have a feeling he's the only person she'd bother making you guess. still, you decide to play dumb.
“oh. who’d you see?”
your mom sets her purse on the counter before taking a seat at the island, leaving you to put the groceries away.
“you’re supposed to guess.”
you have to fight back an eye roll and instead settle for a heavy sigh and make your voice flat. “i genuinely have no idea.”
she takes a long drink from her water without taking her eyes off you. she’s being careful, so you know it has to be anton. she wouldn’t dance around anyone else’s name like this. her gaze grows heavier by the second. you turn away and busy yourself washing grapes beneath the faucet.
"i ran into anton," she says at last, her voice softer now that she can only see your back. "he was picking up groceries for his mom. always been such a sweet boy, that one."
“tiny toni?” your dad enters the kitchen, saving you from having to respond. he nudges your shoulder and grabs a grape. “the one who broke my daughter’s heart?”
you freeze. he catches your expression and laughs.
“that was so long ago,” you say lightly. it really was. you and anton are different people now.
"i'm not sure we can call him tiny toni anymore," your mom says.
teenie tiny toni started as something a sixth-grade boy called anton to make fun of him. you'd stolen it before it could hurt him and turned it into something affectionate, something that belonged only to you and your parents.
he would always be tiny toni. his voice had been tiny. his body had been tiny. he'd always seemed too gentle for the world. hearing your mom say there was no more tiny toni feels strangely unsettling.
"and judging by the way he looks now," she continues with a smile, "i'm sure he's broken more than just yn's heart."
your hands stop beneath the running water. "what?"
you turn around, your brows pulling together. the words don't make sense. how could anton possibly look like someone who breaks hearts?
anton, the quiet orchestra kid. anton, who apologized when someone else bumped into him. anton, who never believed there was anything particularly special about himself. anton, who once looked you in the eye and told you you couldn't possibly like him.
"impossible," you mumble, your thoughts somewhere else entirely. "he's a total nerd."
you know that version of anton. or at least, you used to. the realization settles heavily inside your chest. you don't know who anton is anymore. and somehow, that's harder to accept than never seeing him again.
your mom smiles, almost knowingly.
"you'll have to see for yourself, sweetie."
being back at home is boring.
giselle would normally be your only option for someone to hang out with, but she’s moved to tokyo. with nothing much to fill your days, your mind keeps circling back to anton. you find yourself wondering what he could possibly be like in 2026. what he did in college. whether he ever dated anyone. whether he fell in love with a concert pianist, or maybe a ballerina, and convinced himself that because they were alike, he was finally someone she could like. you wonder if he’s even taller now. your mom seemed to think so. the last time you saw him, he'd already filled out in a way that caught you off guard, but you wonder if swimming had changed him even more. you wonder if he finally thinks well of himself. if he ever thinks about you at all.
by the third night of lying awake imagining anton, you decide you need to put your mind somewhere else.
hardly anyone is at the gym at 10:30 p.m. you're halfway through your cooldown on the treadmill when your attention drifts toward a girl struggling beneath a bench press. her arms are shaking so badly that you're almost certain she'd have trouble lifting the empty bar.
"help," she calls weakly. it sounds almost theatrical. you notice her turn her head deliberately to the right, toward someone whose view is blocked by a row of machines. you assume help is already on the way and turn your attention back to the treadmill.
"thanks, toni." the syrup in her voice makes your stomach tighten.
without even looking over, you know she's batting her eyelashes at him. you hope it isn't your toni. you hope it isn't anton. you don't want to hear his voice. you don't want to find out.
closing your eyes for a brief second, you decide to cut your cooldown short. you'd come here to get your mind off him, and somehow he'd followed you anyway. of course the first time you'd run into anton in years would be when you're sweaty, exhausted, and feeling like the least attractive version of yourself. you need to leave before he sees you.
you hurriedly stop the treadmill and grab your things. by the time you're speed-walking toward the exit, you hear footsteps quickening behind you. you walk faster, but it doesn't help.
"do you always come to the gym at such degenerate hours, yn?" it's anton's voice, or at least you think it is. it's deeper than you remember. louder. steadier. somehow more certain of itself.
maybe you can still get away. maybe he'll think your music is playing too loudly through your headphones. maybe if you just keep walking—
a careful hand closes around your arm. "yn."
you brace yourself before turning around. somehow, the reality is worse.
it would be ridiculous to call him tiny toni now, even as a joke. he's settled into himself in a way you never imagined he would. the awkward, lanky boy you grew up with is gone.
anton's shoulders have broadened enough to stretch the black compression tank across his chest, the fabric hugging muscle that simply hadn't existed the last time you saw him. a faint sheen of sweat catches the light along the curve of his arms before disappearing beneath the edge of the tank. when he lets go of your arm, the muscle shifts naturally beneath his skin.
his face has changed, too. the softness is gone. his cheeks have given way to defined cheekbones and the beginning of a sharp jawline. he's handsome. he’s anton.
he's looking at you with the same bright grin you've known since middle school, the same familiar gleam sitting quietly in his eyes. for one dangerous second, you think maybe he isn't just a memory anymore. maybe anton could still be your friend.
"do you let other girls call you toni now, too?"
you watch his grin stretch into an even bigger smile. you almost smile back, almost. your question was genuine.
instead, you roll your eyes, and for the briefest moment everything feels strangely familiar.
"you're still the only one who gets to put a 'tiny' in front of it," he says. "if that makes you feel any better."
"aw, thanks." you clap your hands together dramatically, smiling only for show.
anton laughs, and the sound lands somewhere deep inside your chest.
"and no," you continue, "i'm only here this late because i couldn't sleep." you hesitate. the last thing you want is to stand here talking to anton while you're flushed and sweaty and he somehow looks like that. "but i think i'm pretty tired now."
his smile fades into the slightest pout. "but we—"
"we can make plans," you interrupt quickly, turning back towards the door. "you know where to find me."
anton blinks, then breaks into a blinding smile. “yeah. i do.”
everybody wants anton now. at least, that’s how it feels to him. and from what you’ve seen, that’s how it feels to you, too. so why didn’t you want him? why couldn’t he have you?
anton asks himself those questions as he knocks on your front door for the third day in a row. he comes around midday, when he knows your parents will be at work and you'll most likely be home. today seems like it'll end the same way the last two did, in silence.
he waits anyway. it's been almost five minutes before he smiles to himself. he knows exactly where to find you. the problem is, you don't want to be found.
he can't blame you. some days, he still isn't sure he's forgiven himself for what he did four years ago. but he wants you. and somewhere beneath all the hurt, he thinks you might still want him, too.
he fishes around the center console until he finds an old receipt, flips it over, and scribbles across the blank side before sliding it beneath the flower pot beside your front door.
let’s grab a bite. pick u up @ 6 on friday - your toni.
giselle doesn’t believe that anton could be hot. when you go as far as using the word sexy, she decides she really doesn't believe you and that she’ll need a picture as proof. you tell yourself that’s the only reason you’re taking so much time to doll yourself up for tonight. it’s only because giselle wants proof. that’s what you tell yourself.
the days after running into anton at the gym had been spent mourning the version of him you'd always known. the quiet, awkward boy seemed to have disappeared somewhere during college, replaced by broad shoulders, easy confidence, and a smile that flirted without even trying. you used to be the only girl anton talked to. now you're fairly certain you're the only girl in town who isn't talking to him.
you're not even sure you want to know this version of him. what if you still like him? worse—what if after all these years, you still want him just as much?
but curiosity has always been your biggest weakness. what did anton do in college? what did his weekends look like? did he ever fall in love? what kind of people became his friends? did they know the shy little boy who used to hide behind you? or only the man he seems to have become?
by five-thirty on friday evening, you feel sixteen again. it's embarrassing.
you're standing in front of the bathroom mirror curling your hair because you're excited to see a boy. except this isn’t any boy, it’s anton. a version of anton you’ve never met before, one that’s sexy and charming and confident. one you're quietly afraid has nothing left in common with the boy you fell in love with.
when the doorbell rings, you immediately decide you hate him. anton’s wearing a fitted black tee with jeans. the shirt sits just short enough that if he lifts his arms even a little, you're certain the abs you already know exist would be visible. his thumbs are hooked casually through his belt loops. he leans against your doorway with a grin that belongs somewhere between charming and evil. it’s unfair.
“you might be the first person i’ve ever seen to enter a room dick first,” your voice light. anton's brows knit together in confusion before you wave a dismissive hand toward him.
"my parents are out of town for the weekend." you start toward the stairs. "wait here. i forgot my purse."
he listens, without arguing, without following. maybe this still is your anton.
"i think you clean up pretty well, too, yn," he calls after you.
you hate how quickly your cheeks warm.
the drive starts quietly. you try very hard not to stare at anton's forearms. you fail.
it's not just the veins. it's the way they trace beneath his skin whenever his hand turns the steering wheel. the way muscle shifts so effortlessly underneath them. the way one hand rests lazily across the wheel while the other taps absentmindedly along with the music. he looks comfortable, like this version of himself fits.
it's distracting enough that you almost forget the last time you sat in one of anton's cars. this one's newer, nicer. it still smells faintly like him and clean laundry. he hums softly beneath his breath as the song plays through the speakers, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. you wonder if he even realizes he's doing it.
at a red light, he glances over. there's that smile again, small and knowing, almost like he can hear every thought running through your head. instead of looking away like you want to, you hold his gaze. before you know it, you're smiling too.
anton reaches across the center console. his fingertips brush lightly against the hem of your denim skirt. it's barely a touch, more of a graze than anything. still, warmth spreads through your entire body. his hand is so much bigger than you remember. you wonder when that happened. you wonder where else he could put his hand.
"it's a little short, yn." his voice is casual and teasing. the light turns green, and he pulls his hand back to the wheel.
"do you always wear stuff like this when you go on dates?"
your heart is still racing from where he'd touched you. it takes a second for his words to register. date? you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself. "who said this is a date?" you glance over at him with a grin. "we're only friends, toni."
"are we?" he tilts his head slightly. the question is quiet and more hopeful than teasing.
you look back out the window.
"we were." you pause. "we still can be."
for a moment, anton doesn't answer. you catch him jutting out his bottom lip, nodding once as though he's carefully turning your words over in his head. you smile to yourself.
"but..." you say after a moment, chewing absentmindedly on your bottom lip, "if you want this to be a date..." you glance at him from the corner of your eye. "...i guess we'll see how it goes."
the longer you spend with anton, the more it feels like nothing has changed. somehow, he’s still your best friend, and you’re both seventeen years old and secretly in love with each other.
two and a half hours later, your cheeks are warm and your face is flushed from laughing. anton sits across from you in the booth, looking at you the way he always used to. everything feels funny and every minute you spend with him makes you feel lighter than the last. you think that if anton keeps looking at you with that adoring gaze of his, you might not make it to the car before throwing yourself at him. anton can’t drink because he’s driving, but he insists on letting you order all the fun drinks your heart desires. every time your glass gets low, he asks if you want another. meanwhile, you’re working very hard to convince him that you aren’t nearly as drunk as you apparently look.
you’ve already learned that college was kinder to anton than high school ever was. most of his closest friends came from the swim team, mostly because he spent nearly every waking hour training with them. he double majored in business and audio production because he wanted to work somewhere in the music industry one day. he stayed involved with the campus orchestra all four years and somehow found time to become swim captain his senior year. he graduated summa cum laude, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, you’re relieved to hear he almost joined a fraternity but decided against it.
there’s only one thing you haven’t asked him. it’s also the only thing you’ve wanted to know all night.
“how many girls have you dated?” the question slips out before you can stop it.
the second anton laughs, your embarrassment immediately turns into irritation.
“don’t laugh at me,” you pout, lifting your hand like you’re about to smack him across the table.
he only laughs harder. reaching over, he gently catches your wrist before you can follow through, guiding your hand back down onto the table.
“what do you want to hear, yn?” he asks, resting his chin in his palm as he looks at you. his eyes seem softer tonight, warmer.
you try to remember if he’s always looked at you this way. then you realize he’s flirting with you and nothing is funny.
“just tell me the truth,” you mumble, bringing your straw back to your lips. after a moment, you add, “i had three boyfriends.”
anton leans back against the booth and lets out a slow breath, tipping his head toward the ceiling.
“three boyfriends,” he repeats quietly. his lips twitch into a smile. his brows pinch together for just a second before relaxing again.
anton has learned over the course of the evening that your patience has gotten noticeably shorter over the last four years. you’ve already gotten annoyed with him more times than he can count tonight. he thinks it’s adorable. he also isn’t sure how much more teasing you’ll tolerate.
“i didn’t date.”
anton has always been able to read you. he could when you were twelve. he could when you were seventeen. he still can. he watches you roll his answer around in your head, searching for something that isn’t there. you’re chewing on your bottom lip now, avoiding his eyes completely. that wasn’t the answer you expected, he can tell. he can also tell you don’t like it.
“that might be worse than if you said one.” you frown into your drink. you aren’t sure you believe yourself, either.
if anton had spent all four years in love with one girl, maybe that would’ve been worse. maybe she’d still have his heart.
but if he’d never dated anyone...
you glance back up at him. with the way he looks now, with the confidence he somehow grew into, it’s hard to imagine he spent four years alone. maybe he just never stayed long enough. maybe he had his fun without ever making anyone his.
“see...” anton begins, his voice quieter now.
he laces both hands behind his head, stretching the fabric of his shirt across his chest and your eyes betray you immediately.
“there was this one girl in my past.” his smile softens.
“she kind of ruined everyone else for me.”
the words leave his mouth before he has the chance to think better of them. he hadn’t meant to say it so plainly. he certainly hadn’t meant to hand you the truth so easily. all he can do now is hope you’re too tipsy to understand what he really means.
you do. you hear every word. worse—you feel them. heat blooms beneath your skin until you swear your entire body is burning. your thoughts disappear. whatever you’d been trying to figure out only seconds ago is completely gone.
all you can think about is anton.
about the lake house. about your first kiss. about the way he looked at you then. and the way he’s looking at you now. all at once, you realize something you’d spent four years trying not to hope for. he loved you too. he loved you enough that every girl after you became impossible.
“anton.”
he looks up. he’s never heard you say his name like that before, so quietly. he can’t tell whether you’re about to cry, or kiss him, or yell at him. he only knows you’re leaning closer. close enough that your perfume reaches him before you do. close enough that he can feel himself making the same mistake twice.
“come home with me.” the words are barely louder than a whisper.
you blame the alcohol as you cling to anton’s arm on the way out of the restaurant.
your fingers wrap around the solid curve of his bicep, your nails pressing lightly into his skin as you stumble beside him. anton lets out a quiet laugh beneath his breath and settles his hand over yours. he smells good, clean, familiar. like anton.
he opens the passenger door for you before walking around to his side. when he leans across you to fasten your seatbelt, he gets so close that your lips nearly brush his cheek. you breathe him in before he pulls away. when he catches you doing it, he only grins. then he closes your door.
the air between you and anton buzzes in the close confines of the car. you rest your elbow on the center console and your chin atop your fist, ogling anton. you find the strength to keep your hands off of the boy, and he keeps his hands to himself as well. each time he glances over to see your big eyes fixed on him, his grin grows a little wider.
when anton parks in your driveway, you’re out of the car before he can open your door for you. you stumble out of your boots, slip your jacket off of your shoulders, and leave them at the foot of the stairs. you know anton will pick them up.
he reaches your room with a smile plastered on his face and your belongings in his arms. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with your legs crossed and break into a giggle. you watch him gently set your things down near your closet. he wanders around the room, picking things up and examining them. you grow impatient.
“you’ve been here before, anton.”
“i know.” he pauses, voice soft like how it used to be. “everything’s still the same.”
you dig the heels of your palms into the mattress and lean your weight back. “i barely spent any time here during college.”
“i know,” anton repeats. finally, he turns back to you. when he’s close enough, you hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him toward you. you rise to your feet and reach your hands up to his shoulders, tracing the broadness of them.
“you’re drunk, yn.” anton’s voice is soft. hearing it in your room again makes you smile. you bring your hands to press against the hard muscles in his chest.
“and you’re…very sexy.” you have to rise onto your toes to try to reach anton’s lips.
“come on, toni. it’s just a kiss.” you whisper against his lips with a grin.
anton knows it won’t just be a kiss. the air between you and him tells him it won’t just be a kiss, too. he remembers the last time he kissed you, and even that wasn’t just a kiss, either. but he knows he can’t leave you hanging there with your lips puckered and your eyes closed. he’s still the same anton who’d do anything to make you happy.
both of you immediately sigh when your lips touch. anton tilts his head down further and brings a hand up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss so he can reach you better. he’s gotten better at kissing, but you’re still taken back to the basement of the lake house. you’re still the girl hopelessly in love with her best friend, and anton is still the boy who finally found the courage to kiss you.
the way anton kisses you makes you more and more desperate. when it feels like he’s beginning to pull away, you instinctively rise onto your toes to chase his lips, needing just one more second. you’re fisting the fabric covering his chest and breathing into him when you feel him chuckle against your lips. when you both pull back, there’s saliva around both of your mouths. you watch anton’s tongue dart out to taste you on his lips.
you’re scared he’s going to say something cheeky about how badly you need him, so you push him down to sit on the bed before he gets the chance. the smug grin anton was wearing is replaced with a puzzled raise of his eyebrow. when you pull your leg up to straddle him, the grin returns. anton’s hands find your hips and press you against him. you crash your lips against his again and bring your hands to his hair.
anton’s hands move to your ass as he sucks on your face. you start lifting your hips to settle them back onto his lap, your hands in his hair tugging lightly in desperation. you pull away for air and anton goes to your neck, craning his head to suck and nip at the skin. you throw your head back to give him more room and sigh in content.
anton’s plush lips against your skin make you feel even more needy. the breeze from ceiling fan makes anton’s remaining spit on your skin feel cool in comparison to your body burning up. you can feel his bulge beneath you, and the size of him like this already makes your mouth feel dry. he returns to your lips and sticks his tongue into your mouth.
anton’s hands bring your hips down on his and grind you against his dick. he swears he can feel you. a moan escapes your lips that makes him throb in his pants. he has to hide his face in the crook of your neck, and your arms cradle his head to hold him there.
you stop moving suddenly and anton wonders if you came. he pulls away from your neck to find your eyes closed. “yn?” he murmurs.
you don’t answer. anton laughs in disbelief. he’d kissed you to sleep.
he wipes off your makeup and tucks you under the covers before he leaves.
in the morning, you wake up with an upset stomach and swollen lips. you aren’t afraid to check your phone because anton’s number is still blocked. memories of last night flash through your mind as you brush your teeth, making you giggle to yourself. when you change out of your clothes, you notice anton even left a mark near your shoulder. you can’t help but smile.
you don’t remember how it all ended, though.
it isn’t until later that afternoon that you notice the note tucked by your door.
good morning :) i think you owe me one. you know where to find me when you want to continue :) - your toni
(request) @dieharddoyoungsquish said: i have a thought that you might be interested in … and i feel like you’d eat down if u you ever write something like this (a.n -> thanks girl, i love that faith u have in me). HEAR ME OUT- gynecologist jaemin and his patient who can never seem to figure out what’s wrong with her
You came to Dr. Na because something was wrong with your body. He promised he'd find the cause, and he finally did. The diagnosis was simple.
But the treatment is going to become your favorite secret.
gynecologist jaemin x reader, smut!!!, kinddd of a dark fic, noncon ig...
words-> 2.5k words
content-> medical malpractice (runaway if a doctor ever touches you this way omfg), masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation (f recieving), manipulation ig, pet names (sweetheart, princess, baby, dr. na omg that's hot isn't it) sexuality's a taboo for y/n, y/n's too naive, jaemin's a pervert, that's pretty much it but it's hot trust meee
cami's notes at the end :3
The air in Dr. Na's office was always the same: cold, smelling faintly of unsettling antiseptic and the subtle lavender from his oil burner at the corner of his desk.
It was a scent you’d come to associate with a specific kind of hope, one that always sent into a familiar, quiet despair.
You sat on the examination table for the third time in a month, the crinkly paper bunching under your thighs, your hands clenched in your lap, explaining it all over again.
“It’s just…uncomfortable,” you whispered, your eyes fixed on the diplomas lining his wall. “A constant pressure. A kind of…ache. I lay in bed and it’s all I can think about and I can't seem to do anything to stop it. Sometimes it gets so…much, I cry.” A traitorous tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your cheek. You swiped at it angrily but it was followed by many other salted drops, hating your own body.
Dr. Na shifted on his stool, his expression one of profound, gentle concern. “Oh sweetheart...” he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, melodic register he used, soothing and cloyingly sweet. “We’ve tried the pelvic floor exercises, the vitamin regimen, the anti-inflammatory diet… and still my sweet girl is suffering.” He leaned forward, his handsome face a mask of empathetic frustration. “It just breaks my heart.”
You nodded, sniffling.
His kindness was both a balm and an agony to your soul.
He was so good, so patient, while you were just a broken thing he couldn’t fix.
You felt a confusing flush of warmth at his attention, quickly followed by shame.
He was silent for a long moment, tapping his pen against his chin. Then he blinked, as if a thought of startling clarity had just struck him. He let out a soft, almost laugh-like sigh. “I think...I’ve been approaching this all wrong.” he said, more to himself than to you.
His eyes, dark and suddenly intensely focused, lifted to yours.
“Sweetheart, I need to ask you something very personal. It’s important, okay? Can you be brave for me?”
You nodded enthusiastically, willing to please but with a tight throat.
“Has anyone ever…touched you before? Down there?”
You stared. Your mind blank. Touched? Like during an exam? “You… you touch me there…” you said, confused.
A small, patient smile played on his lips. “No, my darling. Not like a doctor. I mean… for pleasure. Has anyone ever pleased you? Or have you ever… pleased yourself?”
The words hung in the sterile air, making no sense.
Pleasure? That area was for discomfort, for problems, for doctor’s visits. Not pleasure. Your face must have shown your utter bewilderment.
He sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “Let me be perfectly clear, sweetheart. Have you ever masturbated? Has a boy ever… fingered you?”
The clinical terms clashed in your head. You knew the words, of course, but in the abstract, distant way you knew about things that happened to other, different kinds of people. Not to you.
Your conservative upbringing had drawn an impermeable border around your body: it was not for your own curiosity, certainly not for pleasure.
It was a vessel for future duty, currently a source of malfunction.
You shook your head slowly. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Dr. Na’s face. It was a smile of pure, triumphant discovery. “Oh, you precious thing,” he cooed, his voice dripping with a new, possessive warmth. “I understand now. I finally know what’s wrong with you, and I know exactly how to fix it...”
Your heart stammered. Fix it? Hope, fragile and desperate, fluttered in your chest. “Ohh, you do?!”
“I do,” he said, standing up. He moved to the door and turned the lock with a soft but definitive click.
He washed his hands meticulously at the sink, the water running and his back to you, defined muscles tight and covered by the white coat that seemed to hypnotize you with his every move. Each dip and curve looked as if it had been carved to his body by a divinity.
“We just need one last, very special examination. It’s a bit… unconventional. But you trust me, don’t you, sweetheart?”
You did. He was your doctor and he was so nice, he would never do anything wrong. “Yes...”
“Good girl.” He turned, drying his hands, his eyes gliding over you in a way that made your skin prickle, a strange heat pooling low in your belly, the very discomfort you’d complained about, but now it was…shifting. “Just lie back for me. Slide down to the edge of the table and put your feet in the stirrups. That’s my girl...”
You obeyed, the pose familiar yet suddenly charged with an unnamed tension.
His eyes, now cold and hungry analyzed your barely covered figure, the thin paper gown doing nothing to conceal your hardened nipples or the way your hip bones protrude.
Long fingers mindfully folding the white coat and shirt up all the way to his veiny forearms. Your eyes are on him, he knows it. An arrogant smirk forming into his soft features.
He sat on a rolling stool between your legs, now out of frame.
His hands were warm as they glided up your inner thighs, pushing the gown higher. You flinched at the contact.
“Shhh,” he soothed, baby voice wrapping around you. “It’s just me...you’re safe.” He snapped on a glove, the sound stark in the quiet room. “I need you to relax. This will only work if you relax for me. Can you do that, princess?”
You took a shaky breath and nodded, closing your eyes.
He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound in his throat. “So much tension...” he murmured, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the apex of your thighs. “You’re all wound up so tight here, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched as his touch became slower, purposeful, exploring not for pathology but for something else. A fingertip circled a spot you didn’t know existed, and you jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.
That feeling wasn't the usual clinical discomfort, it was something else.
And that something made you feel alive.
“There it is,” he whispered, his voice losing some of its sugary tone, gaining an intimate depth. “That’s the source of all your tension, my poor little thing. Just a little bundle of nerves, all locked up and lonely.” His finger pressed again, a little firmer, and a bolt of pure, shocking sensation shot through you. You cried out, your back arching off the table.
“See?” he murmured, his other hand coming to rest on your trembling abdomen, holding you down. “Your body knows...it’s been begging for this. All that discomfort…it was just frustration.” His finger began a slow, torturous rhythm, circling, stroking.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” he soothed, his fingers finding their new target, tracing the slick, heated folds.
Fingers pulling apart your major lips, trapping your clit along with your minor lips between his index and middle finger, digits caressing up and down with extra pressure that gets arousal gathering at your rim. “Your little pussy has never been touched like this, has it? Never know what it’s for." A shameless sigh followed by... "Fuck sweetheart, you're so wet...”
The crude words coming from his professional lips were a shock to you. But the shock was drowned out by the wave of sensation that followed as his thumb brushed again over the tiny, throbbing nub you didn’t know existed just minutes ago.
You gasped, your hips jerking off the table.
“There it is...” he breathed, a note of excitement in his tone. “That’s the problem. All this…energy…has nowhere to go. It’s all clogged up and it's making you sick with need. But don’t worry, sweetie I’m going to fix it...You’re going to be a good little patient for Dr. Na and let me empty you from all this nasty ache, won't you?"
Head nodding rapidly, quick to answer, too afraid he might take the delicious felling away. Lips parted open allowing pretty sobs slip from them.
“You’ve never felt this, have you? This heat? This tightness coiling in your sweet little belly?”
You couldn’t speak. Tears welled again, but these were tears from the overwhelming, terrifying sensation.
You shook your head, a sob mingling with a moan as his thumb dipped slightly inside you, then returned to that devastating, brilliant point.
The feeling was mounting, an unbearable pressure building deep inside, a coil twisting tighter and tighter, pushing against your bones. You felt frantic, wild, like an animal caught in a trap. You thrashed your head from side to side, your knuckles white where you gripped the edges of the table.
"It’s okay,” he crooned, his own breath becoming uneven. “It’s my job to take care of you, sweetie... Your body isn’t yours to worry about, is it? Let me take care of it. Just let go...”
His words slithered past the last fragments of your pavlovian conditioning.
Your body wasn’t your own. He was the authority. He was making the bad feeling go away, replacing it with this…this storm only he could create.
You surrendered to it, to him, a whimper escaping your lips as the coil inside you wound impossibly tight.
“Let go, baby,” he commanded, his voice suddenly a low growl. “Stop fighting me. Let go for Dr. Na. Cum. Cum for me. Now. Ohh yeah, that’s it, princess” he urged hearing the squelch that accompanied his thumb's every upward movement, his voice thick with a hunger you were too innocent to name. “Come on, sweet girl. Show me, show me you’re all better.”
With a guttural cry that was torn from your core, the coil snapped.
Your vision went white. A hot, pulsating wave of pure pleasure broke over you, so intense it was almost painful.
Erasing thought, erasing fear, erasing everything but the feeling and the sound of Dr. Na’s low, approving hum.
Your body bucked, your thighs trembling uncontrollably and your ears felt clogged as release washed through you in long, shuddering spasms, something warm trickling out, wetting your thighs and the crinkly paper. You were crying openly now, sobs of relief and utter confusion wracking your frame.
He kept working you through it, his touch relentless, drawing out every last aftershock until you collapsed, limp and panting, against the table.
You stared at the ceiling, the world slowly coming back into focus. As the tremors subsided, leaving you boneless and gasping, he slowly withdrew his hand. He peeled off the dampened glove with a soft snap, landing into the small metallic table with a thud. He's going to save it for later, for research purposes, of course.
He stood up, and you blinked, your vision clearing. His shirt was untucked at his chest, revealing his bumped pectorals along with a sheen of sweat on his brow and a very evident bulge pressing against his trousers.
The sight sent a fresh, confusing jolt through you.
He took your chin in his fingers, tilting your face up to his. He wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. His erection pressing against your thigh.
He smoothed your hair back from your damp forehead. “Look,” he said, his voice gentle once more, the authority replaced with a tenderness that felt like a reward. “Look at my sweet girl. All better now.” Places a soft kiss on your sweaty temple and his perfectly aligned teeth come to sight as his lips draw a smile that gives you goosebumps. "All better. The diagnosis was simple: chronic neglect."
“That was the cure, princess,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. “Your body was starving for release. For a man’s touch. My touch.”
You could only stare at him, your mind a blank canvas he was painting on. The ache, the one that had been your constant companion for months, was gone. In its place was a strange, pleasant warmth and a deep, aching void that already seemed to miss his touch.
“Now, the prescription?” He smiled again, a gentle, benevolent curve of his lips that didn’t reach his hungry, possessive eyes. “Regular hands-on therapy. We’ll need to schedule follow-ups… quite frequently. To ensure the discomfort doesn’t return, is that okay, princess?"
You could only nod, your mind completely blank. He helped you sit up, the paper gown rustling. Your legs felt like jelly.
“I need you to understand something, sweetheart,” he said, his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady. His gaze was intense, locking you in place. “This is our special secret. You can’t tell anyone. No one would understand our methods. They wouldn’t understand that I had to touch you like that to make you feel better. They might try to take your treatment away. We can’t let that happen, can we?”
You shook your head, the thought of losing this relief, of letting the ache return was unbearable.
This feeling was wrong, you knew it, but it was the first thing that had ever felt truly right.
He had fixed you. He had found what was wrong...
“That’s my good girl,” he purred, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips were warm and the kiss felt like a blessing. “Such a smart, obedient patient for me!”
He stepped back, adjusting himself. He became Dr. Na again, composed, professional, but the air between you had been irrevocably altered, thick with the knowledge of what had just occurred.
He watched you with an unnerving stillness, your movements clumsy in the aftermath. You slid off the table, your bare feet meeting the cool floor, and a new kind of slickness trickled down your inner thigh, a reminder of what he had taken from you.
Dr. Na walked to his desk, his back to you once more, and picked up a sleek silver pen. He clicked it once, the sharp, precise sound cutting through the hum of the lights. He began to write on a fresh prescription pad, the scratch of the pen the only sound in the room. You stood there, feeling exposed and small, clutching the flimsy paper to your chest like a shield.
Finally, he tore off the sheet. He didn't hand it to you. He folded it neatly and placed it inside a small, discreet white envelope. He turned and held it out. Your fingers trembled as you took it.
“This is for our next session,” he said, his tone all business now. “I’ve written my personal number on the back. You don’t call the front desk anymore. You call me, directly.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.
❤︎₊ ⊹
haiii, omggg my second anon!! as soon as i recieved this i KNEW i had to start writing. i li-terally reached a flow state and i've been writing since the evening...and now it's midnight :,0
i love the concept of jaem being a nasty freak and a pervert, he's just like me......
anyway, just to let u know that obviously i do nawt condone this behavior, it's ok to have a small kinkk but do not!! let a doctor touch you this way EVER. okay, ty.
hope you enjoyed it!! PLEASE let me know if you did!! feedback and any other comments or thoughts are always appreciated :3 tysmmmm for readiiiing <3
& thxs to @dieharddoyoungsquish for the ideaaaaa<33
available on ao3 as well! -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/89348466
tags: haechan x reader ft maeda riku. best friend's brother trope. fluff. haechan plays the bass and has jet black hair and he's so sexy.
wc: 1.8k words.
note: this was supposed to be way shorter... but idk what happened sorry. pls enjoy hihi! i love band boy haechan.
you’ve always known that riku has an older brother.
he had mentioned it on several occasions, something along the lines of — my jerk brother borrowed my jeans without telling me, or i couldn’t sleep because my prick brother kept playing his stupid bass!
what you didn’t know, is said brother is this hot.
you’re not supposed to be here. you’re supposed to be using the bathroom, but somewhere along the hallway, you lost your way so now you’re here, standing before an open door. his bedroom wall is filled with michael jackson posters — and some bands you’ve only seen from your father’s old cassettes.
sitting in the middle of the room is him. he looks a little like riku, but with rounder features and a constellation of moles decorating his honey skin. he’s sitting on the floor, strumming his bass and bopping his head to the tune, tongue poking against his cheek.
you stand there, awestruck. your hand grips on the door frame, attempting to hide yourself behind the wall but he could see you. he looks up, fingers still orchestrating the instrument, eyeing you from head to toe. you feel your skin burn.
“lost?” he speaks, voice nothing like you’ve ever heard before. you think that you’ll remember the sound forever.
“uhm… the bathroom?”
“last door on the left.”
embarrassed, you walk away, his stare at the back of your head going unnoticed.
…
“what’s your brother’s name?”
“hm? haechan.”
“maeda hae—“
“—lee. different dad.”
“lee haechan…”
the bed dips. riku looks at you, propping his elbow onto the bed, lifting himself slightly to get a proper look. his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes squinted as he scans you. he’s known you for a while now, able to read your every move.
“yn. are you into my brother?”
your face turns to look at him, just slightly. you’re grateful for the dim lights, perhaps, he wouldn’t be able to see the blush creeping up your cheeks. you shake your head.
“no way. i just saw him on my way to the bathroom and was curious.”
you pray he couldn’t see through your lie. he squints his eyes just a little more, for a moment, before resting his head back against the pillows.
“good. he’s a stupid prick.”
you don’t know that. what you know for sure, is that he’s stupidly gorgeous.
…
yn [9:05 AM]: maeda riku i am seriously going to kill you. SERIOUSLY!!!!
rikuri [9:09 AM]: please do NOT i’m sooooo sorry ok!!! yushi needed my help so i had to leave :( pancakes in the microwave love you!
you scoff, tossing the phone to the other side of the bed, sounding a hushed thud. reluctantly, you pick your towel off a chair and make your way to the bathroom, mentally cursing your best friend in your head, planning all the ways you can get back at him. you brush your teeth, back leaned against the wall. you don't notice the door's unlocked until haechan walks in, towel slung over his shoulder.
"what —"
"chill," he mutters, grabbing his toothbrush. there's no urgency in his tone, no shock, as if it's the most mundane thing ever.
haechan brushes, standing close to you, shoulders lightly brushing. he looks into the mirror, meeting your eyes and raising his eyebrow, as if telling you to resume.
and so, you do. a little slower, more flustered than normal.
...
hanging out at riku's become a routine. embedded in your being, you find yourself taking the bus to his neighbourhood after class without thought. his mother claims that you're a maeda now, as you know where the spare keys are, and a designated mug sits in the dishwasher for you.
riku on the other hand, is rarely around. he prefers spending his afternoons at yushi's leaving you alone as you watch an old romcom in his living room.
haechan walks in, wordlessly taking a seat beside you — it has become a frequent occurence. you think that you see haechan even more than riku lately, the way he'd join you for your binge watches, or when you'd bake cookies with riku. sometimes, he'd leave touches that linger —hand on your back as he passes by, or fingertip brushing against your lips as he makes you try a snack.
it's normal, yet it accelerates your heart rate without fail. you find yourself nervous every time he does as little as looking at you.
"pretty woman."
you turn to him, eyes widened. you? pretty? your hands curl around the hem of your shirt, making sense of it all.
"huh?"
haechan raises his eyebrow, tongue poking against his cheek.
"the name of the movie?"
"oh."
he chuckles, shaking his head before turning his attention back to the tv. right, of course he's talking about the damn julia roberts movie, and not you. you clasp a cushion against your face, embarrassed. he taps on your arm, touch burning through your skin.
"are you going to sungchan's party? the one on friday?"
"sungchan? oh, probably not, was not in —"
" — do you want to come with me?"
there's a minute pause as you turn your head towards him, and he's already looking at you. all the jest in his face is replaced with sincerity as he stares down at you, lip pressed against teeth.
"oh, yeah, of course."
"cool. it's a date then. we can get dinner first."
...
when riku said that his brother's a stupid prick, this must be what he means.
the servers must think you're a pathetic little thing, the way you're sitting at the far-right booth with a watered down iced tea and a melted banana split. haechan's an hour late — and with the way that he's not answering any of your calls, he's probably not coming. so, ashamedly, you grab your bag and leave for home, where you quickly flop onto your bed and weep.
no signs of haechan, at least not up until one in the morning.
yn [1:27 AM]: your brother truly is a PRICK. all caps lock btw. BOLDED. UNDERLINED. TIMES NEW ROMAN SIZE 57 AND CENTERED.
rikuri [1:28 AM]: preach mama
rikuri [1:32 AM]: also wat
you're not in the mood to explain, so you shut your phone and sleep, dried tears on your cheeks.
...
it wasn't supposed to last this long.
haechan's had one long day, like it was a karmic debt sent by God which he had to pay in the form of nakamoto yuta and his stupid lies.
"sorry dude, the gig wasn't supposed to last this long. shotaro said they had some sort of technical error," yuta shrugs, shoving his drumsticks into his bag.
haechan glares at him, a full on side-eye as he swings his bass bag over his shoulder.
"you said the gig was supposed to start at 9, but it started at 10. and then you said we were the opener — bro, we were the fucking encore!"
"miscommunication, sorry," the older answers, holding his hands up in surrender.
haechan rolls his eyes, "does anyone have a charger? my phone's fucking dead," he scans the room, grumbling "useless," under his breath when all his band members shake their head, shoving his bass bag into the back of the van.
he bids his goodbye to the members (while scowling, of course), fast-walking to his car when the universe reminds him of whatever karmic debt he had in the form of a flat tire. he bangs his head against the car roof, cussing under his breath.
"i'm taking the fucking van!"
...
you're not at the diner, and you don't seem to be at sungchan's party.
haechan trudges through the crowd, muttering apologies at every bump and spilled alcohol. instead of finding you, he bumps into riku, who’s sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing a drink.
“have you seen yn?”
riku blinks, shaking his head. confusion sits in his eyes for a while until realisation hits.
“wait. is this why she texted me saying you’re a fucking prick? what the fuck did you do to my best friend?”
haechan’s tongue pokes against his cheek, running a hand over his face. he grabs riku’s drink, downing it in one go before grabbing his brother's hand. he pulls his brother through the crowd, earning a couple whines from him.
"dude — where the fuck are we going?"
"you're helping me get yn back."
to riku's dismay, the two brothers arrive at your house — standing in your garden as haechan figures a way to get riku into your bedroom. you won't answer calls, nor will you answer the door. so, he eyes the tree looming over your bedroom window and the gears in his head click.
"riku. you're going to climb up this tree and go through her window."
"the hell? who said i'm doing all that?"
"your dearest older brother, of course."
the younger groans, but he makes no more protest as haechan gives him a boost, and so he climbs up the tree, making his way into your window and turning his head back to shoot haechan the middle finger.
you're jolt awake by the sound of riku falling to the floor with a thud. the blanket is pulled over your body as you screech.
"what the fuck?"
"it's me, it's riku!" he yells back, holding his hands up in surrender. "yn, you have to go downstairs, please."
...
someway, somehow, riku manages to convince you to go downstairs.
"in another life, please find a man better than my brother."
you scoff, opening the door to be greeted by haechan, on his knees, staring up at you. full begging posture. riku runs a hand across his face, shaking his head.
"god, i can't watch this," he mumbles, walking away to disappear into your kitchen.
haechan, on the other hand, is still on his knees, hands clasped together in a prayer. it's a rare sight — he always seems so aloof, and cheeky, poking jokes at you any chance he had, leaving remarks that border on platonic and flirty.
you liked it, though. lee haechan on his knees begging.
"i'm so, so sorry," he says, each word emphasised. "i had a whole thing going on with the band. i swear i planned my time so well, it's just — some things happened, with my car, and then my phone died —"
"haechan. get up."
"no, i really am sorry, please don't be mad —"
your cheeks flush as you look around the neighbourhood, seeing the lady that lives across you peeking through her window only amplifies the redness. you pull him up, "please, just get up, i won't be mad anymore."
"you promise?" he finally gets up, staring at you with hopeful eyes.
you sigh, bringing your hand forward to flick him on the forehead.
"don't ever mess up again."
he blinks, wanting to make a comment on how the flick didn't hurt at all, but he bites his tongue.
"so you forgive me?"
"yes."
"you're not mad at me anymore?"
"no."
"so you'll go on a date with me?"
you roll your eyes, but you can't stop the smile that creeps up your cheeks.
"geez, haechan — yes, i'll go on a date with you."
haechan grins, bringing his pinky up to seal the promise, cheekily kissing your pinky.
"is my brother still on his knees? can i come out now?"
ꫂ᭪ things i find extremely attractive as NCT members
warnings objectifying, p in v, kissing lots of kissing, voyeurism, veiny hands idk bits of fluff
a/n i saw these slideshows on tiktok and imagined specific nct members for it heheh ...there might be a part 2 god i'm going to hell
haechan spots you hunched over the laptop, hair tied up, tank top clinging to your skin. he drops his own work and slides behind you, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you whine, reaching for the laptop. "deadline's in an hour," you protest, but he buries his face in your neck instead.
his lips press warm and slow against the side of your neck, dragging upward in a trail of open-mouthed kisses. each press lingers, sucking gently on the tender skin just below your ear, pulling soft sounds from your throat. he moves lower, tongue flicking out to taste before sealing his mouth over the spot, suckling with steady pressure that leaves heat blooming across your skin. another kiss lands higher, teeth grazing lightly as he draws the flesh between his lips again, moaning softly into you.
his hands slide under your tank top, roaming over your ribs and stomach while he keeps his mouth locked on your neck, alternating between long sucks and quick, wet kisses that make your head tip back.
doyoung steps through the door after his long military leave, eyes dark with need as they lock onto you. he crosses the room and pulls you flush against him, mouth already seeking your neck. his lips part over your skin, sucking slow and deliberate, leaving faint red marks that bloom under each press. soft, low moans vibrate from his throat as he nibbles along the curve, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes the spot.
his breath comes heavier against your neck, warm and shaky. each suck draws another quiet groan from him, the sound thick with relief and hunger. he tilts his head, dragging his mouth higher, then lower again, alternating between gentle bites and wet, lingering pulls that make his lashes flutter shut.
he captures your lips next, nibbling at the lower one before sliding his tongue inside for a slow, deep kiss. one hand cradles your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, while the other slips under your top to glide over your bare back, fingers spreading wide to feel every inch. a muffled moan escapes him into the kiss as he lifts you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter.
his knee nudges between your thighs, parting them wider. the firm pressure presses right against your covered core, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. your underwear grows slick, the damp fabric clinging as his knee keeps its steady rhythm. you whine, hips twitching, torn between wanting the barrier gone and never wanting that grinding pressure to stop. doyoung watches your face closely, pupils blown, lips parted around another soft moan while his knee continues its torturous circles, soaking the thin cotton even more.
you catch jeno leaning back on the couch, legs spread wide in that easy manspread that always draws your eyes lower. his forearms rest on his thighs, veins thick and raised along the backs of his hands, running up the length of his arms like they’re carved there. each flex of his fingers makes the lines shift, and you can’t stop staring at how they stand out under his skin. your gaze lingers on the way his veins pulse faintly with every small movement, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.
he shifts slightly, shirt riding up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his v-line. the same prominent veins trail down from his hips, disappearing beneath his waistband, and the sight pulls a quiet breath from you. you wonder how far they go, how they might look wrapping around something thicker, harder. the thought of his cock being just as veiny makes your thighs press together.
jeno notices your stare, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he stays relaxed in that wide-legged position, letting you take it all in.
one afternoon, you and johnny were strolling through the park, hand in hand. after walking for what felt like forever, you quietly mumbled, "i'm tired…" your voice was so soft that johnny didn't hear it. when you suddenly stopped walking, he turned around and leaned down to your eye level. "huh? what's wrong, love?" he asked gently. you huffed, "i'm tired~." he smiled apologetically, tilting his head. "why didn't you say so sooner?" you rolled your eyes with a grin. "maybe because you couldn't hear me, you godzilla." johnny placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "godzilla? that's harsh." the two of you ended up laughing before he led you over to a nearby bench, happily sitting beside you while your fingers stayed intertwined.
chenle kept his cock buried deep, thrusting in hard and fast, his hips snapping forward with each brutal stroke that forced your walls to stretch around him. his eyes stayed locked on yours, brows drawn tight in concentration as he groaned low in his throat. sweat slid down his forehead and dripped onto your skin while he pounded into you without mercy.
"oh yeah? you like that?" he growled, a cocky smirk spreading across his face as your loud moans filled the room. your reactions only made him thrust harder, his ego swelling with every desperate sound you made.
then the phone rang. chenle glanced sideways without slowing his pace, one hand reaching out to grab the device while his cock stayed buried inside you. he tapped accept, voice steady as he spoke into the receiver. "喂？咋啦?" (what? what's wrong) the caller answered, and chenle replied curtly, "我正忙着呢，别烦我。" (i'm busy, don't bother me.) he ended the call with a sharp tap and tossed the phone aside.
the foreign words rolled off his tongue so casually while he stayed deep inside you, and the mystery of what he said sent a fresh rush of wetness between your legs. heat pooled hotter in your stomach, your body clenching tighter around him as the interruption somehow made everything feel even more intense.
what starts as raised voices quickly turns into both of you trying to explain yourselves at the same time, until the room falls into a heavy silence. tears are already streaming down both of your faces. jisung lowers his head, sniffling quietly before whispering, "i'm sorry…" his voice is shaky as he gently cups your face and rests his forehead against yours.
without hesitation, you cradle his cheeks, carefully wiping away both the fresh tears and the ones that had already dried. "i won't do it again…" he chokes out. "please… let's not fight ever again." his breathing becomes uneven as another wave of tears spills over.
he breaks down completely, his quiet sobs filling the room. you immediately pull him into your arms, slowly rubbing comforting circles across his back. burying his face into your neck, he clings to you tightly, his tears dampening your shoulder as you softly reassure him that the two of you will work through things together, your gaze lingers on the way how desperate he was, the submission he has for you, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.
xiaojun is unbelievably patient, especially when it comes to you. after classes, he'd sit with you in the library, helping you through math one question at a time. no matter how clearly he explained it, you still found yourself staring at the page in confusion. with every problem, another sigh escaped your lips. a lump slowly formed in your throat, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying.
xiaojun noticed immediately. he quietly turned toward you and said, "show me where you got lost." his voice was calm but firm. "and if none of it makes sense, we'll start over." your eyes widened as you hurriedly waved your hands. "n-no... i understand." he wasn't convinced. leaning in slightly, he held your gaze. "really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, patiently waiting for the truth. you tried to maintain eye contact, but you couldn't. your shoulders slumped as tears gathered in your eyes. "...i'm sorry," you whispered. "i'm just... really stupid. i'm trying so hard, but it's so complicated." your voice cracked near the end.
xiaojun stayed silent instead of looking back at the notebook, his eyes remained on you. his gaze moved slowly across your face, lingering on every little expression as if he were trying to understand what you were feeling without you having to say another word. he noticed the way you nervously bit your lip, the slight tremble in your lashes as you fought back your tears, and how your eyebrows pinched together whenever you thought you had disappointed him.
even the tiny quiver in your breathing didn't escape him. his eyes softened with every passing second, not with pity, but with quiet concern. the corners of his lips curved into the faintest smile, warm enough to reassure you without a single word. he wasn't staring because he was judging you. he was simply taking you in, hoping that if he looked at you long enough, you'd realize he wasn't frustrated with you at all. in that moment, the math problems scattered across the table faded into the background. the only thing holding his attention was you.
jungwoo was someone you always ran into on your walk home. every day, you'd take the same shortcut; a narrow, damp alley where the streetlights flickered and the walls were stained. hardly anyone used it.
yet, without fail, jungwoo would be there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers, quietly watching the world pass by. the two of you never really talked much, just exchanged a small wave whenever your paths crossed. but one evening, you walked through the alley with your shoulders slumped, letting out one sigh after another.
jungwoo noticed immediately. he lifted a hand in greeting. "hey." you returned a lazy wave. he took one last drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cool evening air. "mood's off today, mhm?" he asked, his voice low and calm. you simply nodded. as the silence settled between you, your eyes drifted to him.
he lifted the cigarette between two fingers and brought it to his lips with practiced ease. the ember at the tip glowed a dull orange as he took a slow drag before lowering his hand again. for a brief moment, he held the smoke, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, the muscles along his neck shifting beneath his skin. then he exhaled through parted lips.
the gray smoke drifting lazily into the cool evening air before dissolving into the darkness. his shoulders stayed relaxed, one foot resting against the wall as he absentmindedly tapped the ash onto the cracked pavement, his eyes never quite leaving you.
He probably loves teasing you through ur panties. spends ours edging you through them before actually taking them off. His head between ur thighs lapping at your heat just ruining ur cute panties 💔 or even using his tip to push into you as far as the fabric will let him.
by the time he’s ready to take them off and give you what you want they’re basically see through. worn thin from the mixture of his saliva and ur juices.
When you guys are all finished you cant even find them because he put them in his pocket for when he misses you 😞
synopsis: your loyal best friend whose feelings have long outgrown platonic ties.
genre: slice of life, i guess. angst. eventual smut. slowburn (if you squint). friends to lovers. mutual pining.
word count: 9.6k~
warnings: both reader and jeno are two idiots so prepare to be ragebaited. mentions of karina and jaemin. jeno gets major jealousy. cussing and a bit of arguing. cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex (uh oh!), dirty talk, petnames, mock sympathy, dom!jeno, praise kink, teensy bit overstimulation... i think that's it lmao ?
mimi's note ࣪ ˖ ི : i first wanted to start off saying thank you all SO FREAKING MUCH for all the support on my blog so far, i wasn't expecting my work to be loved this early 🥹 so as a proper gift of gratitude, i present my first (kinda) full-fledged jeno fic!! i know ncity's a bit fucked rn so hope this helps.. anyways, happy reading <3
it's hard to say when it began, this confidant-like friendship you now share with jeno. you two met through mutual friends, and slowly yet surely, he became the one person you turn to with every romantic disappointment that plagues your life.
ghosted by a man again? tell jeno. regretting a horrid hookup? jeno's hearing of it. developing feelings for a guy from another dating app? jeno, jeno, jeno.
it's not like you set out to use him as your personal therapist or something; he just happened to be an exceptionally good listener. and he never once complained.
this time was no different. you had bombarded jeno with multiple (wildly over dramatic) messages, demanding that he come over at once because of an "emergency conversation" that you simply had to inform him of. of course, being the ever-present and dependable friend he is, he dropped everything and came.
when he arrives, you're already dragging him inside and shutting the door behind him with a tad too much urgency, breaths uneven. you're in simple home clothes: a fitted tank top and relaxed shorts. jeno's attention drifts over your form for a moment too long. he feels his throat close up and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs. you look absolutely radiant. it's a domesticity that feels like a taunt; other men that you involve yourself with that get to have access to the utmost beauty that you are... and he doesn't. he hates it.
he shakes himself out of his trance and deliberately shifts his focus back to your face.
"...alright. what's going on?"
you're practically bouncing on your toes, letting out tiny squeals and excited little exhales. it's so cute to him that he wants to bash his face in. when your energy finally dips slightly, you seize him by his collar and yank him close, until your faces are just inches apart.
"me and you are going on a double date!"
jeno's head begins to reel from your words. a... double date? you've organized a date for yourself and actually found a girl for him as well? the thought alone is exhausting. his unrequited love for you is nearly impossible to suppress as it is, and now he has to spend an entire evening pretending as though he's at all interested in another woman while watching you with another man? it sounds like a nightmare.
but he can't bear to refuse when you look so happy. your wide smile and the way you're jumping and giggling, it's one of the most adorable sights he's ever witnessed. and so, his response spills out of him before he can even reconsider.
"when is it? and where, exactly?"
another soft, delighted squeal slips from your lips, and he feels any remnants of his hesitant resistance to the offer crumble, melting like warm putty at the sound of it.
"it's next weekend! at that one bar/grill joint we passed that one time—you remember, right?" you exclaim, eyes sparkling with that beautiful anticipation. "please, please, please tell me you're free then, jen-jen."
jen-jen.
if you weren't already mercilessly tugging at his heartstrings, that infuriatingly sweet little nickname would have singlehandedly shattered and snapped them completely.
"yeah.. yeah, i'll make sure to free up my schedule for next weekend."
you yelp out of joy, immediately throwing your arms around him and murmuring soft words of gratitude and encouragement while he quietly feels his heart simultaneously break and swell at your embrace.
in what feels like a much shorter time span than a week, the destined weekend double date finally arrives. jeno is all nerves and anxiety, his traitorously unhelpful conscience conjuring up all the many ways this could go very wrong.
the plan is for him to pick you up from your apartment at exactly 6:30 and no later than to head to the place together, since it's already half an hour drive.
he dressed casual, but not too casual. he pulled on a gray-ish henley with dark wash jeans and some brown, small boots. not too shabby, he supposed.
when he pulled up to your apartment and knocked on the door, he barely had time to wait twenty seconds before you swung it open. when his eyes landed on you, you stood there dressed in one of the most beautiful, casually enchanting dresses he's ever seen you in. and considering how many times he's had the misfortune of watching you doll up for other men, that's saying something.
"wow, you look..." he mumbles under his breath. he doesn't even have time to wonder if you caught it because you cut him off before the sentence can fully take shape.
you smooth the fabric of your dress with a quick motion and pick up your delicate purse from the small stand near the door. it then clicks shut behind you as you step out into the very pleasant weather of an august evening. the scent of your feminine, airy perfume wafts up to jeno's nose in large waves of sweetness, which is more than his already precarious restraint can bear.
"oh my goodness, you're perfectly on time!" you exclaim. "we should leave now—i don't want us to be late."
he nods and immediately leads you to the parking lot, opening the passenger door of his car for you, the gesture silent but undeniable in its chivalry. despite the 'just friends' label that you both stupidly cling onto, he can't resist treating you with every ounce of tender, gentlemanly attention a boyfriend would. the same attention you complain to him about not finding in any man you talk to romantically.
if only you bothered to open your eyes...
you climb into his passenger seat, swiftly clicking in your seatbelt with one hand while the other pulls out your phone to type in the name of the joint into the GPS app. jeno walks around the car and slips into the driver's seat, switching on the ignition and clicking in his own seatbelt.
"i'm so freaking excited, jeno, seriously. me and this guy have great chemistry, and i'm sure that you'll love his friend that he's bringing too. she's super pretty. wanna see?"
he's not at all excited. he shakes his head, gently taking your phone from your hands and placing it on his right thigh with the directions on-screen as he pulls out of the parking lot, one arm moving to rest behind your headrest as he reverses.
"i'll see her anyway when we get there, no?"
you blow a lighthearted raspberry at him, flipping down the overhead mirror to take one last glance at your makeup. light brown tones dust your eyelids, while a delicately lighter shade of pink warm your cheeks. your lips, coated with a thin layer of glossy sheen, look succulent and soft under the combined, dim light of the car and the moon above.
it's an entire battle in and of itself for him to keep his eyes on the road ahead, and not blatantly gawk at you the way he wants to.
it kills him to ask—to feign interest in any aspect of this situation—but anything to break the silence that's beginning to envelope the space of the car.
"so... about the guy. and the girl too, i guess. but um.. how well do you know them?"
you snap the overhead mirror back into place, gently tugging the hem of your dress a little lower on your thighs. clearing your throat, you speak with that easy, naturally smooth tone that has developed between you two after months of closeness.
"well, i don't know the girl at all—tonight will be my first time meeting her, too. but the guy, we've been talking back and forth for about a month now. his name is jaemin—he's really hot, actually, but i can't tell if he's just another jackass... guess we'll find out."
jeno simply nods along, his face betraying nothing of his inner turmoil and how every word leaving your lips is slowly chipping away at and dismantling his sanity and emotional control.
"i'm excited," is all he murmurs. you clap and smile widely, beaming with delight at his apparent enthusiasm. you remain unaware of just how violently he's fighting the impulse to turn his car all the way back to your apartment and call this whole idiotic 'quadruple date' off.
for the rest of the ride, he switches on some smooth r&b, velvety vocals and silky instrumentals flowing through the speakers at a comfortable volume, wrapping the car in a cocoon of intimate warmth.
approximately half an hour later, they pull into the parking lot of the bar/grill joint, the sturdy yet inviting brick building's windows already showing flickers of other customers within the establishment, which is bathed in yellow-toned lighting.
you exited the car almost before he had fully parked, and the sight made his stomach churn. he felt the urge to lock the doors and remain seated (possibly for the rest of his days) intensify. only now that he was parked in front of the building, which seemed more like hell on earth than an inviting, fun place to enjoy a night out, was the reality of the situation beginning to crystallize.
when you glanced back and saw jeno still frozen behind the wheel through the windshield, you waved him over with a playful gesture, your expression blooming into one of your signature, sweet, torturously disarming smiles; the very one he wishes he could devour right off your pretty little face.
he sighs softly to himself, muttering "just do it, it'll be fine" over and over under his breath as he opens the driver's side door, climbing out of the car and walking over to your side, following you into the establishment.
he rests a hand on the small of your back as you enter together, the touch effortlessly instinctive. the lively chaos of the combined bar and grill immediately swallows both of you. almost every table is packed with customers, some nursing drinks while others enjoy meticulously prepared meals. a vibrant tapestry of chatter and laughter fill the space as your eyes sweep the room in search of the two individuals you're here to acquaint yourselves with.
finally, your eyes land on a man with jet black hair, the strands artfully arranged to accentuate his striking appearance. beside him stood a woman whose face you couldn't quite discern all the way from here, but from what you can see, she looks drop-dead gorgeous. that must be jaemin and his friend. you practically gripped jeno's arm and led him across the room with purposeful strides to the table in the corner.
as you and jeno approached the table, jaemin and his friend glanced up with welcoming smiles and rose from their chairs to greet you both. and wow... jaemin had not overstated his friend's beauty. up close, she was stunning—every contour and soft play of light on her face seems handcrafted by Aphrodite herself. an almost ethereal loveliness.
"you must be karina, right?"
she nods with a smile of such devastating beauty that you're convinced it has felled hundreds of hearts across her lifetime.
you two exchange quick and friendly introductions, and you greet jaemin in turn, who looks like he's trying his absolute best not to check you out. then her gaze moves to jeno, drawn almost immediately to the way one of his hands is gently resting on the small of your back. she chuckles softly to herself at the sight, and then her eyes meet yours again.
"you sure you two are just friends...?"
you laugh, the sound carrying a unintentional hint of awkwardness, as you nod in quick succession. you reach back and carefully remove jeno's hand from your lower back. you felt it—the way his fingers resisted for a moment, clinging to yours stubbornly before releasing.
another of those quiet, intimate gestures that you habitually ignored for the sake of maintaining the fragile boundary of friendship.
"yeah, yeah, of course! jeno's like a brother to me, i swear."
jeno's jaw tightened at the uncomfortable description, but he schooled his expression to one of neutrality. after all, it was perfectly reasonable for you to see him as a brotherly figure. though the sting of it lingered nonetheless.
jaemin took your hand and led you to the seat beside his, pulling it out with the courtesy of a proper gentleman. jeno watched the exchange with the most weakly masked unease, though he stayed silent, lowering himself in the chair next to karina's. she offered him a warm smile. any other man would have melted at the sight, but jeno returned only a polite grin before facing forward. he bore the girl no ill will - she was strikingly beautiful and clearly kind - but his heart has belonged to another for so long that he can't even begin to feign interest in others anymore.
a few long-ish minutes later, a female server approaches the table, and with the amount of patrons currently in the establishment, how flushed her face is, and how she's slightly panting, you can tell they're slammed tonight.
"hello, i'm terribly sorry for the wait! what can i get you guys?"
the group settled on their orders. jaemin opted for pulled pork paired with complimenting whiskey, karina chose a margarita alongside a New York strip steak, you went with grilled chicken and vodka, and finally, jeno ordered the pork chops, along with the only non-alcoholic drink at the table - crisp apple cider.
the server jotted down your orders on her notepad with a certain impressive speed that only years of food service could hone. she assures you all that the kitchen would begin preparing your dishes shortly, then hurried off with a quick smile.
once the drinks arrived, the table erupted into small cheers and murmurs of gratitude. jaemin raised his glass of whiskey and clinked it softly against yours with a warm, charming grin. "to a fun night," he murmured, voice like silk, "and to the company of an absolutely gorgeous woman."
you giggled softly and lifted your glass to clink it against his, taking a delicate sip of the colorless vodka. the liquid leaves a satisfying burn as it slides down your throat. across the table, jeno observes this intimate interaction with a heavy gaze, taking weak, insufficient sips of his cider. karina either is completely incognizant to how jeno's eyes are blatantly glued onto you and jaemin, or she did indeed detect it and chose not to acknowledge it. it seems to be more likely the latter since she then leans in and rests a boldly flirtatious hand on his thigh.
"hey there," she purred, her voice laced with amusement. "you've been awfully quiet since you got here." she laughed softly and scooted her chair closer to his, despite being right beside each other. "i don't think i've heard you say a single word yet."
jeno is snapped out of his very unambiguous studying of you and jaemin, turning to look at karina. her winsome, inviting eyes stare right back at him expectantly, and he feels slightly shamefaced for glaringly neglecting this girl and barely acknowledging her presence, too focused on the conversation you and jaemin are currently engrossed in. he clears his throat and internally pressures himself to at least attempt small-talk with this hopeful woman.
"hey, sorry about that." he replied, trying to shake off the distance and awkwardness. "i didn't mean to seem aloof. but anyways, tell me more about yourself. do you live around here?"
karina seemed much more animated now that jeno was actually participating in the conversation and not dwelling inside his own head. she nods enthusiastically, her fingers tapping a gentle rhythm where they rest on his thigh.
"yeah, i just moved to this area about half a year ago," she said with a warm, sincere smile. "it's been lovely so far!"
jeno gave her a small nod and smiled back politely, the picture of poise. in truth, behaving as though he was absorbed in whatever karina was going on about right beside him felt far more tortuous than he had projected. he tried to contain himself, to restrict his gaze from perpetually finding you and jaemin across the table. he couldn't. his knee was beginning to jitter uncontrollably, sweat was coating his palms in a thin layer of glistening sheen, and his jaw cinched repeatedly. karina's voice dissolved further into the background while the chatter of you and jaemin became deafeningly loud, echoing throughout the recesses of his mind.
luckily, the food arrived just then - a very crucial distraction from jeno's downward spiral. you all thank the server heartily, taking your respective plates while warm steam rises up from the meals in curling plumes. the ambrosial scent of cooked/grilled meat wraps around everyone, and you all fumble to uncover the knives and forks from their neatly folded napkins. jaemin leans over and whispers something to you that jeno - to his disappointment - couldn't decipher from across the table, earning a small chuckle from you. he reaches over to steal a slice of your grilled chicken and you smack his hand away, pushing him gently. he laughs at it; as do you. and all the while, jeno can't seem to look away from your naturally cute and intimate little moment with jaemin.
why was he condemned to sit on the sidelines, forced to spectate you lavish your warmth and attention onto any man but him?
karina observed it all, naturally. i mean, if you weren't so thoroughly preoccupied with jaemin and his flirtatious charm, you would too. anyone with eyes who bothered to pay even an ounce of attention could see how obvious it was that jeno's awareness was fixed on you and the man at your side.
he tore into the tender pork meat harder than necessary, the sharp line of his jaw clenching with each grind of his teeth. this is pure hell for him. he's not sure how much longer he can sit at this table and watch you glow for another man until he ends up clawing his own face off (and jaemin's too.)
then karina claps her hands, successfully drawing attention from the group as she shifts in her chair. "alright, guys, how about a fun icebreaker? never have i ever, two truths and a lie - a game to actually get to know each other?"
you and jaemin are quick to show enthusiasm, but jeno's face remains meticulously deadpan. you finally notice his contrast of reaction from the group and lean forward, addressing him for what is probably the first time since you and jaemin became lost in conversation.
"you're okay with that, right, jen-jen?"
again, that stupid fucking nickname that sends his heart racing faster than it ever should. sometimes he wished that you were simply ordinary. that you'd call him jeno like everyone else does, look ordinary, act ordinary. that you'd just be the most unremarkable and dull woman that he'd have no issue keeping at a platonic distance comfortably. but of course… you're the farthest thing from ordinary. you're lively, magnetic, fun, and one of the most captivating people he's ever had the pleasure of being around. and if he wasn't so utterly terrified of losing your company forever by telling you that his feelings for you ran far deeper than friendship, he would. he'd have told you the moment he realized the truth himself, would have shouted it from the rooftops. but alas, fear of causing your absence from his life has kept him silent and in suffering. and here he remained.
"yeah, of course. i'm up for a fun game."
you smiled warmly at his agreement, seemingly oblivious to his internal torment. and as if watching you be all lovey-dovey with jaemin since the second you two got here wasn't agonizing enough, he now had to witness you casually lean into his side as jaemin's hand boldly found its place on your waist. he clenched his jaw until it ached and tore his eyes away before he did something he'll truly regret - like dragging you out of this damn restaurant and into the backseat of his car where he'd fuck your brains out the way he's been desperately yearning to for far longer than is acceptable.
right then karina pipes up, speaking excitedly and grabbing jeno's hand under the table to intertwine it with hers, like they're already an established couple. "then let's play never have i ever and if you've done the thing mentioned, you have to take an extra large drink of whatever alcohol you ordered, okay? you have to be honest!"
she then tilted toward jeno and whispered softly to him, her voice flirtatious and kittenish - which, again, he would've wholly liquefied at if every inch of his very heavy heart wasn't served bare on a platter just for you. "i know you got cider, so we can just share my drink for the game, handsome." she purred.
jeno gave karina a wordless nod and a strained smile. although he had no desire to share a drink with her. no desire or pull to play this ridiculous game. and he certainly had no desire in seeing jaemin's relentless flirtation towards you, or even worse, to endure the sight of you and your girlish coquetry towards him. he wanted none of this. yet still, he had let you drag him here without so much as a single objection because of how you had lit up from within just talking about this. and in the end, he knows deep down that here he'll stay, in silent agony, if it was what you wanted.
because what is lee jeno if not a fool for you?
the questions started innocently enough, none of them really pertaining to any of jeno's past (or distressingly current) experiences. things like "never have i ever slept with someone on the first day of knowing them," which jaemin and you, much to his dismay, drank to. the thought of some undeserving man who most likely fumbled through sex - failing to please you the way he knows he could - earning the privilege of taking you to bed on the first day... it burns a hole bubbling with searing jealousy through his chest.
karina comes up with the next question, sitting up straight in her seat as she clears her throat. "okay, what about.. never have i ever had feelings for a friend."
the table goes silent for a few moments. jaemin laughs insouciantly, putting up both hands in a cheeky gesture of mock surrender. "not me. all my friends stay friends." karina giggles and makes no move to drink either. then, jeno gently takes hold of the shared alcohol between him and karina, and takes a large, intentional gulp, far larger than necessary. your eyes hovered on his action, and after a few seemingly drawn-out seconds, you lift your own drink and take a sip.
jaemin uttered out an absurdly immature "oohhh", prompting you to gently elbow him while scoffing. jeno, however, stayed mostly stone faced. if anyone bothered to spare a glance under the table, the only thing to give him away would be the restless bounce of his leg.
you sighed softly and shrugged, letting your back press against the backrest of the chair as though your words held no weight at all. "i don't know," you muttered. "sure, i've developed feelings for a few guy friends over the years, but it was never anything major." but jeno had caught the way your eyes had stayed on him when he drank after the question. how it felt as though you weren't planning to drink until he had, which is when you lifted your glass in tandem. your nonchalance rang hollow in his ears - he wasn't convinced. or maybe it was another false impression.
jaemin then turned to jeno, probably their very first one-on-one interaction of the night, as he jutted his chin to him, a nonverbal beckon for his attention. "what about you? why'd you drink?"
jeno's eyes found yours for a fleeting moment before compelling his eyes back down to his drink, where he traced the rim of it with his index finger. "the same for me, i guess." he carded his fingers through his hair. "i sometimes become friends with women that i don't really have strictly platonic intentions with, and i just hope that over time, the label of friendship will drive my feelings to just fade. but... they usually don't."
a blanket of silence fell over the table before jaemin snorted softly, reaching across the table to gently shake jeno by the shoulder. "damn, man. that's gotta suck."
jeno pressed his lips into a thin, taut smile. his opinion of jaemin was souring further and further the longer this outing progressed, but he kept this sentiment carefully disguised, not wanting to spoil the mood.
the game carried on for another half hour, the restaurant gradually emptying out until only your table remained. jeno had only drank a few more times throughout the rounds and was just a tad bit tipsy, while you most definitely had fallen victim to the alcohol completely. you were all over jaemin now, pressing soft kisses on the side of his neck and murmuring things into his ear that he kept chuckling at. karina had apparently caught onto the way jeno's eyes were hooked onto any physical touch that was exchanged between you and jaemin, so she leaned in and whispered.
"you like her, don't you?"
jeno's head snapped to karina beside him, his stance frozen like a deer in headlights. he blinked at her, once, twice. she only laughed at him, gently patting him on the arm. "if you're gonna ask me how i know, save it. anyone with a working pair of eyes could figure it out. the real question is how she hasn't noticed yet."
jeno looked over at you - how your head was resting on jaemin's shoulder, how he was leaning in to brush his nose against yours. it made his fingers curl, nails digging into his thighs. "yeah. i do." he breathed. "and i'm sick of watching from the fucking sidelines."
karina pulled out her phone, noting the time: 10:05 pm. the restaurant was surely set to close soon. she drew near jeno again, voice low and slightly expectant as she spoke, "then tell that to her, not me. tonight. because if you don't... you'd better believe she'll be waking up in jaemin's bed come morning."
jeno visibly flinches at the thought, and his gaze lifts to find karina's. the flirtatious smiles that she had been offering him throughout the evening had faded completely, replaced by a warmer, more encouraging grin. and for the first time all night, jeno reciprocated her beaming expression. he reached over and gave her hand a gentle, friendly squeeze. "thank you, rina," he murmurs softly.
she waved her hand dismissively, her smile shifting to something more mischievous but still warm. "oh, don't thank me. the last thing i want is to try and pursue a guy whose heart is already taken." then she stands up, her voice louder now to get yours and jaemin's attention.
"alright, guys! it's getting late, let's wrap up here."
you let out a drunken groan of disappointment and latched onto jaemin's arm, shaking your head like a petulant child. he chuckled and began to rise, trying to coax you out of your seat as well. after a few moments of half-hearted resistance, you finally gave in, swaying from side to side as you stood shakily.
"come on, darling. let's get you into the car," jaemin hummed, one strong arm wrapped securely around your waist while he carried your purse in his other hand. jeno glanced at the other man's affectionate touch on you from the corner of his eye, jaw tightening as he willed his feet forward, to the restaurant exit. he reached the door before the rest of you, holding it open.
karina stepped outside first and waited for the group, tapping her foot lightly against the pavement. the moment jaemin escorted you through the doorway, jeno moved. he couldn't refrain himself - he wanted nothing more than to be the one with his arm curved around your waist, holding you steady, feeling your delicate head be supported by his broad shoulder, all of it. he deserved that. more than jaemin, more than anyone.
jeno's large hand gently (yet firmly) slid around your upper arm and carefully extracted you from jaemin, pressing you into his side instead. his gaze shifted to jaemin's face, bewilderment evident on his features. the look swirling in jeno's eyes wasn't outright anger, but it was by no means friendly, either.
"i'll take care of her," he stated unwaveringly. with that, he guided you out of the doorway and into the cool night air, the faint chill skimming across your skin. jaemin blinked in clear confusion before trailing after you three. karina and jaemin made their way to their parked car that they arrived in as jeno helped you over to say your goodbyes.
"i'll text you soon, sweetheart," jaemin said, reaching out to touch your shoulder. a tipsy smile rounded your lips, but jeno deftly tilted you backward before jaemin's hand could even graze you. to any casual observer, it might've seemed like he was simply stabilizing you, but that was far from the truth. in reality, after nearly three excruciatingly long hours of watching you entwined with another man, he can no longer endure even the faintest whisper of jaemin's hands upon you.
after exchanging brief farewells with jaemin and karina (who had an almost imperceptible but clearly present smirk on her face), jeno paused. before he fully walked away and towards his car, he leaned in close to jaemin, just out of your earshot, and muttered, the muscles of his jaw tensing noticeably. "this was a one-time thing. trust me, she's not that interested in you. so move on." jaemin's eyes widened, but his discombobulated brain couldn't even form a proper response before jeno was already turning away, striding across the parking lot with you in his grasp. was any of that true? no. were you actually interested in jaemin? from what he witnessed while on the date, yes. but jeno didn't care. he refused to let this thing between you and jaemin blossom, which would undoubtedly oblige him to endure more instances of flirtatious tomfoolery between you two.
he then opens the passenger door and helps you inside, reaching over you to buckle you in, his large, warm fingers brushing your waist. the accidental contact sends a tingle up his spine, making him swallow deeply in order to collect himself and his unexpectedly improper thoughts. he closes the door and rounds the front of the car to the driver's side, slipping inside and clicking his buckle in as well.
jeno pulls out of the parking lot, observing with mild disgust and annoyance as you roll down your window to wave goodbye to jaemin and karina as the car passes them, and before you can blow a kiss to jaemin, jeno extends one hand from the steering wheel towards the window control panel on his left, swiftly pulling up on the switch for the passenger window, rolling it up.
you turn to frown at jeno, eyebrows furrowed and your bottom lip jutting out slightly in a pout. it would've been a cute sight if he wasn't already brimming with cutting envy and aggravation. "what's your deal tonight? if you told me you were gonna be in such a pissy mood all evening, then i would have just gone on the date alone, with only me and jaemin," you uttered. the words only further fueled the flame that was scorching him from the inside, and he blabbered out something bitter in reply.
"yeah, of course, and then there would be no one there to stop you from making the moronic decision of jumping his bones on the first night, right?"
your face wrinkled with ire, and you sat up straight despite the alcohol, clearly wired up now from his jab at you and your practices with men you talk to. your voice increased in volume as the hostility between you two blanketed the car in suffocating intensity. "oh, really?" you exclaimed. "and who the hell are you to fucking sit here and dictate who i can and can't sleep with?" he went rigid. he didn't have a clear answer to that without revealing the depth of his feelings for you.
he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and extinguished the blistering fire that had begun to engulf his insides, softening his tone. "i'm just looking out for you. i don't want idiots who don't even understand your worth to constantly have access to you... or your body," he breathed. as the words left his lips, he knew they skirted perilously close to the truth.
but clearly, his tone quieting didn't fully appease you the way he'd hoped. the alcohol in your system has made you especially susceptible to your emotions, and they were rapidly taking over for the still remaining twenty minutes of the drive back. the volume of your voice only increased and you spat back, "looking out for me? don't sit here and fucking bullshit me, jeno - you've never said shit about who i have sex with before. so why the hell are you suddenly in my business?" jeno gritted his teeth together at the honesty of your words. it was true, of course. he had rarely let himself bring this topic up and how much it frustrated him, but his composure was evaporating now. the weight of it was pressing down on his chest, trying to smother him in his own love for you.
meanwhile, you weren't entirely unaffected, either. for quite some time now, something had always been twisting your chest whenever jeno was near. a strange, incessant ache that shrunk you like a wrung-out cloth. it happened whenever you felt his hands unintentionally brush your skin, whenever you felt his eyes on you when you weren't looking, only for him to turn away the moment you glanced back his way. it frustrated you to no end, this inability to decipher him. how one second he seemed completely fine with your quest for finding the right guy, encouraging even, while the next he was disapproving of it all, snapping at you and calling your choices idiotic. the inconsistency made your head spin.
his temper was rising again as well, knuckles whitening as his fingers clutched the steering wheel like he was fighting not to rip it off. "because i can't fucking stand it," he growled. "i can't sit there and watch you throw yourself at him all night, let him touch you, kiss your neck like he has any right to. it makes me sick to my stomach, i mean, god damn it, sunshine, he doesn't even know you! you don't know him, and he deserves none of the privileges that you're simply handing to him, god, i just-" he cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, pressing his lips together.
the car was plunged into a weighty silence for several long seconds. your head snapped to look at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. your eyes burned into his side profile - that sharp jawline that you had privately dreamt of kissing. lower still, they drifted to that prominent bob of his adam's apple, that you had regularly imagined of dragging your nose along just to drown yourself in that masculine, musky scent of his. the bitterness in your tone was now laced with something much more deeply rooted in your friendship with jeno: hurt, confusion... yearning. "then why don't you ever say anything? why do you always do this, act all supportive of me getting to know other men and then randomly lose your shit on a random tuesday?"
jeno didn't answer. he didn't know how to without ripping open a door he wasn't ready to walk through. he didn't want to lose you. the fear of shattering the fragile balance of your friendship, trust, company... it's all that kept circulating in his mind. so, he remained silent throughout the rest of the drive to your apartment. however, you continued to fire off pointed arguments every few minutes, your annoyance and exasperation only fueled further by his stubborn silence. finally, he pulled into the parking spot right outside your building, and the second the car was parked, you unbuckled yourself and stormed out, with jeno trailing right behind. you flew up the lobby stairs and to your door, keys already in hand as you continued to complain. it was clear you were planning to resume this feud inside.
you shove the keys inside the keyhole and twist sharply, pushing the door open as your voice continues to cut through the air, jeno's large frame looming close behind you. "i mean, you have to fucking cooperate, jeno!" you snapped, irritation pouring out of you in large heaps. "i'm trying my best to understand what the hell is going on inside your head, and you just—"
he doesn't let you finish your sentence. the second the door shuts, he locks it and grabs you by the shoulders, walking you backwards until your back is flattened against the wall, leaving you trapped between the white surface behind you and his tall, muscular body in front of you. his pitch is much lower than it was in the car, rougher in a different way. not anger... but want. it made your stomach flip with something like excitement and pure desire. he's never once spoken to you like this. not the supportive, caring, loyal jeno you've grown to know. this version of him was entirely new, and you were shameless enough to like it.
"you wanna know what the fuck is going on in my head? huh?" his eyes bored into you with something you could only describe as raw hunger. "you really want me to say it? fine." his grip on your shoulders tightened, bordering on a sting. "i'm jealous, alright? I'm so fucking jealous of every single goddamn guy that you've gone on dates with, slept with, and spent any of your precious time with. why? because i want it. i want you. all for myself, every fucking piece."
you stood there and blinked at him with wide eyes, heart pounding so hard that it feels as though it's going to leap out of your chest and land right in his palms. his gaze softens somewhat when he sees your dumbfounded expression, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing in your scent properly for what's probably the first time ever. he murmured, "i'm sorry for not telling you until now, i know, it's a stupid, stupid thing for me to hide it from you. i just... god, i just didn't want to lose you, and now i don't know if i already have—"
now it was your turn to cut him off. rising onto your toes to reach his mouth, your lips silencing his with a passionate kiss. it froze him for a good few seconds. then the dam shattered, and his larger, calloused hands abandoned your shoulders and tumbled into your hair, moving his lips against yours like he's been craving for the taste of you since the moment he first laid eyes upon you. the dominance of him is almost overwhelming as he caught your lower lip between his teeth, demanding entry. the instant your lips parted, his tongue swept inside and began tangling with yours.
you moaned into his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt as he pressed you harder against the wall, his strong body molding perfectly against yours. you can't remember the last time you felt this intoxicated by a man's touch. one of his hands left the strands of your hair to grip your thigh, hoisting it high around his waist as he ground himself against you, causing another soft whimper to roll off your tongue, which he was currently devouring. you could feel the growing tent in his jeans, which was only making your head swim with more indecent thoughts.
he broke the kiss briefly, only to trail his hot, open mouth along the line of your jaw and neck, making your head fall back against the wall and your lips part in a noiseless gasp. "fuck..." he pressed his nose to your neck, inhaling that heady, exquisite fragrance that always clung to you like it was your natural essence. he rasped against your skin, muttering, "you have no idea... just how many times i've dreamt of this. of you." he sounded desperate. like he doesn't know how to contain his passion for you now that he finally had you at his mercy. his hips twitched against yours, silently imploring for any kind of friction as his hand slipped under your dress, fingers poking into the silky smooth skin of your inner thighs.
"please," he whispers huskily between kisses placed to the delicate skin of your throat. "let me have you. i'll make you feel so good, i'll show you just how much i've longed for you—just, please. my gorgeous, gorgeous girl..." his hips still subtly rolled against yours, as if he was hardly holding himself back.
and how could you say no to him when he's pleading so pretty?
your fingers gently twisted the satiny strands of his hair that were fragrant with something fresh and citrusy like mint lemonade. you buried your nose into his hair, immersing yourself into his scent as you hummed against his locks, "then have me, jen. because god knows i've wanted you, too."
he lifts his head for his eyes to meet yours, irises sparkling with something like pleasant surprise and trust. he chuckles, shaking his head as if this situation is one of the most ridiculous circumstances he's ever caught himself tangled up in. "jesus, we are both so fucking stupid and blind."
and then his mouth slammed onto yours again, like any ounce of human etiquette had leaped out the window, leaving an unbridled, primal sense of want that was overriding any other emotion in his body. he lifted you off your feet, both large hands on the underside of your thighs as he carried you to your bedroom. he laid you down on your bed. the same bed that he had sat on many instances prior to this moment, while you ranted to him about another disappointing interaction with a man. all while he was battling not to strip you bare and show you how satisfactory he could really be for you.
his lips attached onto your pulse point and sucked, tongue flicking and teeth nipping gently. it made your back arch just slightly off the bed as you felt your panties clinging to your heat, which was becoming dewy with your juices. and as if he just had some kind of hunch on how damp you were growing because of him, he chuckled almost mockingly, warm palms sliding up your thighs and pushing up your dress.
"are you getting wet already, pretty? is that all it took for you? hmm?" he spread your legs to make room for himself, before his vision fell to the expanding wet spot on the center of your pink, cotton lace trim panties. his breath caught at the sight as he let out a shaky exhale. you felt so exposed - your face was reddening with warmth and your eyes had already gone cloudy despite him barely doing anything to you yet.
he gently reaches one finger between your legs and gently moves aside the strip covering your wetness, revealing your dripping, aching folds to his eyes. he lets out a broken, needy sound at the display - a mix between a low groan and a whimper. he curls that finger and slowly drags the undergarments all the way down your legs, tossing it somewhere, forgotten on your bedroom floor.
he brings his face closer to your heat, breath fanning on your oversensitive flesh as he trailed kisses up your inner thigh with as much patience as he could muster in this moment.
"my god, baby... you can't even fucking fathom how beautiful you are right now.."
you could barely process the flush his words were producing on the apples of your cheeks before you felt his lips press against you, making you choke out a soft gasp. he snickers at how effortlessly he pulls those lovely noises from you. he prefers to believe that none of those other assholes you were involved with got to you as much as he does. i mean, the proof is right here, isn't it?
he begins to place heated, open-mouthed kisses on your pussy, each one provoking a small shiver to ripple through you. then his tongue sweeps through your slit, all the way from bottom to top. it tugged a soft, needy whine from the back of your throat. your fingers hurried to grasp at his locks in between your legs, hips rolling forward and subconsciously seeking more of his mouth.
"there you go, sweetheart," he murmured against you, the sound delivering vibrations through your cunt, only adding to the ecstasy. "doing so good f'me.."
each filthy praise and desperate murmur that dripped from his lips like melted, drizzling honey only made you clench tighter around his tongue. he smirked against your soaked warmth, eyes flicking up to yours, which were half-lidded and pleasure-drunk. he knew what he was doing to you, and he fully intended on making you crumble for him like no other man had. and no other man ever will.
the tip of his tongue began circling and flitting against your extremely sensitive bud, forcing your sounds to evolve from simple whines and whimpers to uncontrolled moans and gasps, back arching off your sheets. and then you felt your eyes roll back and an unbridled wail push past your lips when he applied suction to your clit, your fingers tugging at his hair.
"jeno, fuck—! oh my god..."
he only doubled his efforts at your cry, determined to unravel you completely. one of his thick fingers teased your entrance before fully sinking it inside you, wet tongue still lapping and sucking at your puffy clit. the double sensation made a wave of blissful pleasure wash over you, making multiple whimpers of his name escape you.
and then he sped up. it felt less like he was doing it solely for your pleasure, and more like he himself was taking great delight in having your salty-sweet juices on his tongue.
another finger joined the one that was already curling inside you, scissoring to stretch you further. the tip of his tongue flicked faster against your swollen bud, your back arching and legs twitching. your hips began to buck and attempt to flee from his ministrations between your legs. so, his free hand reached up and placed one large palm in the center of your stomach, pressing down gently to stop you from slipping away. the pressure only made the tightening knot in your abdomen feel as though it was going to burst.
"don't move. i'm not done."
your sounds slowly became more high-pitched and frequent as you started to near your climax, fingers knotting into his hair and pulling as though he's currently your only anchor to this earth. he growl-hissed against your flesh at the sharp yank stinging his scalp, the feeling only spurring him on.
"j-jeno, oh my god... i'm gonna—!" you gasp.
jeno smirked darkly against your clit, still lapping at your clit like a pussy drunk man, a third finger teasing your dripping hole. he mutters the words hotly into your skin, which sends another shock of pleasure through your body. "think you can fit a third finger before you cum, baby? or is your pussy too tight for that?"
you were so close to your orgasm that you could practically taste it, and all that was spilling from you now were barely coherent babbles, broken whimpers, and frantic nods. he exhaled a laugh at your helplessness, the air blowing over your clit and only making your legs twitch once more. and then, one last flip of his tongue and a striking curl of his fingers sent you toppling over the edge. an intensely euphoric surge crashed into you as your orgasm hit: legs twitching, jaw going slack, digits plunging into his locks, all of it. jeno helped you ride through your climax, his movements slowing down so as to not overstimulate or pain you in any way.
after you come down from your high with your chest heaving and eyes fluttered shut, jeno finally withdraws from between your legs. his fingers slowly eased out from inside you as well, one final flutter of your walls punctuating his exit. when your heavy-lidded eyes do open, the sight that greets you is arguably filthier than the entirety of what he just did to you. holding your stare, he stuck his fingers, slick with your essence, into his mouth as he sucked them thoroughly. as if he couldn't bear to waste even a single drop of you.
you couldn't help but ask breathlessly, "been wanting to do that for a while, huh?"
his signature eye smile flashed across his features, the very one that makes him resemble an adorable Samoyed in human form. but right now, on him... it looked like pure, unadulterated sin. the condition he's in - hair mussed from your fingers, chin and mouth area still glistening with your juices, and his eyes, that remained utterly ravenous as they bored into yours. the sight alone made that familiar dampness in your core return, oozing out of your entrance in small driblets.
and then came his voice, raspy and slightly hoarse, and it sent a new jolt of fresh want gushing through your thumping veins.
"for a really long time, sweetheart. and it was better than any fantasy of mine."
he hooked his arms beneath your thighs and pulled you close, until you were pressed snugly against him. he leaned down, face hovering just above yours as his voice came out in a wanting, husky murmur, "and now all this... it's got me so hard, it hurts," he hoarsely declared. "fuck, baby, it really hurts. you'll help me, won't you? please.."
it was his indirect, almost bashful way of seeking permission to take things further than his mouth's devotion to you alone. he was undoubtedly pining for more, his body trembling almost imperceptibly above yours in sheer necessity. yet the way his eyes search yours makes it crystal-clear that he'd instantly stop if it was too much for you. even amidst his ardent lust, jeno's care and affection for you outweighed it all.
however, you found it absolutely ludicrous that he had even a shroud of doubt of your want, primarily because the amounts in which your arousal was dripping out of you and beginning to pool onto your sheets in a mortifyingly obvious stain should've been enough. but of course, jeno needed explicit consent. what a gentleman.
so you nodded, eyes still glassy with unsatisfied desire. you wanted to go further, perhaps even more than he did. you breathed, "yes.. yes, i want to. please?"
and holy shit, that was all he needed to hear. jeno's lips descend upon yours with zealousness, one hand cradling the back of your neck to draw you nearer while the other deftly pops open the buttons of his jeans and tugs the zipper downward. he shoves both the denim and his boxers down his hips impetuously. his throbbing length bounds free from the confines of fabric, slapping his abdomen as he yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.
his eyes never leave yours as he strokes himself once, then twice, lining himself up to your opening before slowly pushing the mushroomy head inside. your walls immediately clench around him at the intrusion, eliciting a choked-off, squeaky gasp from you. he groans raggedly, one hand on your thigh to spread you wider for him as the other rests adjacent to your head on the sheets to keep him upright. in one more brisk movement, he's fully sheathed inside of you, his hold on your thigh tightening as he lets both of you adjust to the sensation.
"fuck, you're tight, baby—oh my god. gonna make me cum..." he mewled into your ear.
jeno babbled filthy praises and whimpers of pleasure continuously, beginning to rock into you slowly. his thrusts gradually began to accelerate, alongside his rants, which were becoming more frequent and lewd. however, you couldn't find any awareness in you (besides the extreme feelings of pleasure) to reply, so you laid there, twitching and trembling while your whines and moans resounded in the air. every drag of his cock inside your narrow, gummy walls sent shocks of ecstasy up your spine, creating a beautiful arch of your back.
he was so graciously endowed in the dick department that you could feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix every other thrust, despite the fact that he wasn't going as deep as he could.
his hand slid up your spine to tangle in your strands, tugging on them gently to tilt your head back, baring the skin of your neck to him. he left a few hickeys in his wake as he spoke, "this pussy was made for me, baby, i swear... i can feel it in how well you fucking take me. no other man fit this well inside you, and i know it. say you know it, too."
you gabbled out an embarrassingly unintelligible response, too lost in ecstasy to even form any coherent words. he chuckled at this, his plunges into you becoming deeper, hitting your cervix more distinctly now.
"can't talk? feels too good?" the jerk had the audacity to fuck you stupid like this and then mock you for sounding like you've never spoken in your life. and of course, his thrusts only deepened as his hand reached down to toy with your clit.
"well, you're gonna have to speak if you want to come. so say—fuck—that you're mine. that this perfect pussy... every inch of it and of you, is mine and will never be anyone else's. and god, i'll give you anything and everything you want, i swear.."
you cried, "yours, jeno, f-fuck! all yours, please, yours.. w-wanna come, please, please..."
he pounds more relentlessly into you, losing himself to the tight wetness around him as his mouth devours yours. his thumb on your clit presses faster circles, propelling you to your peak. it was clear that you were both on the verge of orgasm, apparent with all the noises of bliss filling the room.
"j-jeno, i'm coming! i'm—"
in no longer than a few more seconds, a second orgasm crashes into you, your hands wrapping around his neck and pulling your chest to his as you moan and wail into his ear. jeno's hips slam into yours a few more times before he buries himself right to the hilt, crushing you against him as he groans deeply, letting his white, hot release pipe into you.
and then he melts completely. any trace of the slightly mocking, dominant, and harsh demeanor he used with you during sex dissipates immediately. you feel his warm lips brush against your cheeks, neck, forehead (where he lingers for a moment.) your eyes are fluttered shut, limbs boneless and bordering on numb from the intense experience.
"you did really well for me, gorgeous. so, so good... all for me."
a few minutes pass like that, - arms and legs entangled with one another, lazy kisses and sweet words of affirmation. finally, he sits up slightly, tucking a couple sweaty strands of your hair sticking to your forehead back into place before softly murmuring, "did you mean what you said? that you'll be mine?"
your eyes flitted open, irises still hazy from the aftermath and swirling with something riskily close to love as you stare at him and nod.
"of course i meant that. i've liked you for a while now, i just never said anything because... well, i didn't know the extent of how you felt. i thought you viewed me as a friend, and i didn't wanna ruin that with you."
jeno lets out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as he mutters, "and to think that this entire time i hid it from you because i thought the same exact thing. just a pair of dumbasses, both of us."
you both burst out into laughter, hugging each other tighter as he plants a few more kisses on the blue-purplish marks he left on your skin, mapping them like twinkling stars in the sky. he pecks his way up to your ear, which is when he whispers to you:
"i'll take you on a proper date soon. and then we can do this again for the rest of our lives."
you giggle softly, running a hand through his hair.
"possessive, are we?"
he doesn't look amused.
"okay, okay, god! fine, we'll date. loser."
he laughs and scoops you up from the bed, still planting kisses all over your face as he carries you to the shower, kicking the door open.
on a serious note — this mf heatwave is actually no joke
it was hot.
sweltering actually.
the kind of humid, hundred degree weather that made you strip down to nothing and lay in bed all day with the fans on.
and that's exactly what you and jaemin had decided to do.
the blankets had long been thrown to the ground and the two of you lay head to toe, melting against the mattress in nothing but your underwear. you groaned and positioned the fan closer to you, letting the air dry the sweat droplets and cool your burning face.
“i don't think i've ever been this hot in my entire life.” you complained, letting your head flop against the mattress. jaemin hummed and looked up, admiring the view from his end of the bed. your body flushed slightly from the heat and a sheen of sweat covered your thighs. he cocked an eyebrow, his eyes tracing up from the tip of your toes to the nape of your neck.
“i don't think so either.” he hummed contently, his eyes burning holes into your back. you roll your eyes, lolling your head back to cool breeze coming from the fan.
“don't make me come back there.”
“would you?” he mocked, a smile playing at his lips.
“you know, i would but i'm currently fucking frying so maybe another time.” you slurred, the heat zapping any energy you previously had. jaemin laughed and let his head fall against the back of your thighs.
ew.
“god. you're so sweaty. get your head off of me!” this only made him laugh harder and bury his face in the softness of your thighs, shamelessly rubbing his excess sweat on you. “that's actually disgusting.” you groaned. you could feel his smile against the back of your thighs. it didn't seem like he planned on moving.
“it's so nice right here.” he whispered, placing a kiss on each of your thighs, sending a small shiver up your back.
“i'm glad you're having a good time.” you grumbled sarcastically, wiggling a little to shake him off but he was latched on.
“that was cute, do that again.” he grinned, watching your thighs and butt ripple and jiggle at the attempt to shake him off. his fingers ghosted up your thigh, teasing the skin, sending gooseflesh rushing every which way. they trailed up, finding the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down to rest right below the curve of your ass. “show me again.”
“fuck off, jaemin.” you smiled, hiding your satisfactory grin in the mattress. it was a short lived victory as you felt the bed shift underneath you and a sharp sting land on your left ass cheek, making a yelp leave your throat. you turned to see jaemin straddling your legs so you couldn't move and both of his hands gripping a cheek, the biggest shit eating grin you had ever seen painted on his face. another blow was delivered, to your right cheek this time, stinging more than the last. you could feel your thighs tremble under the impact and jaemin’s satisfied groan as the shape of his palm began to form in your skin.
“you should just sleep naked.” he continues to squeeze your flesh, voice husky.
you snort. “doubtful. you know how much i love my pajamas! besides, sleeping naked is your thing.”
“then do you have any better ideas to cool off?” he asks as he starts kissing the small of your back and then moves up your spine. the feel of his lips on your skin instinctively turns you on, but if there was anything that made you feel un-sexy, it was heat and humidity.
“yeah, one,” you try to swat his hand away, unable to tolerate his current body temperature, “how about getting off of me. you’re too hot.”
jaemin chuckles lowly. he didn’t care. the way he touched and kissed your body, he only had one thing in his mind and he was determined to make it happen.
“god, you have the most gorgeous thighs i've ever fucking seen,” you could feel yourself getting hotter from his praises, the warmth creeping up your legs and finding it's way between your thighs. “the things i would do…” jaemin trailed off, dragging his nails from the base of your back down to where your backside formed crescents, tugging your underwear down to your ankles. “could you imagine, these beautiful thighs, smeared with my cum?”
“no, we’re already gross and sticky.” you protest.
jaemin leaned over, his lips kissing the shell of your ear. “aegyia, do this one thing for me. you don’t need to do anything. just lay there and i’ll do all the work.” he whispered then added a, “please.”
in this heat, any excessive movement that’ll make you more hot and sweaty was enough to refuse him. but still you give in, losing any resolve and self-control you had possessed earlier. “fine. but only because i don’t kink shame.”
“sure,” he laughs at your joke before finally climbing off of you and turning you on your back to face him. you watched as he peeled off his boxer briefs, the only article of clothing he had on, and tossed them off to the side of the bedroom.
jaemin grabs your legs and held them up together with one hand wrapped around your ankles. he let your legs rest on one side of his shoulder so he could look at you. his other hand digs into the soft flesh of your thighs. he groans deeply at the sudden warmth he is welcomed by, your plush thighs that caress him so deliciously when he push his cock between them. with his lips kissing around you calf, he slowly began to rock back and forth. he drinks in every soft sound you make, whether it is intentional or not.
you let out a low moan-mangled version of his name, which he seems to like because he applies a bit more pressure while keeping his eyes on your expression. you still hadn't managed to catch your breath and he didn't give you the chance as he picked up the pace, the sounds of wet skin on wet skin echoed obscenely through the room.
is the wetness between your legs from his cock or from sweating? this is a very important question, but you don’t have enough braincells to properly process it because of how good it feels. all coherent thoughts have melted out of your ears and are replaced with the melodious moans jaemin makes.
your lips parted in the shape of an ‘o’ when he leaned forward, folding your knees to your chest, as he pounded between your thighs mercilessly.
“jaemin— just fuck me.” you whined, your hands holding onto his shoulders in a vice grip.
your boyfriend tilts his head to the side with a smug smile, “i am fucking you.”
“you’re fucking my thighs.”
“why? is your hole getting jealous, baby?”
you should have known better than to say anything to jaemin, because he immediately found a weak spot to poke at. this masochistic ability makes him an absolute tease, so there is no winning in sight. jaemin’s hand sneaks around your throat. the friction is dangerous and makes your breath leave your lungs. gasps fought their way out of your throat as he tightened his fingers ever so slightly.
“are you going to cum just from me fucking your thighs?” jaemin moaned.
there he goes using your words against you. and the most you could do was tap his arm in response.
“come on, use your words, aegyi.” his hand loosened its grip, hanging loosely around your throat.
a weak “yes” fell from your mouth as your head began to swarm with that familiar buzzing and electricity, your eyes fluttering closed. his hand left your neck and he peeled back, squeezing your thighs even tighter around his cock.
the sheets beneath you are drenched at this point. you let yourself finally cum. he kept going, desperate to reach his own high.
“i’m almost there, baby.” with a shaky breath, jaemin tenses his muscles and bucks back and forth, bringing himself closer and closer to an orgasm. heat pools between your thighs as he groans, streaks of cum shoot across your stomach.
jaemin collapsed next to you, his face flushed and sweatier than it was before.
“god…” he muttered between catching his breath, his eyes tracing your cum splattered thighs, “that’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”
you groaned. sure, it was fun for him but you had cum drizzled all over you and it was still hot.
“fuck jaemin. it’s hotter than it was before.” he grinned ear to ear, his sweat matted hair flopping in front of his eyes.
“you’re wearing less clothing than you were before, i don't see the problem.” his cheshire cat smile erasing any irritation.
“i hate you.” you sighed, suppressing a surfacing smile, rolling out of bed to take a well-deserved cold shower.
genre: figure skating AU, fluff, childhood friends to lovers, PR relationship/fake dating, speed skater!Jaemin x figure skater!reader, female identifying reader
warnings: light partying, a lil suggestive
playlist: true romance (pinkpantheress) | the perfect pair (beabadoobee) | prague (jack harlow) | with me (0WAVE) | next to me (JUNNY) | sexier (nct jnjm)
summary:
In the midst of a career comeback following a major injury, a reckless night cements your fall from grace as the Nation’s Skating Sweetheart. As everything comes crashing down, an opportunity presents itself: your childhood crush, Jaemin, proposes a PR relationship to support both of your returns to the skating world.
As your fabricated relationship throws you further into the spotlight, you’re not sure which is harder – redeeming your reputation, or trying not to fall for Na Jaemin all over again.
disclaimer: be warned that I'm not a skater but I tried my best LOLL also the nationality/country is kept vague intentionally, however I am American so be aware that some aspects of that culture might bleed through - ty!
taglist: @honeybeehorizon
When you step onto the ice, you think it might really be over.
It’s Nationals, which means that this is your last chance to make it. To prove, to everyone in the figure skating community, that you still have what it takes.
The pressure is on, especially since your childhood friend, Sunghoon, is dubbed the favorite within the men's program. You surpassed all expectations and are coming off an incredibly strong short program, which makes you the last one to leave it all on the ice.
You cross one skate over the other, gliding toward center ice. You lift your arms as you hear your name announced over the speakers. Through your nerves, like you’ve done a hundred times before, you flash a bright smile at the crowd. The only face you somehow manage to catch is Sunghoon’s that’s nearly pressed up against the glass. The rest are a blur, but it gives you some comfort to know there’s at least one person still rooting for you out there.
The first half of your program is hands down your favorite, as it features enough technical difficulty while allowing you to lean into your artistry. You hit your jump combinations flawlessly and execute the elements just the way you want. For the first time in years, your competitive spirit is confident. Unhindered.
Your fire carries you through the first half, until you feel a familiar fatigue pulling at your right hip.
Leading up to this season, almost all skating forums, live commentators, and journalists always positioned your narrative over one central detail: the fact that this is your first season back on the ice after an almost career-ending hip tear.
That was enough reason for you to skip over articles and most social media commentary—reliving your surgery, post-op, and shaky comeback through the eyes of other spectators was too much. You remembered the heartache and depression that manifested when you were injured as an Olympic hopeful, and you’d be damned if you let skeptics drag you back into that mindset. You deserve to be here. You are here to prove that you deserve to move forward.
You grit your teeth, fighting through your spins and pushing into each jump. It’s working until you realize what’s next.
An element highly contested by yourself and your coach was your last jump combination: the double axel, double toe, single loop jump wedged into the second half of your program for maximum point potential. It’s something you’d struggled to execute in the past, but it was a stretch for your recovering body post-injury.
Your coach is probably off to the side praying that you opt for an easier version of this combination, but you decide to press on.
Watch me, you think as you take off. Your entire face scrunches with the effort, but it pays off. You hit the double axel, and the adrenaline rush carries your momentum to hit the double toe as well. As you’re continuing into the last jump, your hip muscles pinch in sharp pain. You flinch, and the falter causes you to underrotate the last jump completely and land on two feet. At this point, it’s a miracle that you don’t fully eat shit in the process.
The crowd gasps. You recover your bearings just enough to finish out the program with somewhat convincing artistry. Your hip burns at the scar site, the muscle underneath fatigued and tender. When the crowd applauds, you skate off to the kiss and cry, trying to keep a smile steady as you hug your coach.
“At least you left it all out there,” he says. That’s his way of saying Not perfect, but it might do.
You force a neutral expression on your face as the camera focuses on your reaction. It’ll be close, especially since a good amount of the women had skated clean. To podium, you need a score close to your season’s best, so the question is obvious: did your mistake ruin your chances?
You fidget with the pink bunny plush from your childhood in your usual kiss and cry tradition. The audience pauses in anticipation, and you feel like you’re going to vomit. Then, you hear your total score.
You’ve done it by two measly points. By the skin of your teeth, you’re making it to the podium. You cry in front of the cameras, too shocked to hold in the sobs heaving from your chest.
❅˚
In your daze and general shock at medaling, you’re hyped up into attending an afterparty before you even know it. It’s hosted by the main sponsor of today’s competition, and you typically never like to go to things like this. Of all people, it’s Sunghoon who ultimately convinces you to go.
“We should celebrate both of our comebacks,” he says with a smile. “Plus, only other skaters will be there.”
It’s enough to get you out the door in the black dress you’d managed to pack in your carry on just in case.
You’re regretting it an hour in as Sunghoon’s pulled into conversation after conversation. He’s always had the larger network between the two of you, which leaves you sipping your drink in the corner as you avoid dragging down his conversations.
You’re feeling buzzed when you feel a tap on your shoulder and hear a familiar voice speak your name.
Your jaw drops to the floor. “Jaemin?”
For the first time in a year, Na Jaemin stands in front of you. He wears a suit that’s a little too formal for this event, but it somehow makes him even more handsome than you remember.
“It’s me,” he laughs.
“I thought this was for skaters only.”
“Ouch,” he pretends to be hurt. “Are you saying I’m not a skater?”
You roll your eyes. “A skater that actually competed today, Jaemin.”
“I know some people. Come on,” he grins. “Are you really that unhappy to see me?”
Along with Sunghoon, you’d grown up attending the same rink as Jaemin. Your trio had been three peas in a pod throughout skating school; you’d even trained as an ice dance pair together for a year until Jaemin and his family decided to specialize him into speed skating. From then on, to your dismay, interactions with him had been few and far in between with your conflicting schedules. The distance only grew as you moved from juniors to then seniors in your respective disciplines.
If Sunghoon was like your brother, Jaemin was the schoolyard crush that never quite faded away. Sure, you’d dated some guys here and there over the years, but any whispers of Jaemin dating sent you scrolling on Instagram in full investigation mode. Considering that he was considered an athlete-turned-influencer with his own fan base, you saw these rumors often.
Even so, you try to play it cool by taking a long sip of your drink. “Of course I’m glad to see you, but when was the last time you even laced up your skates?”
“Ah,” Jaemin shoots you a bright smile, although you can see the nerves peek through his facade as he hesitates. “Well…last week?”
“Last week?” You raise an eyebrow. “As in…you’re thinking about coming back?”
“It’s a work in progress,” he says with a wink.
“Hmm.” Your heart beats wildly in your chest.
He seizes your sarcasm to change the subject. “You look like you’re fully back out there, though.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, you podiumed, which is more than something.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “you looked really good out there.”
The knowledge of Jaemin watching your near-disastrous free skate sends hot embarrassment crawling up your neck.
“My lead from the short program saved my ass. It would’ve looked better if this,” you point to your bad hip, “would behave the way I want it to.”
He frowns. “It’s not fully recovered?”
“It is, but it’s not. Since I spent so much time off, the muscles on my right are weaker than my left, which sucks since my right is my landing leg.” You force a smile. “The road to full-strength recovery is long.”
“As always, you need to be nicer to yourself,” he sighs. “At least you kept Mr. Hops to comfort you in the kiss and cry.”
Your face burns even hotter. “I didn’t think you would remember him.”
Mr. Hops had been Jaemin’s gift to you for your tenth birthday. You’d taken the pink plushie for your first serious competition as a junior, and you’d continued taking him well into adulthood as a good luck charm. Your hip tear had occurred during a competition where you’d left Mr. Hops sitting in your hotel room, which, in your eyes, verified your long-standing superstition.
“Of course I remember,” he smiles wide. “I’m just glad you’ve gotten a bunch of mileage out of him.”
If the earth could open under your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time. Not only does your childhood crush remember your pink bunny’s name, but he also knows that you’ve been hauling it around everywhere for at least the past decade.
“Well,” you clear your throat. “I think Mr. Hops and his well-traveled wisdom at least reduces the odds of me having a full mental breakdown.”
“You really didn’t need to worry about anything,” he insists. “Out of everyone, I think you were the most bea–”
“Jaemin!” Sunghoon calls. His face is flushed and his breath carries the trace smell of alcohol. “Guys! Everyone wants to drink!!”
You look at Jaemin wildly for help, but he shrugs in a way that conveys what am I supposed to do about it?
You’re pulled into the main group of fellow skaters that are much too drunk; one look at the three of you together has them hollering and forcing drinks into your hands in the name of reunion. You’re not used to partying, and you’re sure as hell not used to being the center of attention among your peers. Even during your prime, you’d preferred to hang around only a couple close friends after any competition.
The spotlight puts you in a vulnerable position to accept any and all drinks. You stay much later than expected, even when Jaemin offers to help you make a quick exit. You’re the most drunk you’ve ever been, both on the physical drinks as well as the atmosphere. Once you're dancing on a table with someone who you think is Cha Jun-hwan, the night is long gone.
The next morning you wake up to banging on the door of your hotel room. Running to the entrance, you peek through the peephole first, which reveals the livid face of your PR manager, Mei.
“God!” Thunk. “Wake up, already!” Thunk thunk.
Mei isn’t the most level headed person, but, even for her, it’s way too early to be this aggressive. Whatever it is, it’s serious.
You take a deep breath, trying to will away the hangover pounding in your head as you swing the door open. “Hey, Mei–”
“Don’t hey me.” She growls. Mei stalks around your room, sticking her head into your bathroom and closet. She only hesitates when peeking around the corner toward your bed then exhales in relief.
“What on earth is going on?” You ask in bewilderment, and your gut twists. The first thing that crosses your mind is that there must be some sort of serious scandal—a failed test for a controlled substance, maybe. You don't know what else would warrant this level of panic.
“Did you have anyone over last night?”
The question catches you so off guard that you nearly trip over your own feet as you follow her erratic path around your room. “What? No!”
Mei searches behind the curtains and even bends down to look under your bed. “Just reminding you that, as your PR manager, it’s to both of our advantages if you’re forthright about any indiscretions…”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You shriek. You didn’t need to hear this from someone who’s known you since your teen years.
Finally registering your genuine confusion, she squints at you. “...I thought you were ignoring me, but have you really not checked your phone at all today?”
Numbness cascades down your nerves. Your phone currently sits charging on your nightstand. “No?”
Your manager shakes her head and fishes out her laptop from her bag, placing it on the hotel dining table. The display immediately brightens into a gossip article published an hour ago.
ICE ROYALTY TO PARTY ANIMALS: A WILD NIGHT FOR THE NATION’S SWEETHEARTS
Your heart sinks low into your chest as you scroll through the contents of the article. It’s you, alright, down to last night’s little black dress while arm-in-arm with both Sunghoon and Jaemin. It’s you, leaving the car disheveled and dangerously close to a wardrobe malfunction. It’s unfortunately you, previous child prodigy, downing shots and dancing on the front page of one of the most popular gossip sites.
Shit, you think. Sunghoon must be freaking out. Jaemin, too.
While both men had gathered the nickname of Ice Prince, it was for entirely different reasons. Sunghoon carried the name for his public aloofness, while Jaemin's persona fulfilled the image of charismatic royalty.
While you’d long accepted the unfair scrutiny of being labeled a “controversial” female athlete, both Sunghoon and Jaemin ruled their private lives with an iron fist. Every post and press release was curated and picked through in order to protect their squeaky clean Ice Prince images–especially with the rising cult following of girls.
And you had messed it all up in one night.
“Was it worth it?” Mei snaps. “Did you have fun? Because it sure looks like it.”
Opening the full slideshow, almost every attendee from last night has been captured. However, the most prominent features are still yourself, Jaemin, and Sunghoon.
Wordlessly, Mei pulls up multiple social media sites, where all commentary centers on the three of you. Most old skating fans remember your friendship as a trio, but many new ones—particularly Jaemin’s new legion of followers—fixate on your presence.
did he fly out just to see her? they’re so together y’all
that picture of her on both of their arms makes me sick THAT SHOULD BE ME
embarrassing that her boyfriend had to witness such a mid program, she should retire already
You nudge the laptop so that you can no longer read the words on the screen. “I was not aware of this.”
“I see.” Mei thinks before gathering all of her things back into her bag. “Take some time to process this. Don’t make any statements to anyone yet. If you’re smart, you’ll turn off your social media notifications. We’ll talk.”
“Okay.” You’ve learned not to question her. She’s gotten you out of enough sticky situations. “I’m sorry, Mei.”
“This is just the beginning, kid,” Mei shoots you a pitying smile as she lets herself out. “Just get yourself ready for the storm that’s coming.”
❅˚
Mei gives you two days.
When she requests your presence at her office, you don’t protest. You get there ten minutes ahead of time and wait politely.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” she sighs when she sees your too-straight posture.
“Wouldn’t be unwarranted,” you mutter. “I shouldn’t have gotten swept up in the atmosphere.”
“As your manager, I agree.” Mei shoots you a look. “As someone who’s always telling you to enjoy your life—I’m glad you finally stopped punishing yourself.”
You tug with your sleeve without commenting.
Mei continues. “Obviously, you already posted the official statement that we sent over yesterday. Nothing else public on social media, aside from the official pictures we got from Nationals. After that—no posting for a while.”
You nod. It’s fair enough. You’d already gotten too many unsolicited comments from strangers. Notifications were decidedly turned off, and only the bravest of souls could field your direct messages.
“There’s been something else I’ve considered for this season,” Mei hesitates. “If you’re open to it.”
Alarm bells go off in your head. “Interviews? Variety content?”
“The ice show,” Mei says.
“Classics on Ice?” You frown. “Sunghoon and I were already planning on skating.”
“You’ll skate there, sure,” Mei says, “but now it’s more.”
“More as in…promotions? Volunteering?”
Your manager shakes her head. “Yes, benefit shows usually yield good coverage. It’s also an opportunity to showcase your relationships within the skating community. During and leading up to the event. Public perception and opinions are unavoidable, but I think if you’re seen out and about being friendly with respected athletes…”
You cringe at the implication: you are simply an athlete—not a respected one. “That’s a fine idea and all, but wouldn’t that harm those athletes? I’m friends with a lot of skaters, but those friendships are away from the cameras. Except Sunghoon.”
“Right. It would be out of the blue to suddenly hang out with skaters you’ve been training and competing against for years, especially with no public history.” She leans forward. “But if there was suddenly an old friend re-entering the community—maybe that would be believable?”
Your blood chills. You recall what Jaemin told you: it’s a work in progress.
“Jaemin?” You fight to push the words out. “Jaemin’s actually returning to skating?”
Mei nods. Her shoulders relax, perhaps relieved that she didn’t have to directly break the news. “His team is making the announcement at the end of the week.”
You’re happy for him—really, you are—but disappointment tugs at your gut. Why hadn’t he told you when you asked?
“So you want me to skate in this ice show and prove that I have at least two friends. Got it. I can do that.”
Mei’s expression twists. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“With Jaemin coming back into the skating world, and the rumors already circulating between the two of you…” Mei bites her lip. “His management reached out to discuss, and we came to the conclusion that showcasing a…closer relationship would likely be beneficial for both parties.”
It’s her pleading expression to not freak out that makes the last puzzle piece fall into place. “A PR romance? With Jaemin? How on earth would that benefit either of us? He’ll get angry fans, and I’ll get the angry fans’ death threats!”
“You don’t need to be over the top with it,” Mei’s waving both hands, which could be her attempt to calm you down or to enact a physical barrier from you. Maybe both. “Nothing crazy or formal—people already think you're dating! Just lean into the rumors. Hang out with or without Sunghoon. Jaemin is popular, but it’s common knowledge that you all were rink rats together. You’ll get some fan hate, but we see people overall getting really into it.”
You’re speechless. You run through the impending possibilities in your mind. Jaemin, back in your hometown. Seeing him in passing. Existing in the same sphere for the first time in years.
“I still don’t understand how that would benefit him,” you say.
Mei hums. “His team can explain it more.”
“His team?” Your stomach drops. “They’re coming here? Today?”
“Oh, no,” Mei says. “We’re grabbing lunch with them.”
–
Mei whisks you away in her car. You barely process that you're heading somewhere at all. When the car pulls up in front of the nicest restaurant in the city, you think, briefly, that you must be hallucinating this entire ordeal.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she scoffs as you stumble out of the passenger’s side.
You follow her lead, baffled at the long roman-style columns at the entrance and dim, ambient lighting. Inside, you can’t even tell that it’s daytime, let alone high noon.
You’ve walked through the interior for minutes before you make a sudden left turn into a more private section of the restaurant. There, at a table around the corner, sits Jaemin with his manager.
His manager rises to shake both your and Mei’s hands. “Jeff.”
“Nice to meet you,” you manage to say, although your throat scratches like sandpaper while speaking.
When Jaemin stands up to face you, your brain glitches on the protocol. Is it proper to shake hands with a childhood best friend, especially when you’re both portrayed on the front cover of tabloids together? When you just saw him a few nights ago, and he only hinted at a comeback? When his team is proposing a PR arrangement? Is a hug too casual for this heavy atmosphere?
“Hi.” You shoot him a pained smile and sit down to avoid confronting the issue entirely. Confusion flickers across his face, but he lowers back down into his seat.
Jeff immediately transitions into business. “Thank you for meeting us today. I hope Mei was able to explain our current situation, especially since the headlines have complicated things.”
Mei nods. “She’s aware. Obviously, we’ll have to be very intentional moving forward.”
Your gaze bounces between the two as they discuss details such as social media use and public outings. You try to catch Jaemin’s eye, but he pokes around at an appetizer on his plate.
You try to listen to their brainstorming of strategies, but you can only take so much before your curiosity gets the best of you. You blurt out to Jaemin directly. “What do you get out of this deal?”
Jaemin’s eyes widen, but he still jumps to speak, as if he’s been waiting for your permission to talk. “Well, I—”
“Jaemin wants to re-enter the skating world,” Jeff interjects. “This…relationship could renew interest in his previous success, since you’re very deeply linked with that time period.”
You frown, but you’re starting to get the picture. You’re sure that this morning’s article alone has most likely sent fans hunting for old skating footage. There’s even some old trio pictures still visible on both your and Sunghoon’s Instagram profiles.
You’ve also seen enough fragments of Jaemin’s fanbase online to know that a public girlfriend would likely alienate the most unhealthily attached fans.
Maybe that’s what someone like him needed to be taken seriously in the athletic world again, just like how you wish people would speak about your current skating and instead of the old.
“Anything else I should know? Any stipulations before I offer myself up as bait for one of the most viral athletes known for having crazy fans?”
Jaemin’s gaze shoots up at you in the corner of your eye. You ignore it as you glare down Mei and Jeff.
“There’s one thing our team is thinking of,” Jeff starts. He side eyes you as if you’re a wild animal ready to pounce. “The charity ice show you’re skating in.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What, they’re having a speed skating demo?”
Your sarcasm falls on deaf ears; if he picks up on it, Jeff doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve been told that both you and Jaemin trained together in ice dance before settling in your respective sports.”
Your jaw tightens. “No. I’m not committing to an ice dance routine. It’s way too late to be practicing for that.”
Mei says nothing, but she nods her head.
“As you wish.” Jeff seems unfazed. “We’ll find something else for Jaemin. If you change your mind, please let us know.”
“I won’t. I mean, I don’t foresee that changing, but we’ll let you know,” you hastily add after sensing Mei’s disapproval. “Thank you.”
Mei and Jeff dominate the discussion throughout lunch, and they’re still chatting as you all rise to leave your table. You find yourself in stride with Jaemin, who seems to be looking everywhere but you.
“So. You're moving back,” you say.
He turns towards you, surprised. “I am. I’m moving out of my old place next Monday.”
“So it was a work in progress, after all.” You try to keep your tone light, but it doesn’t prevent the sour edge in your voice from seeping through.
His expression twists with guilt. “I was going to tell you, but then things started moving too fast. I lost the opportunity. This relationship—PR situation—was not my idea.”
You don’t respond. Your ego stings; you’d asked him so many questions out of a genuine interest to catch up, and the whole while he'd held you at arm's length. Your teams concocted this plan, rather than talk it through first with you as a friend.
Jaemin searches your face. “What do you think of all of this?”
You think that you want to delete Instagram altogether, retire from skating, and tell everyone to stuff their clout-chasing proposals up their—
Really, you should calm down. You have to admit that you could benefit from this arrangement. Sure, there would be hate and an uptick in public interest in your private life, but Mei is right. After these headlines, you’re bound to receive more criticism anyway—maybe returning the focus to your oldest friends would remind the world of your younger self. Before all of the hardship. Nostalgia as a vehicle of empathy.
As for Jaemin, you’re not sure what to make of his sudden re-appearance in your life. Any giddiness is now tempered by the jaded realism of your position. Maybe knowing his true intentions is better for your working relationship, since, moving forward, you should be treating this as a professional arrangement.
“Let’s do it,” your laugh sounds harsh and flat. “What more do I have to lose, right?”
❅˚
Upon returning home, you’re allowed one day of sweet radio silence from any obligations. You mute almost all notifications and lose yourself in your favorite shows.
Then, Jaemin’s announcement drops, and all hell breaks loose.
The overall response shows widespread support for Jaemin’s return to speed skating. The speculation of his move, however, has everyone up in a flurry trying to figure out why. Technically, his city’s rink is superior in all of their facilities and amenities. His coach was based mainly in your rink, but he was so close to retirement and was open about only coaching Jaemin.
You’re not sure why he’s chosen to return here, either. From what you know, a large portion of speed skating training isn’t always in the rink, anyway.
Everyone online, however, is staunchly convinced that you must be the reason. You scroll past everything from pregnancy rumors to social media accounts posting threads surrounding the early “evidence” to prove the existence of this secret relationship. As far as your social media feed is concerned, you're practically married.
Half of it seems to be in good fun—a lot of supportive fans make jokes about finally glimpsing into Jaemin’s notoriously private life. The other half of it is not so fun, manifesting in hate comments and threatening direct messages that trigger you to crack down on your account privacy.
Hey, Jaemin texts you after you temporarily set your Instagram to private. You okay?
You don’t respond. Something stubborn and petty wants to double down . So what if you got photographed drinking with friends? Was society really so fucked up that you had to put in work to protect your peace while both of the ice princes got off scot-free?
When you pull your car into the rink parking lot to a couple of flashing cameras, you know that the answer is undoubtedly yes. You’d hoped for a serene first practice back, but you anticipate Jaemin’s presence before you even open the door.
In fact, he’s literally on the other side, sitting at one of the benches between the back entrance and the ice.
Jaemin stands when he sees you. “Hey, good morning—”
You cut to the chase. “What do you want, Jaem?”
“I just thought I’d say hi before your practice,” he says. He seems encouraged by your use of his old nickname; you make a mental note to avoid using it again.
“You got up at the ass crack of dawn to send me off to practice?”
“Uh—no?” Jaemin points over his shoulder. “I’m doing some strength training first in the gym, then I’ll take over the ice for some light stuff after you.”
“Alright then,” you say. You step past him and continue on. “See you.”
“Will I?”
You turn around. “Will you what?”
“Will I see you soon?” Jaemin studies you. “You’re not answering my texts.”
“There’s nothing in our contractthat requires me to text you back,” you point out. You’re all too familiar with the terms and conditions, as you reviewed and signed the paperwork in the days prior. “I can talk to Mei to put a staged outing on the calendar.”
“No.” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to say that we should actually do something together. No calendars, no managers. Definitely no cameras.”
You frown. “Why would we do that?”
“Because we’re friends?” There’s a slight gravel to Jaemin's voice. He’s losing his patience with you, and you’re relishing in it.
“We were friends,” you say. Your grip on your duffel bag tightens. “I thought we were still friends up until Nationals. Before you wanted to use our friendship for notoriety.”
“We can still be friends through this,” he says. “It’s not one or the other. And I told you, this wasn’t my idea.”
You sigh. If he’s going to be so persistent about this, you might as well be direct. “Let me be clear. I hate this arrangement. I’m only doing it because Mei thinks it’s a good idea, I trust her, and for once I’d love for people to stop betting against my skating. That’s it. I’m not doing this because we’re friends. That was pretty much ruined once the paperwork was signed.”
Jaemin opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by a voice from the other side of the rink.
“Hey!” Your coach shouts. “That’s a whole lot of talking and not a lot of warming up.”
You give Jaemin your fakest smile. “You heard the man. Have a good work out, Jaemin.”
You put your all into practice to clear your mind. It’s hard, but the determination to stand on your words keeps your focus razor sharp.
When you’re wiping your blades down and stowing away your things, you think that’s the end of it. Then, you hear the sound of the doors to the ice shutting. You straighten your back and peek through the glass.
Jaemin’s already set up a series of small cones that you assume must be to simulate the short track path. He skates around in long, fluid circles.
Your throat catches. He’s always been so beautiful on the ice. Sure, speed and power were par for the course with speed skating, but his edge control and maneuvers are so finely tuned that you're impressed. Even after all these years, Jaemin still looks like a top athlete.
Jaemin’s skates scrape across the ice as he stops. As if he has a sixth sense for your presence, he turns his gaze towards you. He nods, then, after a moment, raises his hand in a wave.
You turn away and stuff your last remaining item into your duffel. You don’t look back as you leave.
Over the next few weeks, your encounters with Jaemin go more or less the same. He waits to greet you in the morning, and you shut him down every time. You’re not sure what he aims to achieve by waiting it out— you’ve made yourself quite clear—but nevertheless he seems to show up day after day, morning after morning.
Until one day, he doesn’t. When you march through the rink one morning, you’re not met with Jaemin but by an old man that you haven’t seen in a very long time.
You start and nearly drop your bag. “Coach Brown?”
Coach Brown’s smile lines spread over his entire face. While he’s gotten older, you haven’t forgotten the kindness that your childhood coach exudes. “I had to come by now that the three musketeers are back under this roof.”
You laugh, but it’s held taut by guilt. “It’s definitely an unexpected development.”
The old man’s eyes gleam with amusement. “Although the three of you are in a bit of a rut, aren’t you?”
Your palms sweat. “You saw Jaemin this morning?”
“Just ten minutes ago,” Coach Brown shrugs. Then, his expression darkens. “You know, the worst thing you could do is turn your back on your past.”
You blink. “Sorry? What did Jaemin—”
“Sunghoon,” he waves you off before continuing. “It’s been explained to me that you are…less than enthused about the situation, but you still should treat your peers with respect. Carving out a path for yourself doesn’t mean you need to block out the others.”
“Coach—” You can’t even fully process his sentence before he cuts you off again.
“You’ve always had the worst temper of the three,” Coach Brown wags his finger in your face. “Calm yourself down and face it like an adult.”
As fast as he came around, he marches away and disappears through the doors leading up to management’s office.
You stare after him long after the doors close, dazed. You feel twelve-years-old again, getting nagged at to be nice to the boys.
After your training ends a bit early, you happen to catch Jaemin as he puts on his skates. “Morning,” you say.
Jaemin’s head whips up so fast that he swings too far back and bumps his head against the back of the boards. “Oh shit—hey?”
“I saw Coach Brown this morning,” you say.
He brightens. “Me too. I hope I’m half as active as him when I’m that age.”
You don’t respond, instead searching his features and body language for any dishonesty. It’s a stare-off—you, chewing on your lip and Jaemin, confused and massaging the back of his head.
That’s it, you admit to yourself. He didn’t tell Coach Brown anything.
And admittedly—both from the open hope in Jaemin’s expression and your shame from being nagged at—perhaps the old man was right about some things, after all.
“Would you be free to grab lunch tomorrow?” You ask before you change your mind. “There’s a new ramen place that opened up last weekend—”
“Yes!” He answers before you’ve fully finished your sentence. “I know which one you’re talking about. I can pick you up?”
“Oh—uh—that’s okay, I think.”
Jaemin shakes his head. “You’re on the way, let me do it.”
Your jaw tightens, but you swallow your pride. “Sure. Noon?”
He nods without saying anything. The two of you stare at each other.
“Well,” you break the awkward silence first. “Have a good practice.”
“You too.” Jaemin cringes. “I mean, shit, have a good day. See you tomorrow.”
At that, you turn away.
Take that, Coach Brown, you think. Look whose temper is adequately controlled.
❅˚
Twenty minutes before noon, you nearly jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door.
You rake over your appearance in the mirror and make desperate last-minute touch-ups. Sure, it's just lunch, but you were never sure when a rogue camera might snap pictures of you in public. The paparazzi had ceased showing up outside of the rink after the first two days, but the initial onslaught had left you paranoid of any flash or loud chatter.
“You’re early,” you say as you open the door, a little breathless.
Sunghoon blinks back at you. “I am?”
It’s your turn to stare. “Sunghoon. Why are you here?”
Regardless of your confusion, you step aside to let him in. As always, Sunghoon makes himself comfortable on your living room couch. “I was bored. Wanna get lunch?”
“About that.” You cross your arms. “Jaemin is picking me up in fifteen minutes.”
Sunghoon’s eyebrows raise. “You finally decided to stop hating him?”
“I don’t hate him—” you fume. “I still disagree with how he went about things, but I might have just gotten a little too mad.”
Your friend snorts and mumbles something under his breath.
“What?” You punch his arm.
“Ow!” Sunghoon swats away your swings. “I said big surprise—clearly you’re the most hotheaded one out of all of us.
“Brown said the same thing,” you mutter.
Sunghoon pauses. “Isn’t it a little crazy that people are just letting him go right back to work? Right after his surgery, too.”
You shrug. “He seemed healthy enough to lecture me about Jaemin. He said I had the worst temper out of us three.”
He smirks. “Wow. The old man needed to get involved to get your head out of your ass.”
“And who tipped him off in the first place?”
“And who with the worst temper gave me this red mark on my arm just now?”
Touche. “Anyways,” you change the subject. “Wanna go with us?”
“Um,” Sunghoon grimaces. “Not if it’s going to be awkward.”
“It won’t be,” you insist. You shoot out a quick text to Jaemin: Sunghoon randomly showed up at my place. Mind if he comes?
Within thirty seconds, your phone vibrates again. Of course. The more the merrier, it says.
“See,” you hand your phone to him. “Jaemin doesn’t care.”
“He’s not in the position to object,” Sunghoon laughs. “From that wall of text? This is clearly the first time you’ve texted him in weeks. He’s probably just saying yes so that you don’t change your mind and run away.”
You roll your eyes. “So you’re not coming?”
“I didn’t say that,” Sunghoon says. "I'm hungry."
You would’ve been more nervous about merging the group if you’d known about Sunghoon’s intrusion beforehand, but it works out well for the car ride over. Jaemin and Sunghoon seem to pick up right where they put their friendship down.
Their conversation goes from topic to topic, but your mind is reeling. It’s too easy, riding as a passenger in Jaemin’s old car, to feel like you’re a teenager again.
The new ramen place is tucked away in a plaza constructed in the last two years. It’s still finding its niche—the only other businesses in the center are a pharmacy and a dollar store—and the ramen place is the most exciting thing to have happened to it.
“Oof,” Sunghoon says as you approach the shop. From the outside, you can see that there’s only a handful of people inside. “Is that too awkward?”
Jaemin steps forward. “It’s not empty.” He swings the door open before any of you can think about it further.
Jaemin and Sunghoon are full steam ahead with their conversations. You’re jealous, in a way. Both of them have so much natural charisma that it overflows into all their interactions. On the other hand, you feel like you always have to work for it.
You all end up ordering different things from the menu. You’re halfway through observing the interior decor when you realize the rest of the table has gone silent.
“So…” Jaemin says. He leans his head into his hand. “How’s it been?”
“How’s it been?” You repeat.
“Since Nationals,” Jaemin clarifies.
Sunghoon stiffens in the corner of your vision. You try to level your facial expression.
“I mean,” you can’t help the wry smile rising to your face. “I deleted social media from my phone. Mei’s posting for me so I don’t have to see the hate. I’m avoiding the news outlets for the same exact reason."
Jaemin swallows. “Right.”
“What about you?” It’s as much as a way to change the topic as it is genuine curiosity. “How are your fans taking the return announcement?”
“Mostly well,” he admits. “Older fans are excited. Younger fans are confused but trying to be supportive, which I appreciate.”
The elephant in the room goes unaddressed. You saw the comments before officially deciding to hand the reins over to Mei. You know for a fact that there were rumors on top of rumors swirling around your connection to both Jaemin and Sunghoon.
“I delete all of the hate comments,” Sunghoon says as if reading your mind. “Just for my own peace of mind, really. I can’t stand seeing that shit on my page.”
“You should try filtering words,” Jaemin suggests. “That’s helped diffuse some of it for me.”
You frown. While you can tell that both have good intentions, it doesn’t make you feel any better. In fact, it’s worse—you feel like a taboo to hide from the world, despite your status as a well-known figure in the skating world.
“You don’t have to delete or filter anything.” You feel a deep sense of resoluteness. “Let them talk.”
The guys exchange glances. “Sure, people will talk,” Jaemin says. “Doesn’t mean you need to entertain seeing it.”
You shrug, looking between the two as your bowls of ramen are placed in the table space in front of you. “Filtering out words won’t stop them. We’ll just give them something to talk about before they move on.”
Jaemin’s smile curls. A hint of his teeth pokes through. “What do you suggest we do to make them talk?”
You think for a moment before holding your phone in the air with a shake of your hand. “Pose for me?”
❅˚
After that first lunch, talking to Jaemin gets easier. You chat briefly whenever you run into each other at the rink, and sometimes you grab a post-practice coffee if your schedules line up. You don’t text, but Jaemin sends a few skating memes after you log back into Instagram—a cautious way to test the water.
“What’s your goal with coming back?” You ask during one brunch after training.
Jaemin’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t lose his easy smile. “My goal?”
“I mean—” you scramble to find the right words. Hell, you should think before speaking sometimes. “Why decide to come back now? You have so many opportunities outside of skating.”
Skaters who would kill for his following. Not many people would intentionally halt their own momentum, let alone actively endanger it with a fake relationship.
Jaemin leans back in his chair. “Why did you come back? After your injury?”
“Rude. I asked first.” Regardless, you think out loud. “No one’s actually asked me why. Everyone just assumed that I would try to come back after I was ready.”
“Would you have, even if they hadn’t assumed?” He asks.
“Yes,” you say without hesitating.
“Why?”
“It’s not what people would expect from me,” you start. “I knew it was going to be a long road to any sort of podium, and I didn’t even expect to get there at all. I came back…to see if I could, I guess. Skating has just been such a big part of my life; I wasn't ready to give it up.”
Jaemin’s smile brightens. “That’s my answer too.”
“Uh…” You bite your lip. “It’s not that I don’t admire you for coming back, but you weren’t injured. You left first.”
“I did.” Jaemin thinks for a moment. “When I quit, I genuinely thought that skating had nothing more to offer me. But the more time passed, the more I realized that something was missing.”
This is the most you’ve ever heard him talk about his choice to leave. He had never spoken about it outside of the initial press statement, and he’d all but disappeared from the community after. “What made you realize something was missing?”
“Ah, you know.” Jaemin scratches the back of his head. “Just intuition.”
You stare at him. “You came back after years based on some magical intuition? Right out of thin air?”
His cheeks turn pink. “What’s wrong with trusting your intuition?”
“Just seems too good to be true, I guess.” You take a long sip of your drink. “Ignore me. I’m a pessimist nowadays.”
Silence. Then, Jaemin speaks up again. “If you have to know, I saw some old footage. I got the urge to get on the ice, so I did. Casually skating didn’t feel like it was enough. I felt the pull to do everything—compete the right way, by coming home and reconnecting with everyone.”
It’s like his dark eyes are looking through you and your thoughts.
You think back to the months following your injury. In the darkest moments when you considered giving up skating for good, it always led to reminiscing via old videos. Everything from old competition footage to videos of you messing around with the other kids—sometimes it was your last anchor to hope. More than the nostalgia interwoven in the past, you craved to perform again.
“I know exactly what you mean,” you smile, then hesitate. “I’m glad you’re back.”
The seriousness melts away. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Mean it?”
You snort. “Forget it.”
“Too late,” Jaemin points to his temples. “It’s already saved here. No camera needed.”
❅˚
You push on your bike, fighting for your life to pedal to the music while trying to follow the spin instructor’s directions. Beads of sweat roll down your skin, and your throat feels dry.
You sneak a glance at Jaemin. The bastard looks like he’s barely breaking a sweat. In fact, if it he wasn't right next to you, anyone could easily mistake him as the instructor.
He leans toward your bike. “Are you doing okay?”
“I have decent cardio!” You pant over the bass-loaded music. “I’m fine!”
You sound so not fine that Jaemin throws his head back in laughter.
“You two in the back!” The instructor calls out. “Less talking, more pedaling!”
There were only so many cafes close to the rink to try, so working out together is your most recent attempt at activities together. Jaemin insisted that it’s valuable cross-training for your respective sports—you’re not sure that you agree with the sentiment for your discipline, but it’s a nice supplement to your training schedule.
“What did you think about that instructor?” Jaemin asks as he holds the door open for you.
You snort. “Too intense and too much bass boosting.”
Your phone vibrates with texts and phone calls. You don’t even flinch as you start blocking and reporting the unknown callers.
“Wow, you’re popular,” Jaemin jokes while he backs out of his parking spot.
You don’t say anything. There’s no use in dragging Jaemin into it; not when there’s nothing to be done. At the very least, you appreciate that Jaemin always offers to drive.
“Can I ask you something?” Jaemin asks as he pulls up to your place.
“No,” you laugh before registering the nervousness creeping in on his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Well,” Jaemin clears his throat. “Remember when my team brought up performing an ice dance together at that benefit show?”
“I do.”
“I know that it wasn’t brought up in a very good way.” Jaemin’s eyes flit around your face. “But do you think there’s any part of you that would be open to reconsidering that decision?”
The question makes you freeze. “Why?”
“My team won’t let up about it. I keep telling them that there’s really no need for me to participate…”
He’s continuing into some sort of explanation, but you’re hung up on the first part of his sentence. Sure, Mei and Jeff had been the catalyst for your reunion, but something about the mention of my team douses you as a cold reminder. In the midst of early morning rides and deep conversations over brunch, you’d forgotten that this was all manufactured.
“Our agreement ends right after the ice show, right?” You ask.
He nods. “But it’s just the official clause—of course, I want to—”
“Can you please tell your team that I will not be entertaining this notion again?” You reach for the door.
“Wait, stop. What did I say?” Jaemin’s climbing out of the car too, and a high pitch beeps over and over as he abandons the driver’s seat.
“Maybe I’m just tired,” you huff. “I see you almost every day, and I’m still training. Am I supposed to be all happy-go-lucky all the time? It’s not like we’re friends.”
Jaemin physically recoils. “This again? We are friends.”
“I hadn’t talked to you in years before you decided to come back,” you state matter-of-factly. “We’re bound by a contract. We’re not friends, Jaemin. We’re coworkers.”
You turn on your heel and walk towards your place.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Jaemin calls after you. “You just get to say your piece and storm off?”
You face him. “Go on, then. What do you want to say?”
He stands there for a minute, and his face flashes through a chain of expressions. Jaemin opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again. He shakes his head before shutting himself back in his car. The tires squeak against the asphalt as he drives away.
You pace around your house in angry circles. You should feel better, but instead you generate new reasons to be mad at him. Aside from the contractual nature of your arrangement, didn’t he understand that interfering with your art was an entirely different matter? You could go on a million fake dates and post content on social media, but your time on the ice is the only thing that’s truly yours.
You’re halfway through rage-cleaning your kitchen when your screen lights up with Jaemin’s name. You ignore it, but then Sunghoon calls second, then Mei calls next.
You choose to call Sunghoon back, ready to defend your outburst, but your stomach plummets when you pick up the phone to Sunghoon sniffling.
All your anger dissipates into fear. “What happened?”
“Coach Brown collapsed today,” he rasps. “They're not sure if he's going to make it.”
❅˚
Mei and Jeff sit at the front of the conference room. Mei openly observes you and Jaemin. Jaemin sits scrolling on his phone with the hood of his jacket pulled over his head. You cross your arms and try to look anywhere else.
Mei and Jeff review the last month in social media posts and general media coverage. You nod to yourself without listening—they always say the same things anyway: good reception, decent reach, more posting if possible. Today’s presentation is much shorter than expected, with no concrete dates to post strategic content.
You take it as a sign to leave and grab your bag. Jaemin moves as well, putting his phone into his pocket.
“I’m sure you both are worried about Coach Brown,” Mei says suddenly.
You both freeze in place. Your eyes dart to Jaemin, to gauge his reaction, but he’s already looking at you.
You had thought about texting Jaemin a million times since the news broke. You’d checked in on Sunghoon, but he was the type of person to hold things in until later down the line. You didn’t want to push him too hard, since you’re sure that he’s hurting just as much as you.
Looking at the glassiness of Jaemin’s eyes, you’re certain that he’s thought about reaching out to you, too.
“He'll fight through it,” your voice croaks against the silence. “He was a great man.”
“The greatest,” Jaemin says without taking his eyes off of you.
“This may feel a little premature, but the foundation reached out,” Mei prefaces. “They’re having part of the ice show's proceeds go directly to Coach Brown’s family. They asked to confirm if both of you—and Sunghoon, of course—are still planning on participating?”
“Of course,” you answer.
“Are they sure they still want all of us?” Jaemin asks. “I’m not competing in figure skating or ice dance.”
Mei shrugs. “You were in talks before, but I’m guessing it’s because the three of you are his most prominent students. Of course, you went to speed skating eventually, but you were still under him for the entirety of your juniors career.”
Jaemin nods to himself. “It’s relatively short, right?”
Mei hesitates. “Well, I’m not quite sure of the hard details—”
Jaemin shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m in. I’ll figure it out.”
“We can skate together.”
It’s like the entire room has forgotten about your attendance; all three heads snap toward you, eyes wide.
“You want to?” Mei’s eyebrows climb to her hairline. “Now?”
That’s not exactly a great vote of confidence, but you persist nonetheless. “It’s going to help Coach Brown and his family. It’s as simple as that.”
“Will that be okay to prepare for?” Jaemin blurts out. “While you’re training for everything else, I mean.”
You shrug. “Sunghoon’s also competing.”
“It’s just a lot to balance.”
You stare at him. You’re flush with irritation, but you manage to keep your voice level as you respond. “I’ll manage.”
“Well,” Jeff interjects. He clears his throat loudly and moves to disconnect his computer from the room's screen. “That should be more than enough for today. We’ll both be in touch for details on the exhibition, but our next meeting should be in two weeks as usual.”
“Thanks, Jeff,” you drone as you gather your bag and exit.
You’re not even halfway down the stairwell when a hand latches onto your elbow.
“Wait,” Jaemin rasps. “Talk to me. Five minutes. Please.”
He’s panting like he’s run a mile. You nod. “What is it?”
“You don’t need to say yes, you know.” Jaemin says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you just wanted to work on your own program right now.”
You bristle. “Are you going to ask Sunghoon the same question?”
Jaemin leans his weight against the stairwell railing. “One day we’re laughing and talking about anything and everything, and then the next day you’re telling me that we’re not friends. One day you draw the hard boundary that we will never perform together, and then now you’re willing to. Why are you so upset with me?”
“I’m willing only for the sake of Coach Brown.” Your restrained and rational side snaps. You talk a step forward into Jaemin’s personal space. “I’ve been mad, Jaem. I’ve been pissed since you made your stupid announcement to come back to our rink—some of your crazy fans have found my real phone number, did you know that?”
He's speechless.
You continue. “Ever since coming back from my injury, I can’t do anything right. If I talk about my mental health as an athlete, I’m seen as complaining. If I can’t land a jump? I’m washed up. If my makeup is looking a little off on competition day? My age is showing, and I should feel lucky that someone so old can still compete. People hate me so much that it’s my best PR strategy to become someone’s hated girlfriend, because the new hate is considered an improvement from my old hate.”
“I didn’t know you were being harassed on your personal number,” he mutters.
“And why would you?” You scoff. “It doesn’t matter that we used to know each other, okay? Even though everyone down to Coach Brown wants us to be so close—”
“Coach Brown said something to you before?” Jaemin leans in, which makes you take a step back.
“Well, kinda—”
“Please,” he begs. Desperation lines his eyes. “Tell me what you talked about. I could barely catch him here because of my odd hours, let alone talk to him. I regret that more than anything.”
Your anger wanes. You feel a flash of pity followed by a stark reminder of your surroundings—what were you doing, yelling at Jaemin in a stairwell?
You wrack your brain for a white lie, but nothing comes up on the spot. You’ve already exposed it anyway, so you might as well tell the truth. “He told me to control my temper and stop being mad at you for nothing.”
You expect something like a snarky comment, but Jaemin just looks surprised. “He knew it’s fake?”
You shrug. “I didn’t tell him anything. He either knows us too well or heard something through the grapevine. Or he heard me yelling at you and put two and two together.”
Jaemin snorts, but he doesn’t respond.
You shift uncomfortably. “That was pretty much it. He said the worst thing I could do was turn my back on my past.”
Jaemin pauses for a long time before speaking. “Can I say something to you? No Mei, no Jeff, no social media?”
Your heart feels stuck in your throat. You swallow thickly. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” His gaze burns through you. “I should’ve talked to you more during and after Nationals. I definitely should’ve warned you about the batshit plan our agents were making—I know that probably made you lose trust in me instantly.”
Jaemin glances at you, no doubt expecting some sort of correction or flash of emotion, but you remain silent. He continues: “I know it’s stupid, but they presented me with possible options for a PR relationship — it was going to happen regardless to acclimate the public to my return to skating. They suggested you last, but I think I agreed too fast. I should’ve talked to you before my team made contact with yours.”
Your mind swims with the new information. A laugh slips from your throat without realizing it. “I think I might’ve been the worst choice possible.”
He reddens. “Coach Brown gave me the idea, if I’m being honest.”
Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“I ran into him here while practicing. Before everything, and before I officially planned to come back.” He admits. “I was venting to him about the concept of a PR relationship—I promise you I didn’t want to—and he started to rehash his past troubles with the media.”
“He got mad when Sunghoon got coverage about his real high school girlfriend,” you recall. “He would’ve lost his mind at a fake one.”
“He didn’t say anything weird,” Jaemin shrugs. “Just a hypothetical: ‘wouldn’t it be nice if someone you feel comfortable with could stand in, instead of doing something like that with a stranger.’”
What was it that Coach Brown had said to you? You should be grateful that he’s someone you feel comfortable around.
The edges of your mouth curl into a bittersweet smile. “That bastard.”
Jaemin smiles back, and your heart flips.
Coach Brown had essentially influenced this entire production. The realization causes tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. “Jaemin—”
“I should've talked to him more.” His eye grow misty. “I fucked up. I should’ve spent time with him, instead of focusing on all of the drama.”
You twitch forward, but you stop yourself short of hugging him. You pat his back in slow taps while holding back your own tears. “It’s not your fault. None of us knew that this would happen.”
He stiffens at your touch. “You don’t need to comfort me, you know. I know you hate me.”
Your stomach drops. “I never hated you, Jaemin. I was just hurt—it felt like you were using me.”
Once you speak it, you know it to be the truth. Try as you might, you could never hate Jaemin. Even if given away ten years ago, you know that he will always hold part of your heart.
“That was never my intention,” he whispers. “I know it’s hard to believe.”
“I see that now,” you acknowledge. “I’ve been an asshole, Jaem. I want to start over. ”
Jaemin sniffs back his remaining tears. He offers you a weak smile. “I’d like that.”
You reach towards him with your hand. “Friends?”
His hand closes over yours, only to pull you forward into a big hug. “Friends. Always.”
Your hands rise from your sides and travel up his back. You squeeze him tight. “Always. I’m sorry it took me so long to remember.”
“One, two, three, turn, two, three—” your choreographer, Maci, counts your steps with a patient tone.
You focus on your footwork. You’re still practicing without music; it’s just Maci’s voice mixed with your shoes squeaking against the floor. You extend your right arm behind you in a soft sweep, and you imagine it making a perfect line with your posture.
Instead, your tricep sticks against something soft yet clammy.
“Mmph—” Jaemin grunts behind you. “That’s my face.”
You stop and wipe your arm. “Sweaty.”
In sync, you both walk to the edge of the room to chug your water.
Practice for the ice show was truly underway, and you all had spent the last week learning choreography off ice. You and Sunghoon had quickly picked up on your routines for your individual portions. Sunghoon would do his routine completely by himself, as he would for any normal exhibition. You, however, would split yours into two: one minute by yourself, then one minute with Jaemin.
It wasn’t a complete disaster, but you were picking it up together slower than either of you anticipated. Jaemin struggled to lead, while you would misjudge your distance and step on his foot—or, in this case, slap him with your tricep.
“I might as well not be there,” Jaemin jokes with you during water breaks. “What happened to all of our training?”
“Our ice dance training from nearly ten years ago?”
“I think you legitimately forget that Jaemin is there if you don’t see him,” Sunghoon observes from the back. Although he almost always finishes before you, he tends to stick around. “You should skate with a rearview mirror.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Actually…” Maci looks lost in thought before nodding her head. “You have a point.”
You gape at her. “You think I need a rearview mirror?”
“Of course not,” she says. Noticeably, Sunghoon deflates slightly in his corner. “I just meant that he has a point…somewhere in there. You guys are taking up completely different spaces”
You both blink at her.
She rolls her eyes, then taps through her phone. A classic waltz plays over the small speakers overhead. “Dance in hold. Just a basic waltz, please.”
Jaemin grins and bows deeply. He extends a hand toward you. “May I have this dance?”
“Corny,” you groan while taking his hand with your right. You straighten your posture and bring your other hand to hold onto his bicep. Likewise, his right hand tucks over your shoulder blade. You’re both glistening with sweat, but you feel goosebumps raise where his hand glides over your skin.
The music continues to play overhead, but neither of you move. Jaemin waits another two measures before leading you across the floor. It’s a simple waltz, but you feel hyperaware of every movement, big and small. You swear Jaemin’s fingers tighten where your hands are clasped together.
“There you go!” Maci calls out.
Right when you’re thinking that’s a green light to call it, she shouts out again. “Now hold eye contact!”
You look up, ready to break the silence with a joke, but your smile drops when you see Jaemin's eyes. They’re dark and captivating—that much hasn’t changed—but there’s an undercurrent of something else that leaves you paralyzed. You nearly forget to breathe, as you have to focus all of your attention on matching his steps.
“How does this pace feel?” He asks while holding eye contact. There’s a ghost of a smirk.
Your heart races so fast that you can’t hear the music over your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “It’s a great pace. Feels good.”
You only realize the innuendo after it’s too late. Your face heats as he laughs at you.
“Alright!” Maci shouts out. “First run through of the partner section with the music! I’ll count you off.”
You start alone in the center of the floor with your arms extended, since that’ll be your position on the ice once your solo wraps up. Similar to how it will be on the ice, you don’t see Jaemin as he approaches; his hands rest on your waist first.
Your heartbeat instantly spikes; you’re unsure if it’s due to the contact or the adrenaline.
You brace your core as he lifts you and turns the two of you in a slight spin.
We’re really doing this, you realize as you extend through the lift. It’s a little wobbly—both of your faults, you think—but you get through it. Jaemin lowers you back onto your feet. Even though the landing is a little rough, a lift is a lift.
You turn out to face each other. Jaemin extends his arm toward you. His features are bright and confident, as if teasing you to come closer. For a split second, it reminds you of the easy stage presence he always carried as a performer.
You take his hand and continue with the rest of the routine. As this is an exhibition show and your dance together is an homage to Coach Brown, all of the elements within this showcase are mostly basic in nature. Sure, you both can tackle the various step sequences with a languid artistry not intuitive to non-skaters, but it’s nowhere close enough in difficulty to a competition program.
“You’re thinking too much,” Jaemin murmurs through a spin.
“I’m worried we’ll look silly,” you say as you part.
“No worrying when we’re dancing,” he says. “Just think about me.”
You do. You hold eye contact throughout the remainder of the step sequence, and all your thoughts revolve around him. His positioning—should you adjust a bit so you’re a little closer? You even focus on how your lines are extending towards him. Mostly technical things, but above all—Jaemin is like the sun, pulling everything towards him, and you can’t help but be swept into his orbit.
Your last element is a stationary lift where Jaemin anchors you by your waist and legs to hold you horizontally. Your entrance works, his hand grips your waist, but you flinch the second his other hand grabs your inner thigh.
“Oof—” your lower half drops to the ground, although Jaemin’s hold on your torso is enough to prevent full impact. “Thanks.”
For the first time, you glance around at your audience. Sunghoon looks away and scratches the back of his neck. Maci’s cheeks tinge with pink as she frantically reaches to stop the music.
“What’s wrong?” You ask with a frown as Jaemin pulls you to your feet. “Did it look bad?”
“No, uh—” Maci claps her hands together in light, awkward taps. She clears her throat. “It’s like you never left, Jaemin.”
“You guys are going to get questions about this routine for the rest of your lives,” Sunghoon snorts. “But it’ll get the donations going.”
Jaemin releases his hold on your hand. You flex it thoughtfully; you hadn’t realized that you hadn’t let go.
You look at your dance partner, but Jaemin’s expression tightens into something unreadable. “Yup, great for charity.”
Your day continues as usual—more individual runthroughs, a snack after practice, and mindless chats with your little group. But when you sleep that night, parsing through your day, you can’t shake the phantom feeling of his hand in yours.
❅˚
“I have to ask you a question,” Sunghoon says before you even have the chance to shut the passenger door.
You blink at him through sleepy eyes. “Right now? It’s 5am.”
Sunghoon puts the car into drive and heads in the direction of Jaemin’s apartment.
“So?” Your crankiness asks. “What’s your question—?”
“Do you have feelings for Jaemin?”
“Uh,” you’re genuinely at a loss for words. “Are we talking about currently, or when we were in middle school?”
He doesn’t respond. There’s not even any music playing in the car, so you squirm in your seat against the silence.
You clear your throat. “Why are you asking?”
“Because the two of you look like you’re ready to jump each other at any moment.”
“Ew, Hoon.”
"You're also acting different." Sunghoon gives you a look. “You would’ve already told me if it was anyone else.”
You break eye contact. Dancing with Jaemin again had asserted one thing: you could not deny your physical attraction to him. The chemistry overflowed, even when you watched practice footage back. Sure, he’s always been your type, but his face had grown more handsome and his body more chiseled into adulthood.
When it came to your emotional connection to him, however, your feelings are a big, jumbled mess. Becoming close again has been easy, but something in the air lingers between you two. It's difficult to differentiate the layers of physical attraction, nostalgia, and genuine fondness. How could you explain the complexities to Sunghoon when you barely understood them yourself?
“It’s just partner chemistry and the tone of our routine.” You groan. “Calm down.”
Sunghoon glares at you as he pulls into Jaemin’s apartment complex. He doesn’t respond, but his expression is crystal clear: I’m going to ask you about this again.
“Good morning,” Jaemin sings as he enters the car. “You guys are grumpier than usual.”
You and Sunghoon exchange a look; when he pointedly looks back at the road without a word, you figure he’s leaving any explanation to you.
You cross your arms. “You’re five minutes late.”
Jaemin snorts. “Touche.”
The rest of the drive is quiet. The heater in Sunghoon’s car fights against the cold air outside, but you pull your jacket around you nonetheless.
Starting today, the two of you are practicing your routine for the show on the actual ice. While the cast was just formally announced last week, the post had generated buzz almost immediately. All the marketing team had to do was put the list of names in their caption, and the internet did the rest. After all, what other opportunity would there be to watch the Na Jaemin skate outside of his discipline?
You’re happy that the show guaranteed to have a sold out audience and likely record breaking fundraising. It’s the whole reason why you both chose to participate in the first place, but you’d underestimated the pressure that came with it.
“You’ll finish your section with a spin,” Maci says as she walks you through the last of your solo steps. “And that is where Jaemin will come in.”
“Finally! I’m here!” Jaemin chimes in.
Both you and Sunghoon roll your eyes.
“Let’s see how many of the skills you remember,” you say as you catch your breath.
“I’ll tell the instructors to save a spot for you in Basic 1,” Sunghoon adds on. "You can learn how to skate with those new ice dance boots you bought."
Jaemin flips both of you off.
You step onto the bench while Sunghoon skates away to run through his third of the program.
You scroll through your phone as Sunghoon starts his routine. It’s not as if you don’t respect his skating; on the contrary, you never miss a performance. You just tune in for the big moments, which means that you don’t have to be as alert for these initial sessions.
While you’re nonchalant, Jaemin can’t tear his eyes away.
“If you told me ten years ago that he would be this graceful, I wouldn’t believe you,” the words fall out half under his breath.
You laugh. “Feed that line to the press.”
Jaemin’s eyes flit to yours. “You wouldn’t.”
You raise your hands into the air. “Kidding. I know exactly what you mean.”
From the beginning, Sunghoon had taken the most time to progress. All three of you had been considered advanced for your age group, but you and Jaemin had always been ahead of the curve.
Now, your friend was known for his focus on artistic elements; in many ways, you felt like he truly embodied the emotions of the characters he was portraying. You’d found that element of skating more difficult after your injury—you’d never been that good of an actor in the first place, and post-accident you didn’t find yourself that invested in pretending to be someone else.
“Do you ever regret not sticking with figure skating or ice dance?” You find yourself asking.
He shrugs. “Hard to say since we’ll never know my real potential. Although I did like the acting aspect of portraying a character.”
“So speed skating still has your heart,” you laugh. “Has it at least been worth diving back into it for a little bit? The theatrics of it all?”
Jaemin turns to you. He doesn’t smile at all, and his tone is dead serious. “It is. I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.”
Your body hums in response from your heart down to your stomach. “Why’s that?”
He pauses. Then, without breaking eye contact, he smiles and leans in toward you. “What do you think?”
Jaemin smells faintly of oranges. Your head spins at the proximity. You can’t come up with something witty, even if you wanted to. “I–”
At the same time, Sunghoon loses his footing and falls to the ice with an oof. Both of your heads whip towards your friend, who rises and wipes the ice off of his clothes.
“You good?” You half-shout toward your friend.
He shoots you a thumbs up in response before continuing.
Jaemin gazes at you, but you’ve lost your nerve.
“It’s nice to be here with both of you again,” you say as you unlock your phone and sit back down. “It’s as if you never left.”
“Me too,” Jaemin says softly. “It’s just like old times.”
❅˚
It’s three weeks before the show. You rush to the rink alone this time to fit a makeup practice into your and Jaemin’s busy schedules. You groan internally knowing that it falls on your rest day, but the practice is needed. Between both of your training schedules, you had to take the free moments when they come.
You pick up coffees on the way. It’s the first time you’ve driven to practice by yourself in a week, and your nerves rise as you drive closer and closer.
There shouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. Sure, you and Jaemin still have parts of your routine to work on, but progress has been smooth up to this point.
You’re unable to shake off the feeling as you arrive thirty minutes early. You turn off your car and linger in the driver’s seat. You have two options: scroll on your phone in the car or head in early. The latter wouldn’t make sense under normal circumstances—if Jaemin wasn’t practicing.
You glance at the two drinks sitting in your cupholders. Surely there’s no harm in peeking?
You exit the car, both drinks in hand, before you can change your mind. You enter the rink with a sheepish energy, although you’re doing absolutely nothing wrong.
Jaemin’s alternating through basic circle skills. His coach watches at the sideline with a stopwatch in one hand and a phone recording the drill in its entirety from a stand.
More than the difficulty of speed skating itself, you can’t believe that Jaemin has been balancing it alongside the training for the gala. Not only are the skates completely different, but the main mechanics require raw power and endurance. Much different from the slower, technical precision of ice dance.
Despite no spins or jumps, he makes it look graceful. You make a mental note to attend his first competition. You could watch him skate forever, regardless of discipline.
Jaemin’s coach calls him in, reviewing the footage and giving feedback. His expression is neutral, and Jaemin merely nods and repeats the drill each time. It goes on that way until the end of his practice time.
You wave as Jaemin exits off the ice and down the ramp toward you. He blinks, and his steps stutter for a moment before he continues.
“Morning,” you avoid eye contact as you hold out his iced coffee. He hadn’t noticed you during his practice, but you feel shy nonetheless. “Got here a little early.”
“Oh,” Jaemin grimaces. “So you saw all that?”
“What do you mean?” You ask. “I thought you looked great.”
He scoffs. He focuses on something distant over your shoulder. “I don’t know if I would describe it as great.”
You’re at a loss for words. The scenario feels familiar—hell, you’d gotten this way during practice for your solo exhibition—but you don’t have enough technical knowledge of speed skating to immediately understand what happened. Beyond that, it’s rare to see Jaemin so quiet.
Your expression must be comically transparent, because you watch his eyes lock to yours and register your wide stare.
“Sorry, you just caught me at a weird practice,” he clears his throat. “I’ll be ready in fifteen?”
The gesture does little to settle you, but you manage your own uneasy smile. “Take your time. I’ll warm up.”
You’ve never been more grateful for the familiarity of center ice. You run through a quick warmup routine and even squeeze in a couple rough rehearsals of your solo routine for the show.
“Looks good,” Jaemin says as he finally steps onto the ice. “I almost feel bad to make you split your program in half.”
“You’re not making me do anything.” You frown. After everything the two of you have been through to get to this point, his sudden minimization makes you worry.
“Well, you know,” he says, alternating between the inner and outer edges of his blades in small swizzles.
“No, I don’t know,” you shake your head stubbornly. You glide in front of him without breaking eye contact. “I’m doing this because I want to. I want to skate with you.”
It’s the most forward you’ve been, but his expression doesn’t budge. Instead, he just nods. “Shall we?”
The two of you run through the routine a few times, but it’s as though the last few weeks have been for nothing. No matter how many times you restart or run through the counts slowly, the two of you struggle to sync. Rather—you know you’re hitting your movements, but Jaemin merely seems to be going through the motions.
When his hold on you wobbles on the ending pose, you snap yourself out of his arms and huff. “Okay, seriously. We’re done for today. Let’s go.”
Of all things, that seems to wake Jaemin from his daze. He skates after you. “Wait, I’m just off today—”
You ignore him, stepping off of the ice and into your skate guards. You briefly turn around to catch his eye.
Jaemin’s hovering on the ice by the door, watching you. His eyes plead.
You wave your arm towards you in a come here gesture. His face brightens, and he hurriedly follows after you.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out when he’s close to you.
You shake your head. “Wanna get lunch?”
-
You stare at each other from across the table.
“You first,” you point to Jaemin’s burger, which has arrived at your table first. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to eat, but,” Jaemin crosses his arms. “Do you have to stare at me?”
You say nothing even as the server brings your own food over.
Jaemin sighs but starts eating nonetheless. “Happy?”
“Yes,” you say as you pick at your fries.
“If this is a way to make sure I’m eating, I don’t have issues with dieting while competing,” he mutters between bites. “Luckily.”
“Trust me, it’s not about that,” you laugh. “I know you can eat.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So then…?”
“You were just super out of it today,” you shrug. “You’ve been training pretty intensely this week, right?”
He frowns. “I have, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Compared to the work schedule I was doing before coming back to skating, it’s more or less the same.”
You point a fry at him accusingly. “There. That’s the issue.”
“That I work?”
“That you’re not taking time to not work.”
“No offense,” the words come out slowly, “but aren’t you, like, famously known for never taking breaks?”
You shake your head. “That was pre-injury me. Current me takes breaks. I have hobbies.”
“I have hobbies,” he insists.
“That you’ve invested in recently?” You ask. "Actively?"
He hesitates. “So what, burger eating is supposed to be my next hobby? I don’t struggle with diets, but that one might be hard.”
“Ha ha,” you say flatly. “I just wanted to get you away from training. You love burgers.”
Jaemin looks down at his burger, as if the sandwich itself has betrayed him. “I do,” he sighs. “You don’t need to baby me. I’m a grown man.”
“I know,” you say, looking away. “I just wanted to get your mind off of everything. You’re doing a lot.”
A small silence stretches between you. You can feel Jaemin’s gaze probing over your side profile, but you pretend to look around the restaurant.
“Do you still like bingsu?”
“I–” Jaemin’s smile is bright as day, and, more importantly, it’s genuine. You relax“I do.”
“Wanna go to the cafe near Sunghoon’s place?”
You exhale a relieved breath. “That sounds amazing.”
❅˚
“Quick break?” Jaemin pants after a full run through of your routine.
You simply nod, trying to catch your own breath. The two of you skate to the side without a word.
You pull out your phone. Mei’s sent you three images over text with a short question—Received all the photos for promo. You sure you’re okay with the team using these?
As a part of promotional material for the ice show, all three of you—Sunghoon, Jaemin, and yourself—had submitted throwback pictures to be posted by the official account.
Your picture depicted five-year-old you at your very first skating lesson—pink puffer and helmet in full display. It’s one of your favorites.
Sunghoon’s picture, to your surprise, has both of you in it. It must be from middle school, since you’re dressed in costuming from your first and final pairs competition together.
“What the hell?” Your jaw drops as you inspect the image. Jaemin glances over your shoulder, and you turn your phone to show him. “This is the last thing I would’ve expected him to send. I don’t think I even have any pictures of us from that era.”
Jaemin laughs. “Maybe since they asked Sunghoon for something from middle school? He was complaining about it. They asked me for elementary school pictures, so I had it easy.”
Sure enough, the last picture shows the three of you after a group private lesson together. Jaemin’s in the center smiling wide and bright. Sunghoon’s smile is reserved and slightly awkward to Jaemin’s right. You, on the opposite side, cling to Jaemin’s side in a big hug with an even bigger smile.
There it is. A wave of shyness. “I don’t think I have this one either.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“It feels like forever ago.” Your throat constricts as you speak.
“It’s certainly been a long time since then,” Jaemin says. His eyes are glued to the picture of the three of you. His lips soften into a smile.
“I can’t believe Sunghoon and I thought we could be partners,” you cough and wrinkle your nose. “I don’t think his arm strength would’ve kept up. And we would’ve killed each other.”
It’s as if Jaemin doesn’t hear you. “Do you wanna hear something funny?”
“Does it involve that one time Sunghoon dropped me on the ice, your mom took me to urgent care, and then that incident single-handedly made me quit pairs?”
“No, but that’s good.” Jaemin’s smile still floats on his face with a hint of mischievousness, like he’s keeping a secret.
“What is it, then?”
“I used to be so jealous of Sunghoon,” he laughs. “And look at us now, practicing the choreography for an exhibition performance as partners.”
Your mind goes blank. “Jealous? Why?”
He seems to snap out of his reverie at your question, expression growing a little shy. He shrugs “Well, you know.”
“Um, no, I don’t know.”
“Well, childhood crushes and all that,” he says quickly. He queues up the music on his phone. “So jealous over random things. Anyway, ready to practice the second half?”
He skates away to put his phone down on the ledge and start the music before you can respond. What he hasn’t calculated is that he will need to skate right back to you to practice the step sequence. Two can play at this game.
“Funny you say that,” you mutter as he takes your hand. “Considering my childhood self would’ve killed to be paired with you.”
He swallows thickly. You can tell he’s trying to tune into the music, but his steps are half a beat off. “Meaning?”
You’re not going to make it that easy for him. “Same thing that you meant.”
The step sequence is naturally push-and-pull as Jaemin leads you through each stroke and turn, but today it feels like something more: a balance of power.
“We were partners before,” he murmurs before his hands anchor on your hips to guide you into a synchronized spin.
“Briefly,” you say once you complete it. “But I was devastated when you quit altogether. I would’ve done anything to keep skating with you.”
You maintain eye contact through the remainder of this practice. There’s a charged feeling in every movement, every touch. Even when the steps call for distance, you feel the inevitable pull to come back together. In fact, it never feels close enough.
The two of you slide into a stop at the end of your choreography, but you keep staring at each other long after the song has ended. Jaemin’s brown eyes roam your features hungrily, until his gaze settles on your lips.
Jaemin's going to kiss you.
Time slows. The rink lights overhead make your eyes water, and your mind resurfaces into a complete blank. There's not much choice otherwise—not with his lips nearing yours.
You close your eyes, trembling from your head to your blades as your heart rattles against your ribcage.
Lips graze against your cheek. Gentle hands drift onto your cheeks after.
Your eyelids flutter open. Jaemin's face hovers in front of yours. His features flush in a soft pink, but his eyes seem to droop. The corners of his lips quiver up in a sad half-smile.
"Not now," he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Sorry."
You come to your senses as he skates away, blinking around at your surroundings, as if you've woken up from a long sleep.
No words are exchanged as you both grab your things and exit. It's hardly mumbles of goodbye before going your separate ways.
You slam the car door closed and exist in the silence.
Although it just occurred, you're already winding back the events and weighing what could've been done differently.
You should've demanded answers; pushed him away and left in a storm. Or, maybe, you should've done the opposite—allowed all of your real emotions to sweep and pull at your face.
In actuality, you have no real confidence in the efficacy of either. You just hate the way it ended: neutral, as if you're two strangers rather than friends pushing at something more—not that you had the faintest idea of what. Just…something.
Even later that night, the exact details blur together, feeling more like a hallucination more than a memory. Had you made it up in your head? No, Jaemin was definitely flirting with you. Again. But Jaemin flirted with everyone—well, no, it does feel different when Jaemin flirts with you. Tender.
The moment replays over and over again, trapped within your thoughts. You try to sleep, but your mind is too busy fixing itself on the minute details: how his hands felt around you, the soft brush of Jaemin's lips against your skin.
All of your previous confidence feels like it evaporated from your body. All that filled your mind at the time was the near-aching urge to unleash your pent-up feelings. There had been absolutely no regard for the meaning afterwards, not that it mattered—he pulled away anyway. A wisp of a rejection.
If it happened, would it have even meant anything? You muse to yourself as you trace the lines of your ceiling. It could totally have just been harmless flirting.
For yourself, you know there's only one answer. You're well beyond dismissing your behavior with Jaemin as remnants of an old crush. Still, you wonder when they turned into more, as you can't pinpoint when they intensified. It's as if these new feelings could consume the old ones in their entirety.
You wonder if this newfound hunger will ever be satiated. This is more time than you could've imagined spending with Na Jaemin, but it never feels like enough.
You wonder if Jaemin is thinking of you half as much as you're thinking of him right now.
The thought barely fades when, like a sick, cosmic joke, your phone vibrates on your nightstand. Na Jaemin flashes on the screen.
You lunge for it and straighten your posture, clearing your throat and sliding a finger across the screen to answer. "Hey. What's up?"
"Hey," Jaemin says. "Did you see the group chat? What do you think?"
"Uh, no. I didn't see it," you admit. "What's up?"
"Coach Brown's wife asked if we want to visit him. Since he was cleared to finish his recovery at home."
"Oh—yeah, of course." The words come out rushed. It's as if you're speaking with a mouth filled with cotton balls. "I'm down."
"Cool."
"Are…are we all going?" You ask, then immediately regret it.
"Yes, of course." A pause. "I can take you tomorrow. Since we'll be going after the team meeting."
"Team meeting—?" Ah. The meeting with Mei and Jeff. "Right—yeah, we can carpool. If you don't mind."
"I don't," he says. "I'll pick you up at 1:30?"
"Sounds good."
"About today," Jaemin blurts out. "I'm sorry."
You slouch and close your eyes. "Sorry for what exactly, Jaem?"
"Well—we almost—you know." It's the most you've ever heard him stumble over his words. You would kill to see what flustered looks like brushed over his face. "Right?"
"So you're sorry that we almost kissed." The words flatten as you speak.
"God—can we talk? After our meeting? Or after we visit Coach Brown?"
Stress laces through his tone. Your heart sinks. "Of course."
Jaemin waits for a beat, but you refuse to give in. You don't want to have this conversation over the phone either, and he already offered.
"Good night, Jaemin," you offer.
"…Good night," he murmurs. "Sleep well."
You toss your phone back on the nightstand and cover yourself with the blankets. After that, you're in for the most restless sleep of your life.
"Last alignment meeting," Jaemin says on the way in. "Ready to do this thing?"
You force a smile. Not only are you reeling after a grand total of four hours of sleep, but the car ride over had been little more than dull niceties. "Something along those lines."
He frowns, but you pick up your pace and barrel inside.
Jaemin ends up drifting towards Jeff, although he looks over his shoulder at you.
You shrug and sit at the other end of the table, waiting for Mei to arrive.
Jaemin and Jeff huddle at the front of the table, gesturing and whispering among themselves. They only snap to attention when Mei strides in and shuts the door closed with extra force.
"Good afternoon," Jeff greets with his usual professionalism.
Mei and Jeff jump into reviewing the analytics from the last month. It lives up to your expectations; ever since the ice show announcements and promos ran, it was like someone hit a switch. You—according to sources, since you still avoided social media like the plague—were showing up less in search inquiries. If you were, then content leaned more supportive.
Still, looking at the cold hard numbers, it's clear that Jaemin's growth is unstoppable. Your followers grew by nearly triple, sure, but his total follower count still runs laps around yours.
"I think fans are just grateful to see you so active," Mei explains.
You steal a glance at Jaemin. His face gives away nothing. He looks like a statue, his expression carved in fierce stoicism.
By all metrics, both of your social media profiles look healthier than ever. Buzz has calmed down, and, by some miracle, your "relationship" appears to be accepted by the general public.
"In my opinion—we'll wrap with the ice show, both parties can post the photos from the event, and I think the performance will speak for itself!" For someone so corporate, Jeff looks downright giddy.
You and Mei meet his enthusiasm with tempered applause. Jaemin doesn't even look up.
"Well, there is one matter we should discuss, now that we're at the tail end of things." Jeff's voice turns into the poised tone you're familiar with. "When to announce the breakup."
It shouldn't have this much of an effect on you—it's a fake relationship, after all!—but your body stiffens on its own. You cross your arms over your chest.
You expect Jeff to defer to Mei, but he clears his throat to continue.
"A development that we will not be officially announcing anytime soon…Jaemin is planning on moving back to his old rink."
Your eyes snap to Jaemin. He's already looking at you, assessing your every minute reaction.
"His current coach divulged that he's moving up his retirement timeline. Jaemin's going to add his new coach onto his official team as support for now, then he'll make the hard switch next season."
The same sad glimmer from yesterday shines in his eyes. You understand in an instant—he knew it, even then.
"We're thinking, to leverage the speed skating season, we'll have Jaemin withdraw significantly from posting on social media. That way, breakup rumors and potential fallout can be addressed outside of the season for both sports."
"So no official announcement," Mei muses. "Just a fizzle out."
Jeff nods. "Just a fizzle."
"We'll discuss." Mei glances at you in the corner of her eye, so quick you almost miss it. "For now, we'll just aim to keep social media normal following the show."
You don't want to discuss it. You want to eject yourself from this meeting and dash under the covers, but today is not an option. Not when you, Jaemin, and Sunghoon have a scheduled visit with Coach Brown.
"Ready?" Jaemin asks after the meeting wraps.
You nod without a word and follow him to his car.
"I know you're mad," Jaemin rushes through his words right when your door closes. "Let me explain."
"No need," you say while pulling the seatbelt tight across your torso. "I think Jeff gave us the appropriate context. You're switching coaches, so you already decided to leave."
He runs a hand through his hair. "It's really not my choice. I didn't expect this at all."
You shrug. "Things happen."
Jaemin glances at you, but you train your gaze ahead. "Are you mad because—"
You cut him off. "This isn't a guessing game. It's either you have something to say, or you say nothing."
Jaemin's temper is rarely put to the test, but today you come very close: clenched jaw, sharp brows.
"You know what?" He says. "We'll just talk after we see Coach Brown."
"Fine by me."
Jaemin starts the ignition and snaps the gears into reverse. As both of you have decided there's nothing to say, you spend the entire car ride in pointed silence.
"It's so sweet of you kids to come out here and visit him," Mrs. Brown leaves a bowl of fruit on the center of the table. Not even thirty seconds later, she's back with pretzels. Thirty seconds after that, cookies.
"That's all right, Cynthia," Coach Brown chuckles. "You're going to scare the poor things off."
You, Jaemin, and Sunghoon sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the coach with small smiles. Sunghoon, with his endless generosity, insisted that Jaemin sit in the middle. You initially wanted to strangle Sunghoon, but you also can't help but be hyperaware of Jaemin's muscles pressing into your own.
Despite the current weirdness between two-thirds of you, this was something that didn't need to be discussed at all. Although, sitting here, you and Sunghoon fiddle with your hands and squirm a little in the heavy atmosphere. In situations like this, it's difficult to know the right things to say.
Jaemin leans forward, stands up, and shuffles over to Coach Brown's bedside. "You gotta look at this, coach," he laughs.
While you and Sunghoon sit glued to the couch, the whispers of what you want to say lodged firmly in your throats, Jaemin chatters on like it's just another day.
You feel a flash of pride. Then hurt.
How was it so easy for him to go about and act as though nothing affected him?
You shake the thoughts from your head. This isn't about you.
The three of you relax more through the visit, although Mrs. Brown gently cuts it short to allow Coach Brown to rest.
You all wave goodbye and promise to come again, then you're standing in the parking lot, hovering by your cars.
You're about to ask Sunghoon to drive you when he speaks first. "Jaemin, you can take her back, right? I have something else after this that I already committed to."
The bastard is lying; you know for a fact he's playing nothing but video games tonight. He meets your eyes and grins.
Your welcome, he mouths, none the wiser.
You roll your eyes.
"Yeah, I was going to take her anyway," Jaemin says, shooting you a suspicious side glance.
The two of you say bye to Sunghoon and step back into Jaemin's car. Instead of saying anything, he turns the music up until the bass reverberates the entire car. You spend the drive listening to bass boosted music and wonder if he's lost his mind. Still, you tolerate it—until he takes a couple wrong turns.
"What the hell are you doing?" You try to shout, but the music drowns out your words.
He doesn't even glance at you. You realize, scanning the horizon, that he's driving you to the park nearest to your house. Jaemin pulls into a spot, turning to you when he turns off the engine.
"Want to go on a walk and talk?"
You've often driven past your local park on weekends, swarming with families and soccer games, but today, on a random weekend evening, it's peaceful. The sunset just barely kisses the horizon, blending shades of orange and pink across the sky.
Jaemin walks at your side in shorts and a gray sweatshirt. His hoodie's pulled up, and you're wearing one of his baseball caps over your head.
You walk side-by-side for a while, kicking rocks down the pavement.
After a while, he finally speaks first. "I'm sorry for not telling you directly about the move."
You stiffen. Your legs are still in motion, but your movements feel robotic. Yeah, you'd wanted him to figure it out on his own, but you weren't expecting him to actually know so fast.
Your surprise must show, because Jaemin then clicks his tongue and exhales. "Whew. That must've really pissed you off, if you're that surprised that I got it right."
You find your voice. "Yeah. I didn't love hearing about it through your team. Again."
He winces. "I know. I told him not to mention it, but he kinda went a little rogue there."
"No." You shake your head. "It's not just that aspect of it."
Confusion. "Then…?"
You shrug and throw your arms up. "I wish you told me yourself, Jaemin. No team. Not because you need to tell me in the name of the contract. I wanted you to tell me, face to face, friend to friend."
His jaw drops. "I—"
"I thought we've grown since the start." You hate how your voice trembles. "You knew how upset I was when this started, but you went ahead and did the same exact thing. No mention of these deliberations, even when I see you every day. It's like I mean nothing—"
A shadow crosses his face. "Don't finish that sentence," he snaps.
The two of you are stopped in the furthermost part of the path by a cluster of trees, hidden in the corner from the rest of the park-goers.
You poke a finger into his chest with each word. "I. Mean. Nothing. To—"
It all happens in one swift motion. Jaemin grabs your wrist before you can poke him again, then he tugs you wholly into his chest. His eyes flash before he crashes his lips onto yours.
Your first kiss with Jaemin is the opposite of your near-kiss; from the beginning, you collide, rough and wild, pushing against the other.
This is what you missed out on; it could've just been like this at the rink, too. The realization fuels another flash of irritation paired with a slight thrill. Kissing Jaemin gives you the same rush as competing. Pure adrenaline and dopamine override your senses.
All you can think about is his lips on yours. From the way he pulls you close, hands firmly placed on your back and hips, you know he's equally as lost.
More, you think. The urge completes the thought you've pushed back for months: regardless of the extensive time you've spent together, it will never feel like enough. Down to the level of comfort, the silent understanding, and now the physicality—in this moment, you never want to let Jaemin go.
Probing, you swipe your tongue across his lower lip. He hesitates, easing the pace into slow rhythms. It's not an outright denial—you try again, this time lightly nibbling.
"Alright," he pulls away and presses his forehead to yours as you both catch your breath. "That's enough."
"You started it," you huff with a laugh.
He laughs, then scans around your surroundings. It's not the smartest thing, but there's no one around now, at least.
You lean back in, but he shakes his head. "Can we just…talk?"
He sits down on the closest bench and gestures next to him. You follow.
"I'm sorry for not telling you. It was true though—I wanted you to hear it from me."
You bite your lip. "I believe you."
"I'm sorry for…doing that, too. Just now," he adds.
The relief evaporates immediately. "And you're sorry about…what, exactly?" You ask coolly.
He pales. "I—"
"No more beating around the bush, or going through our teams," you say. "Just tell me what you're thinking please. I think I deserve the truth."
Jaemin thinks for a minute, then grins. "I have feelings for you."
"Jesus, Jaem—" Your whole body feels like it's burning up and smoking into the evening sky.
"What?" He shrugs. "I wanted to just get that out in the open, before you start getting ideas that you don't mean anything to me."
He gives you a pointed look. You stick your tongue out at him.
"I'll say that too. You mean a lot to me."
"I get it," you grumble. His charm has completely disarmed you. "You mean a lot to me too."
His smile shines bright and blinding, even against dusk. "I'll be here for this season before moving, then I'll be three hours away. I still want to give us a try. We can try to make it work even through our schedules."
Even through the warmth of his confession, a cold dose of reality hits you when reminded of your own impending training. "Jaemin…that might get a little crazy, don't you think? Training schedules are one thing, but competition and travel are another."
"I want to go to your competitions," he declares. "At least a good amount of them. I want people to see me supporting you."
You should be happy—after all, Jaemin's discarding his notorious privacy—but the thought of the general public remaining permanent witnesses to your private life makes your stomach coil. Your mind leaps to the worst possibility—what if you flopped next season? Would you retire, disgraced? Would they talk about you online—Na Jaemin's girlfriend, a washed-up skater anchored to him by memories?
"Even if your girlfriend doesn't reach the same legend status?" You ask with a bitter smile.
Jaemin deflates. "You've had a great career."
There it is: had.
You sigh. "Can I think about it?"
"Why?" He demands.
"I just—I want to think about it Jaemin, jeez! One day you don't want to kiss me, the next day you're kissing me and telling me that you want to be together—it's a lot."
"You wanted me to be open and honest," he says quietly. "So I'm leaving it all out there."
He's right. You're being a massive hypocrite, and he's presenting everything that you've wanted right there.
Even with the perfect man offering you everything, you can't shake the rotten doubt that it's too good to be true. You'll ruin what you have, just like you've ruined everything else.
"I mean, I've said it before, but I still think that my image benefited from this arrangement more than yours."
"Come on," he says, hugging you from behind. "You know I don't care about that stuff. "
"I know." You lean back into his chest. It's almost easier to speak openly when you're not looking directly at him. "It's just…when I think about it—really try to think about it—I don't know how everything's supposed to fit together. Once we both go back to training full-time."
His hug on you loosens a little, although you feel his shoulders tighten. "Like…you don't know where I fit into your life after this?"
"No," you respond, then hesitate. "It's like…"
That was the thing—for all of the time you'd spent out of the other's orbit, it was now hard to picture your life without Jaemin's presence. You could see the possibilities laid out clearly: going to his competitions or watching them online if you were out of town. Calling him before your events to calm your nerves, then calling him again after to debrief.
Undoubtedly, Jaemin brought the levity into your life that had been missing for years. But when you tried to conjure your role in his life, your mind drew a big, looming blank.
"I just don't know how I'm going to fit in your life, Jaem," you admit, your voice low and quiet. "We're so different. You're a success that's able to just climb and climb, and I've been struggling for the past five years. I don't know if I belong in your world."
His voice drops. "It's the same world."
"You know I don't mean literally." You untangle your limbs and turn to face him.
Jaemin's lips tighten into a straight line that's neither a smile nor a frown. There's the slightest crease bending between his eyebrows.
Your chest constricts at the sight, and you struggle to breathe. More than the sadness pooling in his features, there's something worse under the surface: disappointment.
You open and close your mouth, forgetting your words, but Jaemin speaks first.
"Do you know you have a tell when you jump?" He says.
"I—excuse me?"
"It has nothing to do with your speed, or even your technique right as you load into it," his eyes turn fiery. "I can tell if you're going to land it based on your expression alone. When you're about to land it, you get this cute, determined scrunch across your whole face. When you're about to pop it or mess up the landing, you get this scared look in your eyes. Like you're about to cry, even before you take off."
"So what?" You manage to choke up. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"You're giving me the same face right now, babe." Jaemin looks tired. "You look like you don't believe in this at all."
"I just need time."
"Then you can have it."
Silence stretches and expands between you. You hate this. You want to grab his hand and tell him that everything is going to be okay, but you can't make promises that you're not sure you can keep. You're hurting both of you in the process, but you can't stop.
"I just need time," you repeat, a broken record. "After the show?"
"Okay. We'll talk about it then." You see it cross his face again. Disappointment, disappointment, disappointment. "Let me take you home."
You finish the final touches of your makeup. You take a deep breath.
You're wearing the same dress from your Nationals free program. The ice blue fabric clings to your torso before flowing down your legs in sweeping waves.
You'd selected this dress for the show shortly after Nationals concluded—it was one of your favorites, and you hadn't been in the mindset to pursue a new look on a tight timeline, anyway—but you feel a brief flash of regret.
Dressed like this, it's impossible to not think about the last time you wore this dress. What started as yet another sad stamp in your fractured career pivoted to so much more. Your near-catastrophic failure of a program turned comeback, followed by the return of Jaemin into your personal life.
You pick up your phone, thinking to text Jaemin your revelation, only to remember and put it back down again. You'd left for the rink without checking whether he'd extend an offer to carpool or, at minimum, reach out at all to clear the air. He didn't—now, your first time seeing him today would be within the next thirty minutes, right before your show together.
A deep urge digs at your gut. You want to march right into the room you're mostly sure Jaemin's getting ready in with Sunghoon, drag him out, and demand answers. That, despite everything, he hasn't given up on you.
It's just an instinct. You lean back in your chair and close your eyes. A deep breath.
As you are choosing to handle this maturely (which rules out marching into his dressing room), you brace yourself for what's bound to be your first encounter: your off-ice warm up.
You've shown up ten minutes early. You're cycling through your second round of dynamic movements—light jogs, lunges, leg swings—until the remaining skaters begin to turn the corner.
You hear the slight lapse in chatter, but you ignore it. You're only looking for one face in the crowd.
A hand grabs your bicep. Sunghoon. "Hey, what's going on?" He hisses low into your ear. "Jaemin's pissed."
You swallow. "How pissed?"
"Pissed." His eyes narrow. "You don't seem surprised."
"Well, I…" A familiar figure rises in your peripheral. You free yourself from Sunghoon's grip. "I'm handling it. Promise."
Worry crosses his face. "Is that…good timing right now? Right before everything?"
Your confidence droops a little, but you push through it. "The timing is shit, but it has to be now."
Sunghoon releases your arm. You step forward toward the corner of the space, where Jaemin warms up with a small group of skaters.
He's wearing full-length black trousers that elongate his legs. His long-sleeved top echoes yours in shades of white blending into ice blue. A perfect pair.
You haven't seen him in days. It's like observing him through the lens of a stranger as he enraptures the attention of all around him with endless charm.
For the first time, it occurs to you; if you truly step away, this could be your new reality. Rooting for him from a distance rather than working through each struggle together. Polite yet restrained smiles of acknowledgement that refuse to reopen old wounds. The thought makes you ache.
You know it, then. You can't bear the thought of becoming strangers to one another again. As much as it stings to face your fears, the possibility of losing Jaemin hurts you more.
Rationally, you know that you can only blame yourself for this current situation—after all, it was your insecurities that had pushed him away.
Time after time, Jaemin had proven his genuine feelings and intentions toward you. This time, it was your duty to do the same.
Despite your reassurance to Sunghoon, you're scared to confront him. You're scared, but you push through anyway. You know, deep down, that going on the ice with Jaemin without addressing anything first will crack something deep in your foundation. You don't know how he'll react, and you don't want to find out.
"Hi," you breathe out from a slight distance.
Jaemin steps away from the group. His expression controls itself in an even neutrality, but he scans over your costume and over the details of your makeup.
"Hi," he responds.
A pause. There's a million things you want to say—what you know you should say, but you have no idea where to start.
"Are you ready?" You ask weakly.
"Yes." Then, he adds. "You don't need to worry. We'll give them a good show."
A good show. They're innocent words by themselves, but the accompanied tone leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
"Performance," you can't help but correct. "We'll give them a good genuine performance."
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that not what I just said?"
He's messing with you. The cold shoulder sends hot desperation down your spine.
"Please don't be like this," you plead with him. "Can we just talk?"
"We are talking." He doesn't even look up at you.
"Come on, Jaemin. You know what I mean."
He leans down to retie the laces on his skate. He pulls so tight that the fibers creak against the boot. "I have been talking to you. Ever since we crossed paths again—I think I've been more than clear about where I stand. You're the one that needs more time."
"I don't need any more time." You admit. Your throat is raw. "I don't."
He stops.
This is it, you think.
Except, it's the opposite. Jaemin finishes lacing up his skates in a flash of panic and darts away.
"Jaemin," you call after him. You double back, grabbing your bag before taking off after him.
He weaves past the other skaters, who look at the pair of you with either curiosity or confusion. You're sure that some sort of account of this will end up on some sort of gossip blog or forum later on.
It's not hard to catch up to Jaemin, given that he's hobbling on top of blades covered by blocky skate guards. You end up cornering him in his own dressing room.
"Are you done?" You ask, exasperated. "We don't have time for this. I'm on in fifteen, then you're on with me right after."
"Yeah," he mutters, eyes darting around the room to and fro. "Let's not do this now. Let's wait."
"No way." You're blocking the door now. "God, just—listen to me, Jaem."
Realization dawns on his face, and an uneasy smile stretches completely across his features. "I'm listening."
"Thank you," you cough. Your face feels hot enough to melt ice. "I messed up yesterday."
He nods and waits for you to continue.
"Ever since you came back into my life, it's just felt like everything spiraled out of my control. Having you back and supporting me wholeheartedly while I've been struggling for so many years…" You frown while trying to find the words. "I guess I didn't believe it. I didn't feel like me or any of the work I've done for the past few years was worth that sort of blind optimism."
"It's not blind," he offers.
You ignore him. "You're perfect in, like, everything you do. I had you up on this crazy high pedestal, and I thought I would never be able to actually meet you there."
You look at Jaemin. His gaze is soft.
"You show everyone the best sides of you, but I want to see all of it. Whether you're excited or irritated at how training went, if you're annoyed at your fanbase." You draw in a breath. "I want to see all of you. I want to be with you, after this. Away from the cameras, and just for us."
Jaemin's eyes roam over your face. Then, he exhales loudly and hangs his head on top of his thighs. His shoulders shake as he laughs to himself. "Good god…"
Everything burns. "What?"
He rises to his feet and stands above you. His hands cradle your chin, their touch cool yet gentle. "I shouldn't have lost my temper at you. I'm sorry."
Your throat is dry. "Then…?"
"I got carried away even letting myself think that an idea of us would be possible." Jaemin admits. "I wasn't thinking enough about how you felt."
You nod your head wordlessly, transfixed by his words.
"You don't give yourself enough credit. Your work ethic, your charisma…you don't have to prove anything to anyone." He pauses. "It's not like anyone's perception of us will change, since I guess we're already publicly dating, but I'm ready to love you out loud. Whenever you're ready."
"Love."Your head spins. "Jaemin—"
"Jaemin, you don't know that you love me. Wrong." he anticipates your words with a shit-eating grin. His thumbs caress your cheeks. "I didn't realize it at the time because I'm such a dumbass, but I think I've loved you my whole life."
You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks, which slightly overlaps with his hands lining the sides of your face. "You have?"
"Yup." He takes one of your hands in his and presses a soft kiss to your skin. "No pressure to say it back, though. Take your time."
You don't need time; you've always known it deep down. Regardless of location, age, or circumstances, Jaemin's always reserved a space within your heart.
"One minute," you murmur, reaching for your bag. A pink bunny plushie slides out, and you hand it into the hands of the original gift-giver.
"Mr. Hops?" Jaemin tilts his head.
"I don't compete without him," you lower your gaze shyly. "So I guess you'll be in charge of making sure I have it at competitions."
Jaemin hugs him tight. "I—"
"What I'm trying to say is," you take a step towards him. "I love you too."
Jaemin closes the gap between you. The kiss carries all of your conflicting emotions and promises that you're still a little scared to say out loud. All you know for sure are two things: first, you love Jaemin, and second, to love Jaemin, you're determined to be more comfortable with the unknown.
"Jaemin, I've been knocking, you're on—" Sunghoon lingers in the threshold, jaw dropped. "What the hell?"
The room falls into wide stares. You jump away with your arms raised in surrender, Jaemin squeezes Mr. Hops to his chest, and Sunghoon points a silent, accusatory finger around the room.
"I've been looking for you, Jaemin," his finger moves to you. "You're on in like, five minutes." Finally, it lands at Jaemin's arms. "Why is Mr. Hops here?"
"We can explain," you blurt out.
Sunghoon glares at you. "You're going to explain, you dirty liar. After. You guys have to get your asses out there first."
The corners of Jaemin's eyes crinkle as he looks at you. You feel a warm swell of affection in your chest.
There's so much more you want to say to him, but the show must go on. For now, you press a quick peck to his lips and interlace your fingers together. "Ready?"
Jaemin's smile is so wide that it looks like he might explode with happiness. "For you? Anytime."
Sunghoon fake gags but holds the door open for you.
You hold hands the entire way to the ice. The crowd loses it. You faintly perceive the screams and camera flashes, but all you focus on is the feeling of Jaemin's hand in yours.
When you step on the ice, you think, this time, that this is just the beginning.
(request) anon said: hiiii! i have an idea for a request! what about something with sweet and kind, rich girl y/n, and jisung, her new bodyguard? and y/n has a big crush on him, and ends up hooking up with him? but jisung mistakenly thought that she only wanted to have sex with him, and then y/n tells him that she really likes him! thank you so much! i hope this request is okay
bodyguard!jisung x rich girl!reader, smut, slow burn!! (i tried plek)
words-> 3k
content-> smut! (pretty vanilla), missionary, vaginal penetration, nothing too crazy, probably a lot of language mistakes, i'm really sorry i haven't been to school and i'm getting stupider with each passing day.
cami's notes at the end :3
The first time you saw him, you thought he was a statue carved from marble and shadow. He stood at the edge of your father’s study, a silent sentinel in a perfectly tailored black suit that enhanced his frame, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.
Your new personal security detail, assigned after a series of vague, unsettling threats your father’s board deemed “necessary to address.”
"Park Jisung, at your service, miss y/n. It's a pleasure." He'd said while shaking your hand with cold efficiency and empty eyes, the moment your father introduced him to you as your new shadow and you sighed loudly.
Another bodyguard. Another shadow to remind you of the gilded cage your family’s fortune had built.
However, Jisung was different from the others.
They had been older, gruff, or overly indifferent. Jisung was young, his silence not servile but intense.
For three weeks, he’d been a silent monument. He was all sharp lines, icy elegance and his responses varied from a list of “Yes, Miss” and “No, Miss,” delivered in a low, steady baritone that gave nothing away.
He was a wall aimed to protect you from everything and anything, and you were the spoiled heiress on the other side, your world of art gallery openings and charity dinners seeming frivolous against his stoic professionalism.
Nevertheless, you were a chronic observer of people.
It was your habit, born from a life spent watching social interactions from behind a veil of wealth and expectation.
And so, you watched Jisung, and you saw it in his eyes.
You saw the way his stern facade cracked in tiny, almost invisible increments.
The slight, unconscious softening of his jaw when a puppy stumbled across your path and wanted you to play with him during a walk in the park, before being picked up by his owner.
The way his eyes, so guarded, would briefly flicker with something like wry amusement when you made a terribly dry joke to your friend over the phone, thinking he wasn’t listening.
His eyes, usually guarded and dark, held a glimmer of pure, unadulterated kindness. It was a flash of light in a deep well, a pure, gentle glow behind the professional gloom, and you found yourself leaning toward it like a sunflower desperate for dawn.
The crush started as a silly, secret warmth in your chest.
It grew with every small observation: the way he subtly adjusted his pace to match yours, never rushing you; the almost invisible smile that touched his lips when you successfully defused a tense donor meeting with your charm, the single time he’d called you by your actual name when you’d tripped on the stairs of a mall and his hand shot out to steady you, the contact electric and brief. It was in the single cup of tea he’d once placed beside your study notes at 2 AM, the exact way you liked it, without you ever having told him.
You began to manufacture reasons to be near him, asking questions about his past that were vaguely answered, offering him coffee that he politely but awkwardly refused, yapping about your day just to hear him give a low hum of acknowledgement.
₊˚⊹♡
The night it happened started with a charity gala that felt more like a prison sentence.
The whispers, the fake smiles, the weight of your diamond necklace feeling like a chain and the zipper digging into your ribs was enough to push you over the edge.
You plead your father with teary eyes to allow you to leave early, to which he only obliges as Jisung's the one who would take you home and watch over you the rest of the night.
Inside the car, a comfortable silence had settled between you and your bodyguard, a silence you’d come to cherish, but tonight it felt heavy.
The city lights blurred past your window, a smear of color against the dark canvas of the night. A lump formed in your throat, unbidden and unwelcome. The stress of the week, the gala, the whispers, the constant pressure, everything caught up to you, all at once.
Without warning, a tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your cheek.
Then another.
You quickly turned your head, staring out the window, hoping the darkness would hide your moment of weakness. You didn’t want him to see. You were supposed to be the boss's daughter, composed and untouchable, not some weepy mess.
But he saw.
The car glided to a stop at a red light.
Through your tear-blurred vision, you saw him shift in the rearview mirror. His dark eyes, usually a shield of professional indifference, were now fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn't just looking…he was seeing.
“Do you ever get tired of it, Jisung?” you asked, wiping your cheeks, your voice quieter than intended. “Of just… watching?”
He was silent for so long you thought he wouldn’t answer. “It’s my job to watch, Miss,” he finally said, his voice low. “But I don’t always get tired of what I see.”
The air in the car changed. It became charged, thick with everything unsaid.
When you arrived at your excessively big house, he did his usual sweep.
“Everything’s secure, Miss,” he announced, appearing at the entrance of your bedroom door.
You turned, your heels feeling impossibly high. "Thank you, Jisung."
"You're welcome, miss." In a gesture to leave, you take him by the wrist, gripping lightly. His usually cold eyes that stare at you from above, spark with confusion as he turns to look at you.
The silence stretched, taut and humming. You took a hesitant step toward him, then another. His eyes tracked your every move, the muscle in his jaw working, he stood perfectly still.
"I feel safe when you're here," you whispered, the admission feeling both terrifying and freeing.
His composure, for the first time, faltered. He looked away for a fraction of a second, a brief but telling break in his armor. When he met your gaze again, something raw and vulnerable shimmered in their depths.
"I shouldn't want to make you feel anything else, miss" he breathed, the words a confession and a warning all at once. He took a half-step back, creating space, a clear line in the sand. "It's not appropriate." Willing to leave again, your slim fingers grip his wrist harder.
“Please, stay,” you whispered. It wasn’t a command from an employer. It was a plea from a woman.
He froze, his back to you. You saw the muscles in his shoulders tense. “Miss, I shouldn’t…”
“Please. Just… not tonight. Don’t leave me alone with all this silence.” You stepped closer, your hand trembling as you reached out, your fingers now brushing the leather of his suit jacket.
He turned back around slowly, his face a war of conflict. The professional mask was gone, replaced by something pained, something yearning. “You don’t know what you’re asking for...”
“Yes, I do,” you breathed, emboldened by the raw emotion in his eyes. “I’m asking you to stop being my bodyguard for five minutes.”
For a long, agonizing moment, he just looked at you. Then, with a shuddering breath that seemed to take all of his strength, he raised a hand. His fingers, slightly calloused, gently, hesitantly, cupped your cheek and you leaned into it. The pad of his thumb brushed away a stray tear you hadn't realized had fallen.
“Just for five minutes,” he whispered, leaning in until your breaths mingled. He closed the remaining distance, and then his lips were on yours.
The kiss wasn't what you expected. It wasn't hesitant, it was desperate and deep, a release of weeks of pent-up tension, a silent acknowledgment of every glance and every unspoken word.
His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, the expensive fabric of your dress and the rough wool of his suit a strange but perfect contrast.
He tasted of mint and the moment your tongues met, a soft whimper escaped your lips, a sound he swallowed with a hungry groan.
He backed you up until your legs hit the edge of your vanity, lifting your figure to sit; the marble cool against your bare skin, none of you caring of the few perfumes and beauty products that fell right into the carpet with a soft thud.
His hands roamed, tracing the curve of your spine, the line of your jaw, as if he were trying to memorize you through touch alone.
He wasn’t a statue anymore; he was a man, warm and solid and real, and he was here, in your room, kissing you as if his life depended on it.
"Take this off...all of it, please Jisung..." You pleaded against his lips and he obliged, his hands found the zipper of your gown, his knuckles grazing the skin of your back.
Hooking your fingers into the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with a single, decisive tug. The silk slithered through your fingers as you tossed it aside.
With a shaky breath, he slowly pulled the zipper down. The dress pooled at your hips, leaving your upper half bare and under the dim glow of the city lights that filter through your window.
He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over you, raw and unfiltered. The look in his eyes wasn't just desire, it was reverence, as if he were looking at something priceless and breakable.
Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hands splayed across your ribcage, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. Your own hands were busy, working the buttons of his shirt, your fingers fumbling in haste.
When his shirt was open, you pushed it off his shoulders, your palms flattening against the hard planes of his chest. He was warm, so warm, and you could feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch.
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to your bed, gently laying you down against the silk sheets. He settled over you, his weight a welcome anchor, and you arched into him, craving more.
His lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your neck, across your collarbone. He paused, looking up at you, his face shadowed but his eyes burning.
“y/n,” he breathed, your name a prayer on his lips. It was the second time he’d said it, and this time, it sounded like forever.
Your hand found the one resting against your ribs, your fingers intertwining with his. That was all the encouragement he needed to take one of your breasts into his mouth.
Tongue drawing circles on your nipple, wet and hot from his shaky breaths that tickled your skin.
A soft gasp escaped your lips as your back arched off the bed, pushing yourself further into his mouth. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between them, his hands exploring the curves of your hips, the dip of your waist. He was memorizing you, committing every inch of your body to memory, as if he knew this was a fleeting moment, a stolen dream that would shatter with the morning light.
“Jisung…” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him to you. “Please…”
He lifted his head, his eyes dark with a need that mirrored your own. “Please what, y/n?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you,” you breathed, the words a raw confession. “All of you.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if her words were both a gift and a curse. When he opened them again, the last remnants of his control had vanished.
He stripped the damp panties off your body, the fabric whispering against the skin of your legs as he slid them down. Long fingers slowly tickling your wet folds, earning a high pitched moan.
"You ready, miss y/n?" He teased as his own hands ripped his own clothes swiftly, stroking his length one, two, three times.
Your head reaching to take a good look at him, completely hard, so much it looked like it hurt a little. A few veins decorate his length, from his shaft to his flushed red tip, leaking just for you. He was beautiful, your mouth watering just by the sight of it.
"Just...put it inside, Jisung, please..." your legs open wide for him, heels pulling him closer by his lower back.
"Are you sure?" He asked, a final, desperate attempt at self-control. The tip of him nudged against your entrance, then went back and forth to get it nice and wet.
With a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he entered you, slow and deliberate. Your heels pushing his hips to get him all the way inside.
The world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you, a perfect, aching fullness that stole your breath. He paused, giving you a moment to adjust, forehead resting against yours, and his breath mingling with yours.
“You feel…” he started, but the words seemed to fail him. He just shook his head, a look of pure wonder on his face.
You answered him by rolling your hips, a silent invitation. Your soft hands on his full cheeks give him no choice but to kiss you.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that built a fire in your blood. His hands gripped your hips, holding you to him as he thrust deeper, harder. The sight of his abs tightening with every thrust along with the tingles on your belly every time his tip kissed a spongy spot inside you, turning you into a babbling mess.
The sounds of skin against skin, soft pants, and your shared moans filled the room, a raw, primal symphony that eclipsed the city lights outside your window.
He shifted his angle slightly, hips rubbing back and forth and purposely angling, you cried out, pleasure spiking through you. He did it again, hitting that spot deep inside that made your toes curl. Your nails dug into each side of his neck, holding on as the pressure built, a wave rising, threatening to pull you under.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, dark and intense, filled with a desperate, consuming need. “I want to see you when you fall apart.”
His words were your undoing.
The wave crashed over you, a blinding, shattering release that left you trembling and breathless. A string of curses mixed with his name fell from your lips as your body convulsed around him.
He followed you over the edge with a hoarse cry, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he found his own release, pulsing inside you.
"Kiss me Jisung, please..." Your hands pulling him into a messy kiss, lips wrapping his tongue into your mouth. Sloppy and desperate, the need to melt into only one soul bigger than your sanity. He answered by kissing you with raw hunger.
Your hands roam on his hair, the damp strands a tangible proof of the intensity you had just shared.
Everything felt numb, your mind dizzy by the surprising softness of his plump lips, the hard planes of his body that held you as if you might break.
You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, in the scent of him and the shared feeling charged with loving intimacy that you’d never thought could ever happen.
₊˚⊹♡
The morning light felt cruel. You woke to find him already dressed, back in his suit, standing by the window. The distance he had put between you was a physical chill.
“Jisung?...” you murmured, sitting up, the sheets pooling around you.
He didn’t look at you. His profile was the statue again, hard and impenetrable. “The car will be ready in thirty minutes for your brunch, Miss.” he stated, his voice flat, professional.
Your heart sank. “Last night…”
“Was a mistake,” he finished, finally turning. His eyes were shuttered, the light you adored completely snuffed out. “It won’t happen again. I apologize for my… lapse in judgment.”
A lapse in judgment.
The words were daggers. He thought it was just a transaction, a rich girl’s bored experiment.
Tears pricked your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You got out of bed, pulling the sheet around you, facing him not as your employee, but as the woman who had given him everything. “You think that’s what this was?” you asked, your voice surprisingly steady.
“It…it’s what it usually is.” he stammered, his tone implying a world-weary knowledge you hated.
Anger, hot and fierce, mixed with the crushing ache of rejection.
You walked right up to him, hand on his cheeks that forced the cutest pout, forcing him to look down at you. “You see everything, Jisung. You notice the brand of my tea, the way I tap my pen when I’m anxious, the specific streetlight that flickers outside my old dorm window. But you are so, so blind.”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of confusion breaking through his stoicism.
“I didn’t hook up with you because I was bored or because you’re here…” you said, each word deliberate, fueled by a year of silent adoration. “I did it because when I look at you, I don’t just see my bodyguard. I see the man who smiles at puppies, I see the man who remembers I hate the sound of violins. I see you! You, Jisung!, and I have fallen, completely and utterly. I like you, Jisung. I really like you. Not for a night. For every night after.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The professional mask crumbled, piece by piece, revealing sheer, unadulterated shock. He stared at you as if seeing you for the very first time, his breath caught in his chest.
The pure, gentle light you adored flooded back into his eyes, brighter and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen it. He’d built walls to protect himself from a world that saw him as a tool, but in your confession, he found a key he never knew existed.
Slowly, as if moving through a dream, he raised a hand, his fingers brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. His touch was infinitely tender.
“A lapse in judgment,” he repeated, his voice now a rough, awed whisper. “But not mine. Mine was in thinking… I could never be worthy of that light in your eyes.”
₊˚⊹♡
haiiii, it's my first request!! i was soooo excited to finally post it!! i really hope you like it and that it's good enough D: !!
let me know if there are maaaaany mistakes, or the ones that stand out to y'all, i'm open to feedback bc i really want to get better at writing :,3 but do nawt make fun of me i'm sensitive ok
hope you enjoyed it!! let me know if you did!! thxs for readiiiing :3
Lee Donghyuck has everything. The perfect career, perfect reputation and perfect fiancée.
You have nothing except a dead-end job at his law firm and a hopeless crush that borders on obsession.
When Donghyuck starts paying attention to you, it feels like a miracle. Like being chosen. Like finally becoming someone worth looking at.
The problem is that everyone knows what happens to the girls he notices: they cry, they quit, they disappear.
But you're different.
At least, that's what you keep telling yourself.
haechan (donghyuck) x reader, smut + angst!!!, office affair
words-> 10.6k words (what the helly, my longest fic so far!!)
content-> lots of smut!!!, dry humping, oral (m.receiving), vaginal penetration, breeding, choking, spit + cum eating, slapping, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, cheating, degradation (if u squint), power imbalance, obsession, hyuck is an asshole , unreliable narrator!!!
cami's notes at the end :3
The first time you see him, you’re holding a stack of files so high it obscures your vision, and you nearly walk into the glass door of the conference room. A hand shoots out, stopping the door before it hits your face. You peer around the teetering tower of paper.
“New girl,” a voice says, smooth and laced with amusement. Not a question.
You lower the files, and there he is.
Lee Donghyuck. With a familiarity that borders on reverence, he imposes respect with his very eyes.
You’d heard the name whispered in the breakroom, seen his photo on the firm’s “Notable Cases” wall. He’s the golden boy, the prodigy, the son who could do no wrong.
In person, he is more. The sharp, elegant cut of his suit, the dark, knowing eyes that sweep over you in a single, assessing glance, the slight but perpetual curl at the corner of his mouth that suggests he’s privy to a joke you don’t understand.
He is beautiful in a way that feels unfair.
“Thank you,” you manage, your voice barely a squeak.
He doesn’t move his hand, holding the door open, forcing you to pass under his arm. You feel the heat of him, catch the faint, expensive scent of his cologne: sandalwood and something citrus, sharp and clean.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “The old geezers in there prefer their coffee scalding and their copies without smudges. You wouldn’t want to fail on your first month here, right pretty girl?”
Taken aback by the sudden nickname, the copies go back and forth on your hands as your eyes look for him, but he’s gone, striding down the hallway as if he owns the very air, leaving you standing there, your face burning.
You don’t know if you’ve been helped or warned. You feel, intensely, the truth of his words.
You are the newest, lowest employee at Jung & Lee, a firm so prestigious its name alone opens doors.
Your job is a symphony of mundane tasks: making copies and fetching lattes with precise sugar levels, and, as Mr. Jung had bluntly put it in your interview, “providing a pleasant atmosphere.”
You are meant to be a visual relief to the silver-haired partners, a pretty, quiet fixture.
But you are clumsy.
You spilled coffee on a contract the first week. You misfiled a crucial deposition just yesterday.
The partners’ eyes slide over you with vague disappointment. You are supposed to be pretty and enjoyable to look at, even if you are a little inept, but you are failing at even this.
Haechan, however, does not fail. He is a force of nature. At twenty-six, he has been at the firm since he was nineteen, his path greased by the legacy of his parents, both titans in the legal world. He wins cases with a dazzling, ruthless charm. He is the favorite, the heir apparent.
Therefore, the office rules are clear: Haechan wants, Haechan gets.
No one ever says no to him.
The engagement to Kim Jiwon, daughter of a rival firm’s senior partner, has been the talk of the industry for a while now: a merger more than a marriage, set for a lavish winter January wedding. Everyone knows.
Everyone also knows about the other, quieter stories.
The whispers about interns who cried in the bathroom, about girls who begged the HR staff to fire them, about assistants who transferred departments abruptly.
It’s an open secret, discussed in hushed, almost admiring tones.
He gets bored, they say. He likes the chase. Who can blame him? The power he holds is absolute, a silent currency everyone accepts. Everything is too easy not to try it.
And you, you like him.
It’s a pathetic, immediate thing, blooming in the pit of your stomach that first day you saw him, watered by every subsequent glance.
Convincing yourself that he decided to look at you, to help you, to call you a name. That must mean something.
It gets easily to your head because you’ve never been approached by men, not really.
Your relationships are a short, sad list of hesitant texts that faded into silence. Like the Wonbin boy you met at college, who ghosted you after hooking up at a party. Or that tinder date who left the restaurant after meeting you.
You’ve come to believe there is something inherently unlovable about you, something missing or broken that needs to be fixed, to be seen by someone, to be validated into existence.
Haechan sees you, and now you´re afraid no one else would look at you as him, ever.
He sees you, not in the way you crave, but he does see you.
His eyes linger on your figure in the communal kitchen as you fumble with the espresso machine. He watches you from behind the crystal door of his office as you rush past with paper cups filled with watered down black coffee.
They are not warm glances; they are cold, analytical, like a collector examining a potential acquisition. Debating himself if you are worth his time.
They make your skin prickle and your heart pound a frantic, hopeful rhythm against your ribs. Your face flushed every time you pass next to his office.
The gossip intimidates you, non stop stories of his cruelty wrapped in the velvet of his charm. But a desperate, hungry and pathetic part of you reasons that all those other girls simply weren’t enough.
Probably they deserved being treated like that, probably they didn’t realize how lucky they were that a man like Donghyuck was sticking around with them. But you…you are sure, you must be enough for him.
Maybe you could be.
Maybe your pleasantness, your submission, your sheer willingness to please could be what he needs. Someone who never says no, who never makes him angry, who is what he wants her to be.
So you decide to begin your own, pitiful campaign.
You wake up earlier to iron your tube skirt with special care, do your makeup like Minjeong’s, the receptionist who Donghyuck always smiles at.
You smile at him in the hallway, a little too brightly, batting your lashes and scrunching your nose a little.
You volunteer to bring files to his office, lingering to ask a pointless question about the case numbering system.
You go back and forth from his office to your pathetic cubicle to ask him if he needs a coffee refill.
You laugh a little too loudly at a joke he makes in the breakroom.
You are throwing yourself at him, a silent, obvious offering. A cheap doormat inviting him to step in.
After weeks of insufferable uncertainty, he accepts the invitation, but on his own terms.
There is no romantic confession, no real declaration.
It starts in the stark, concrete silence of the gray underground parking lot, weeks before Christmas.
Your car wouldn't start. The cold air from December gets to your bones and you’re near tears, fumbling with your keys on your trembling hands, when his sleek black sedan glides to a stop beside you. The window rolls down.
“Need a ride?” he asks. Not a greeting, not an acknowledgement of who you are.
Anyway, you nod, wordless.
He doesn't get out of his car, doesn’t open the door for you, neither helps you with your bag, but waits, watching you as you hurry around to the passenger side and slide in, still trembling.
The interior of the car smells like him: expensive leather and his clean, cologne.
He never asks you where you live, doesn’t give a damn about where were you going to.
The ride is silent. He drives with a lazy, confident grace, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between you, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from it.
You take a good look at him, not trying to be discreet; you’d never realize the small scattered moles on his cheeks, nor the prominent veins on his hands, rings wrapped in most of his fingers except the ring one, jet black hair framing his face beautifully.
You sit rigidly, hands clasped in your lap, now hyper-aware of the hem of your skirt, the way your blouse stretches across your chest, worried of how chapped your lips must be due to the freezing cold night. Mortified that he can look at you so up close.
He doesn’t drive you home. He drives to a part of the city you don’t know, to a bar with a flickering neon sign that looks like it’d have sticky floors and disgusting restrooms. It’s ugly and old, a place where no one from the firm would ever go.
“D-Donghyuck?” you ask, your voice small.
“I need a drink,” he says, not looking at you. “And I don't want to drink alone.” It’s not a request, not even an invitation. He’s carelessly informing you what is going to happen.
He walks into the run-down place as if he owned it with you behind him. Not giving you a glare.
He sits in a booth, far away from the other. He buys you a drink you don’t want. In the dim, smoky light, he tells you he’s tired. Tired of his fiancé, tired of the expectations.
“She’s so demanding…a spoiled rotten child who can never shut her damn mouth. Always talking back to me, always complaining. ” he sighs, swirling his whiskey on his ringed fingers and you may want to laugh at the description, because by what you’d heard, he’s not any better.
“So goddam empty. She doesn’t care about me. We don’t love each other. Not anymore, if we ever did. I’m so tired of giving my life to the firm and my parents' wishes…” His voice is a low, intimate hum that vibrates in your bones. Sadness comes innate from every complaint he lets out.
In any other context you would think it’s idiotic to feel sympathy for a rich kid having an episode of chronic affluenza. But not now.
He chose to give you a ride, doesn’t matter if he’s making you drink with him. He chose to open his heart with you from all people. It must mean something.
Your eyes linger nervously from your watered down drink on the table to him, on the unbuttoned neck of his shirt, on the hair falling and framing his face beautifully, on his moles. Allowing yourself to memorize every detail because you never know if this fallen-from-heaven opportunity will ever happen again.
He looks at you then, and his gaze is different: softer, focused and intense. It feels like being chosen.
“I’m sorry about that…sounds so, so sad…but then why…?” you dare to whisper.
He reaches across the table, his fingers tracing the back of your hand. A shiver runs through you. And you wonder if he feels the same tingles as you, that same electricity that makes you feel like you’re in love.
“It’s complicated, she is. But you are real…you’re not judging me, or saying that my problems are rich kid bullshit. What a nice, comprehensive girl you are…such a good listener…”
You flush at the compliment, the pathetic, desperate hope inside you swelling to painful proportions. He called you nice! And you feel like that’s all you’ve ever wanted to hear.
He drops a few bills on the table and stands, offering you a hand. You take it, your small, cold hand disappearing into his large, warm one.
Back in the car, the silence is different. It’s charged with a new, heavy intimacy.
This time, he opened the door for you, he waited until you were inside to follow you into the backseat of his luxurious car. Face to face, your bare knees touching his and you still can feel the electricity running through your body. Could he feel it too?
You don't get to ask him, his warm hand coming to caress your cheek, fingers toying with the fat there. The way you lean into his touch like a stray cat begging to be adopted tells him everything he needs to know.
He doesn’t kiss you right away.
His hand is already there: warm, steady against your cheek, his thumb dragging slowly across your lower lip like he’s testing something. Waiting. Watching.
“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low, controlled.
But you don’t even know what he wants you to say. And maybe that’s the point.
His fingers tighten just slightly as he tilts your chin up, just enough to take the decision out of your hands.
The kiss hits hard.
Not soft, not hesitant, rather decisive.
His mouth presses into yours like he’s already made up his mind for both of you, like this was always going to happen. Your breath catches instantly, your hands hovering for half a second before they settle against him, unsure but unwilling to pull away.
He doesn’t rush. That’s what makes it worse.
Everything about it is slow and deliberate, like he knows you’re not going anywhere. Like he’s certain you’ll let him do whatever he wants.
His grip shifts, at your jaw, then firmly at your neck, keeping you exactly where he wants you as the kiss deepens.
And you let him.
Even when your head starts to spin, even when something quiet and distant in you whispers that you shouldn’t, shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be this close, you lean in instead.
Because he kisses like you mean something. And you don’t stop him.
When he pulls away, it’s barely an inch. Close enough that your lips still brush when you breathe.
He’s watching you. Really watching you. That same assessing look from the hallway, but now it’s hotter and way heavier. It’s not looking at your outfit or your posture anymore, it’s looking right through you, like he’s peeled you open and found the one part of you that was hoping for this all along.
“I knew it,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking slowly over your pulse point, wanting to squeeze. “I knew you’d be like this.”
Your stomach flips. “L-like… what?” you breathe.
Is he going to say pretty? cute? nice?
He leans in, lips brushing your ear this time, warm and teasing and possessive. “So easy.”
You don't get to feel sad when he’s kissing you again, deeper now, hungrier, one of his hands sliding down your back to press you flush against him. He can feel your breasts pushing into his chest as well as the way your thighs are rubbing together.
Your fingers twist into the fabric of his coat, trying to anchor yourself as he takes and takes and takes, and you give in.
And it feels like a victory. It feels like finally being seen.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your chest heaving. His hands roam all over your clothed body until they reach your hips, bringing you to his lap with ease.
Crotch pressed right against your center, skirt bunched up all the way to your hipbone. He hisses at the contact, aroused by how easily you gave up your morals just to please him. A smirk on his face that says you were made for him.
Thrusts to your covered pussy invite you to move, your hips grind on his back and forth and you can feel yourself growing wetter against his expensive formal pants. The friction of his size against your flushed parts combined to the accumulated heat on his car make your face go red and Hyuck's nose slowly gets covered in sweat that you wish you could lick off him.
“Fucking hell…” he says, low and breathless against your neck as he sucks the skin there, marking with a mix of purple and red, making you moan. “You wanted this so bad, didn’t you?”
Your mind feels like static, but you manage a weak nod. “Y-yes…”
He chuckles, a dark, delicious sound that makes your toes curl. “Good girl.” His hands slide under your blouse lifting it lazily, just enough to have a nice view. He is warm against the skin of your back. “You’re not going to make this difficult, are you? Not like her.”
You shake your head, because no, you would never be difficult. You would never say no.
His fingers find your bra, and it’s like your whole life has been leading up to this moment. To be in the backseat of a car, letting a man who’s barely spoken to you undress you in a dark, empty parking lot.
He lowers the cups until your breasts are peaking out, palms slide around to cup them, and you gasp, arching into him. He rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, watching your face, gauging your reaction, a smug satisfaction in his eyes.
“You like that, huh?”
"Yes! Yes, please!" Your movements intensify and the friction combined to the tortuous touch on your hard nipples becomes almost too much.
“God, look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “So fucking responsive. You were just waiting for someone to touch you, weren’t you?”
You were.
The shame should be overwhelming, but it’s drowned out by the roaring in your ears, the frantic beat of your own heart.
He’s touching you. Hyuck's touching you. It doesn’t matter that it’s in the back of a car, that he’s engaged, that you’re nothing more than a convenient distraction. All that matters is that he chose you out of all people.
His hands are everywhere now, sliding your skirt up higher, tracing the line of your panties, the damp fabric clinging to you. “Soaked,” he whispers, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “All this for me?”
You just nod, unable to form words, lost in a haze of sensation. His fingers press against your clit through the thin cotton, and you cry out, a sharp, desperate sound that seems to spur him on.
His hands land on your hips one last time for the night, guiding your movements to accommodate his own pleasure. Faster, harder, even making you bounce on him as if you were riding him. Mesmerized by the way your tits follow the movement.
Your eyes fill up with tears, out of shame, stress or simply pleasure that has become too much. He feels it too, you know it by the way his nose scrunches and lets out a few gasps that sound like a dream you could only pray to have. Your panties are soaking wet, high pitched cries come out of your mouth...you feel like you are about to explode until...
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit! Move!"
You are pushed away, back hitting the drivers seat as he undones his belt and hurries to free his length out of his black Calvin Klein briefs. Cock wet with precum that glistens against the dim light that leaks through the windows, is pumped by his fist one, two and three times until he is cumming on your wet panties. Rope after rope of his warm thick load lands on your covered pussy, pulsating around nothing.
The sight is obscene, so much you might as well have come from just watching. Your mind is racing with thoughts, he is so big, so pretty, you wonder how he would have tasted inside your mouth, or how much it would hurt being filled up by him.
"Pathetic," he says once he's done, panting and watching the mess he made on you. Fingers clean up his cum from your panties, only to smear it against your tits and clean the remnants on your blouse. "So fucking pathetic. Look at you."
He’s looking at you like you’re something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
You don't say anything as he pushes you to the side, fixing himself up, hand brushing his black hair back. He still looks like the most handsome man in the world.
He laughs, a harsh, ugly sound that has nothing to do with the warm chuckles from earlier. He zips himself up with a sharp, decisive movement, the metallic click echoing in the sudden, cold silence of the car.
Doesn't ask you where you live, he just lets you type your address into the gps app. Takes you home in silence, his eyes darting to you across the rear-view mirror from time to time.
He won't admit it, but the sadness painted on your face...that is going to be his favorite sight for a long time.
❤︎₊ ⊹
It becomes a pattern. Ugly bars, his car, once a cheap hourly motel that smells of bleach and despair. Every time, he goes about the same narrative of his misery with Jiwon.
“She’s mean,” he’ll mutter against your neck. “She doesn’t understand me like you do.”
He paints her as a gilded cage, and you, you are the wild, sweet, secret freedom.
But when you tentatively ask, “Will you tell her? Will it ever end?” he doesn’t answer with action. He answers with his mouth on yours, his teeth on your shoulder, his promises breathed into your skin.
“Soon,” he whispers, his hand fisted in your hair. “It’s not easy, you know? How could you know, though? No one’s ever taken you seriously.”
The words sting, but they are wrapped in the heat of his touch, and you accept them.
You accept everything.
He is mean from the beginning, in ways that feel like truths. In the motel room, watching you dress, he’d say, “You know you’re nothing at the firm, right? If you quit tomorrow, no one would notice. Or maybe…” He’ll chuckle and point at you just like a highschooler would do when bullying the slowest person in the class. “Maybe they’d be relieved that no one’s gonna burn their fucking coffee” He says it casually, as if commenting on the weather.
And you nod, because it feels true. Your existence is irrelevant.
But in his arms, under his weight, you are something.
You are his secret.
That has to mean more than being nothing.
❤︎₊ ⊹
And that’s how you find yourself here: New Year’s Eve.
The office party is on the top floor of a sleek skyscraper, a panoramic view of the city glittering like spilled jewels. You’re wearing a simple, dark red dress you bought on sale, spent half of your savings of the month to go get your makeup and hair done. That makes you feel almost, but not quite, like you belong.
He’s here, of course.
He’s the star, a handsome prince in an immaculate suit. Clear glasses and perfectly combed black hair framed his handsome face and she was with him. Kim Jiwon.
She is as beautiful as the rumors promised: all sharp angles just like him, icy elegance backed up by her white-ish blonde hair, body perfectly suited by a couture that you are sure was way more expensive than yours, followed by a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
She hangs on his arm, a glittering amethyst on her ring finger that could probably pay your rent for a decade.
She’s perfect, and you hate her for that. You hate that every glance you give at her reminds you of everything that you are not. Especially Hyuck's.
You hate that his arm envelops her and she looks untroubled. That she looks like she doesn't even want to be there, spending time with the man you would give anything to have by your side.
You mingle around the noisy room, filled with laughter and hypocrisy, all by yourself, choosing to stand by the window, nursing a glass of cheap champagne, watching them.
He leans down and whispers something in her ear. She laughs, a brittle, lovely sound. She looks so complete, so sure of her place beside him. The sight is a physical pain that sickens you.
For the first time, a sick, ugly thought slithers into your mind: maybe he wasn’t lying about her being demanding.
Maybe you truly are the one who understands him.
Eyes going back to the window as the sight of his precious hand keeps lowering on her back until he reaches the curve of her ass and you feel like you want to die.
The night becomes even worse with every second that passes through, champagne combined with wine making you feel like you are just a little freer, braver...
"Miss y/n?" A guy dressed in black and white, just another peasant serving for the night, touching your shoulder and leaning in to whisper something. "Mr. Lee asked me to inform you that he'd be waiting for you at the men's bathroom. A confidential matter." He bows, before walking away, your whole world shaking at the realization that he is thinking about you even when he is right next to her.
That has to mean something.
You wait a couple of minutes to make it not so suspicious, trying so hard not to laugh at the self-proclaimed win. The cheap alcohol stills running through your veins making you feel like you might want to tell everyone that Lee Donghyuck is waiting for you, and only you in the bathroom.
But you don’t. You can’t.
You walk away trying so hard not to look suspicious, a smirk on your face to hold the excitement, isolating yourself to the very back of the floor. Music blends far away, your heartbeat can be listened to in your ears as you push the heavy door open.
You find him alone, leaning against the marble counter, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't look at you when you enter, locking the door behind you.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice flat, bored. “Thought you could dress up all nice and pretend you’re one of them.”
Your confidence shatters. “I just… I wanted to look nice.”
“Trying to compete with her? Comparing yourself to a respectable woman?” He finally turns, and his eyes are colder than you’ve ever seen them. “Don’t. You’ll embarrass yourself.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Shut up,” he cuts you off, closing the distance between you in three long strides. He backs you against the heavy door, the wood hard and unforgiving against your spine. “Did you have fun watching us? Is that what gets you off? Being a little voyeur, watching me with my fiancée?”
"I-I'm sorry...it's not that way, I—"
He scoffs, an ugly sound filled with mockery. "Then what way is it? Are you fucking stupid? Staring like you hate her...I just started with you and you're already getting on my nerves." His hand, engagement ring and all, on your cheeks, squeezing so hard until you pout for him.
"I'm really sorry, Donghyuck..." Words stuck between his index and thumb, not like he really wants to listen to anything you have to say. Your eyes are now shiny and glazed under the soft yellow light.
"You know what you need? To learn your damn place." He says, his anger turning into a dark amusement that thrills you more than it should. His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing your head back. "So pathetic, you're about to cry, aren't you? I like that about you. That you're fucking pathetic. I could tell you to kill yourself and you'd do it. Wouldn't you?"
You nod repeatedly, head knocking on the door as he has you by the jaw still. Any ounce of self respect is thrown out the window the moment he puts his hands on you.
His knee presses between your legs, a hard, undeniable pressure against your core. You can’t help but grind against it, a desperate, shameless movement. He laughs, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire body, staying at your core.
“See? Desperate little thing. All dressed up with nowhere to go, but right here. On your knees for me.” His words are venom, but you lap them up like honey.
He yanks down the top of your dress, exposing the flimsy black lace bra you wore just for him. The one you bought thinking maybe he would take you to a nice dinner, maybe he would take you to a hotel for the night, where you would have a bed for two and maybe even breakfast the morning after.
His thumb hooks into the cup and pulls it down, the cold air hitting you, making you shiver instantly. However, this time is different, he lowers, under you so as to have a good taste of your sensible buds. Tongue lapping the nipple while staring at your face. Toying with the other between his fingers.
Still too embarrassed about your simple existence, eyes shut close as you moan relentlessly. Not giving a shit about who may hear you.
"Getting hard? Look at you...what a fucking slut." He whispers against your tit, making sure to be heard.
He bites down, not gently. A sharp, stinging pain makes you cry out, but he doesn't let go, sucking hard, leaving a dark, possessive mark.
A brand. Proof. He moves to the other breast, to your chest, your collarbones. Giving it the same treatment, until your upper body is a constellation of purple and red blotches. Hurting, saliva drying on your skin and making you tremble due to the cold or because you just want him so much.
He pulls back, admiring his work. “There,” he says, a dark satisfaction in his voice. “Now everyone will know you’re used goods. That you belong to someone.”
Your heart soars.
Belong.
He spins you around, your hands flattening against the cold marble of the counter. You see yourself in the mirror: the hairstyle you paid for now all messy, lipstick smudged, breasts exposed and bruised.
You look wrecked. You look wanted.
And you think you feel better than ever.
His eyes find yours for a moment and the only thing you come across is hunger. Desire, desperation, all of it in a single glance.
He hikes your long dress up over your hips, the fabric bunching around your waist. “Look at you,” he says, his eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “Look at how much you want this.” His fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down to your knees. The cool air brushes against your dripping heat. "You want this, don't you?" He smirks as his hands undo his expensive belt with a clink that makes your hair stand on end.
Hard length on his fist, pumping a few times, smearing the precum all over. He doesn't even bother to pretend to find a condom.
You try to have a look at him, pulsating just at the thought of him raw inside you, neck turning to try to have a peek of him, only to be taken by the hair and forced to look front. He aligned himself, wet and flushed head against your dripping folds, not pushing, just letting you feel him there.
His hand grips harder on your hair, hissing at the feeling of your warm pussy lips kissing his cock as he slowly pushes himself in.
You cry out as if being hurt. The primal feeling of being filled without any barrier between the two along with the way his cock throbs inside you once he's settled to the hilt is too overwhelming.
"You take it so well, pretty girl. Like you were made for this...for me."
Your heart throbs on your bruised chest.
Made for him!!
It needs to be true.
Hot breath against your cheek, his lips on the side of your face. Panting, licking and biting on the side of your cheek as his thrust starts slow and calculated. Perfectly angulated, up and down in a way that you feel so full and wanting to pee. He's hitting your sweet spot with no effort. Making your legs shake and your mind blank as your eyes go from the white ceiling, to his frame on the mirror, to yourself, not able to keep yourself in orbit.
His other hand goes from your hair to your neck, griping just enough to keep your head up. "Eyes on yourself, don't you dare look away. I want you to see what you are." His pace picks up, the slap of skin against skin and the obscene squelch of your wetness wrapping his throbbing cock the only sounds aside from your whimpers and his pretty moans, sometimes grunts.
"Is this how you wanted it? Getting fucked in the bathroom during the stupid company dinner?" He mocks, thrusts becoming sloppier and faster each second. "She's probably looking for me right now...wondering where I am. She doesn't have a fucking clue that I'm stuffing this tight pussy."
His words are poison, but they go straight to your core, making you clench even more around him. He groans in response, the grip on your neck tightening. "You like that, huh? Being my little secret. My dirty little whore."
He lets go of your neck, only to grab both of your arms and pin them behind your back, using them as leverage to thrust deeper. The angle shifts, and you see stars. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, and you love it. Moans become cries of help, telling him to please stop, that it's too much and he doesn't care, of course.
He stares at the printed reflection on the mirror, bruised tits bouncing deliciously with every thrust, and your pathetic face that's barely holding the tears...he loves every part of it. Loves that he can take whatever he wants and that you won't complain.
Not letting go of your arms, he fucks into you, hard, fast, making you scream out until you cum all over him, legs trembling as you fight to stay upright. Your walls clenching and contracting violently around his cock as your slick drips down your thighs, you see him squeezing his eyes shut and cursing under his breath as he buries himself deep inside you with one last thrust. His desperate gasps fill the empty room and you feel the warmth of him coating your inner walls, thick ropes of cum marking you from the inside out, makes you feel complete.
He collapses onto your back, his weight pressing you into the counter, both of you panting heavily. For a moment, you stay like that, a tangled mess of limbs and spent passion. You can feel his heart beating against your back, a steady, reassuring rhythm that makes you feel safe.
But the feeling doesn't last.
He pulls out, and you feel empty, both physically and emotionally. The sudden loss of him is a cold, sharp ache.
He's already fixing himself up, tucking his shirt back into his pants, adjusting the knot on his tie, washing his hands like nothing happened.
He catches your eye in the mirror, and for a second, you see something other than coldness in them. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar, detached amusement.
He turns to you, a small, cruel smile playing on his lips. He gestures towards the small bin on the corner, the one used to throw paper towels.
"Clean yourself up," he says, his tone dismissive. " I don't want you dripping my cum all over the floor like a bitch in heat." A disgusted look on his face.
You hurry to comply, your hands shaking as you pull the strips of your dress and bra over your shoulders again and you clean yourself up with the rough paper towels. You can feel his cum leaking out of you, a warm, sticky reminder of what just happened. You ball up the soiled paper towels and your panties, and throw them into the bin as instructed.
He watches you, his arms crossed over his chest. When you're done, he walks over to you, his eyes raking over your disheveled form.
"You look a mess," he says, his voice flat.
He reaches out and smooths down your dress, his fingers lingering for a second on your hip. Then he turns you around, his hands gently adjusting the top of your dress, it doesn't hide the bruises he just made at all. And he doesn't care.
"There," he says, stepping back to admire his work. "Now you look like you've been properly fucked." He smirks, a dark satisfaction in his eyes.
"Go back to the party," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Act like nothing happened. And don't you dare to look at me."
He unlocks the door and opens it, gesturing for you to leave. At least he's still a gentleman, you think.
You hesitate for a second, your heart aching with a desperate need for something more. A kiss, a kind word, a gentle touch, anything to hold on to.
But you get nothing.
You walk out of the bathroom, your head held high, your heart a shattered mess in your chest. Your body's still warm and your pussy drying along with the ambient.
The party is in full swing, the music louder, the laughter more forced. You grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and take a long sip, the bubbles doing little to soothe the raw ache in your throat. Trying so hard not to notice the way in which he stares at your bruised chest.
You stay in a faraway corner just to scan the room, and your eyes immediately land on him.
He's back with her, his arm around her waist, a charming smile on his face as he laughs at something she says. He looks perfect, like he hasn't just been fucking a nobody in the bathroom.
And you, you're just a nobody.
You watch them for a while, a silent, invisible and full of resentment observer.
❤︎₊ ⊹
The following Monday morning at the office, the gossip, once a distant hum, becomes a sharp, clear voice. All directed to you. Partners, waiters, staff, everyone saw the state in which you came back from an unknown place. And everyone could easily assume who did that to you.
Just when you were up to take Hyuck’s coffee to his office, two of the junior associates, Minju and Yunah, corner you by the printer.
“Hiii! Y/n, right? Sorry to bother you sweetheart, we can see that you’re on the run…it’s just that…” You nod, willing to do anything they’d asked you to do.
Go buy snacks, bring them lunch tomorrow, anything, you’d do it, but the pity on the tallest made your mouth go dry.
“You know he’s engaged, right?” Minju says, straight to the point abruptly but not unkindly. “To Kim Jiwon. The wedding’s set for this January and you know…they’ve been together for years. She even was at the Christmas dinner…"
As if you didn't fucking knew, or saw her at the dinner. You’re sick because your blood ran hot on your body, wanting to curse at both of them for being so nosy. As if you weren’t going to change that for good.
Nonetheless, the unspoken part hangs in the air: He’s using you.
“I know,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s…complicated.”
Yunah scoffs, a bitter, knowing sound. “No, it’s not. It’s the oldest story in this building. He gets bored, he finds a distraction. He breaks them. Then he goes back to her. You are not the first, and you won't be the last.”
"You should stop this, for your own good..." Minju says, as her perfectly manicured hands placed a streak of hair behind your ear with softness in her eyes.
Both girls leave you there, the printer whirring softly, a hollow ache in your chest. You knew they were right. Every word was a shard of glass lodging itself in your heart.
But the desperate, pathetic part of you clings to the memory of his hands on your skin, his whispered words. “You were made for me” “You belong to someone”
You want it to be true more than you want to breathe.
But the truth is undeniable. Everyone can see it, that you were a momentary diversion, a snack to tide him over.
For a moment, in the darkness with him, you had believed it was only him and you.
The fact that he had chosen you, all the "beautiful" moments spent with him…now you see the vast, crowded reality: him, Jiwon, their families, the firm, the entire world. And you...you mean nothing.
❤︎₊ ⊹
The realization comes after not being called by him all day.
After some weeks, you left work at five, you went to the market to buy groceries and once at home you took a shower.
He hasn't called you yet and you start to think that you'd done something wrong.
No hookups in his car, no groping in his office, not even a glance when you entered his office.
Anguish filling your chest with every passing minute, eyes holding tears because nothing had happened yet and it'd be pathetic to cry over nothing.
What if Yunah and Minju said something to him? Had the rumours reached his office?
Every imaginable thought coming to your head, emptied by three dry knocks on the door.
His text.
Open the door. Now.
You almost trip on your own feet as you rush, your heart pounding against your ribcage. Opening the door you find him, disheveled, angry, and more handsome than ever in his simple white t-shirt and black jeans. Hyuck doesn’t even look at you, he just pushes past you and walks inside, leaving the door ajar as he sits on your tiny couch.
He looks so out of place there, the small, worn couch swallowing him up, the cheap lamp casting a sickly yellow glow on his face.
“Donghyuck… what… what’s wrong?” you stammer, your hands trembling. Getting closer, you sit next to him, only to be pushed out of your own couch, to sit on your knees. His ringed fingers tangled across your neck, harder with every word he spat.
"Everyone is fucking bothering me with questions about you. It's driving me insane. What the fuck did you do, huh? Do you know what can happen if this goes further? Can your stupid brain understand that you're fucking with my future?"
"B-but you lied to me! You are going to marry her! Everyone knows, as they know you fucked me at the party, because you wanted!" The boldness of your words is new. Maybe the weeks of being close to him gave you some kind of confidence.
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. It's a cold, sharp sound that makes you flinch.
"What did I lie about? Did I ever say I loved you? Did I ever promise you anything?" He leans forward, his face close to yours, his breath hot and angry. “I said I was tired of her and believe me, I am. I never said I was leaving her. You heard what you wanted to hear.” His grip on your neck thightens, your mouth open gasping for air, eyes itching with hot tears threatening to fall violently. “Did you really think,” he continues, his voice a soft, venomous caress, “that I would cancel a wedding, a merger that’s been planned for years, for a desperate, easy girl like you?
His words are like physical blows, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You want to argue, to scream at him, but you can't.
Because deep down, you know he's right.
You were convenient. Easy.
He stands up, pacing the small space of your living room like a caged animal, your eyes following every movement of his.
"You think you're special? You think you're different? You're not. You're just the latest in a long line of girls who were stupid enough to fall for my bullshit."
He stops in front of you, looking down at you with a mixture of disgust and pity. "You're pathetic. You know that? You're a pathetic little girl who's so desperate for a little bit of attention that you'll let anyone treat you like dirt."
He's right. You know it by the way you can feel yourself getting wet just by the way he's looking at you from above. As he always had.
You look up at him, your vision blurred by tears, and for the first time, you see not a lover, not a savior, but a predator.
Take off your clothes," he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. "All of them."
Your hands are shaking so badly that you can barely manage the buttons on your shirt. He watches, sitting on the couch, tighs spread and a cruel smirk playing on his lips, as you strip for him, your clothes falling into a heap on the floor.
When you're completely naked, shivering from a combination of cold and fear, he finally moves.
He leans to you, elbows to his knees, eying your figure, your head that rests low avoiding the wicked way his eyes devour you. Irises going from your hardening nipples to your clenching tights.
He doesn't kiss you, doesn't say a word. He just looks at you, at the glistening wetness between your legs, the way your body twitches with anticipation that betrays your fear with a sickening arousal.
He lets out a harsh laugh, a sound that makes you want to curl up and disappear. "Look at you," he says, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your pussy, toying with the results of your arousal, smearing it everywhere. "You're so fucking wet... You love this, don't you? You love it when I remind you that you're nothing."
You can only moan in response, your hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, left hand traveling to your neck, squeezing just enough.
He's right. You do love it. You hate yourself for it, but you do.
"You're a sick little slut, aren't you?" he says, a low growl rumbling in your ears. "Getting off on being treated like trash."
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, pretty. I'll give you what you need."
And with that, the hand that kept cupping your heat snapped shut against your plump cheek.
Neck incorporating again as he held your head and fixed your hair, wiping your hot tears away. Getting you prepared for another one. Again and again and again.
He loved the way you wouldn't even scream, willing to take anything he gave you. The grip on around your air flow getting stronger with each slap and the delicious sting on your cheek had your blood sizzling; thighs clenching together giving away how much you needed him. "What are you? Answer me." He's slapping your face again. "You're a fucking bitch, right?"
"I'm a- I'm a fucking bitch! Please, Hyuck..." you beg, your mind clouded with need and your body aching for more of him. He could ask you to bark and you would do it if that meant he'll finally fuck you.
The need to be filled, to be used, to be needed.
You'd let him do anything.
He laughs, a cruel, mocking sound that sends a fresh wave of shame coursing through you. But it's a shame that feels like pleasure, a twisted delight in your own degradation.
"Please, what?" he coos, his voice laced with false sweetness. "Please hit you again? Please call you a whore? Please remind you that you're nothing but a hole for me to fuck?" His thumb brushes against your already puffy cheek, a gesture that would almost be tender if it wasn't for the mocking look in his eyes.
His gaze is heavy, weighing you down, pinning you to the spot. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the shame burning in your gut, but you can't look away.
His eyes are dark, filled with a hunger that's both terrifying and intoxicating. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meat, a thing to be consumed, and a part of you, a sick, twisted part of you, revels in it.
Both hands gripping strands of your hair, forcing you to look up at him with watery eyes and flushed red cheeks. "Answer me," he demands, his tone sharp, impatient.
"Please..." you beg, your voice a pathetic whimper. "Please fuck me, please Hyuck.."
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "That's what I thought. Get this shit off," The grip on your hair pushing your face to his clothed crotch. You can feel the heat of him, the hard line of his erection through the rough denim, and a desperate moan escapes your lips, not fighting the urge to lick a wet strand across the material, earning a soft moan that you'll keep on your mind forever.
Your hands fumble with the button of his jeans, your fingers clumsy and trembling. He watches you, a dark amusement in his eyes, as you struggle to free him. When you finally manage to pull down the zipper and push his black briefs down, his cock springs free, hard and flushed and angry-looking.
The sight of him makes your mouth water. He's so big, so perfect, and you want him so badly it hurts.
You lean forward, your tongue darting out to taste the bead of precum glistening at the tip. He tastes salty, a little bit bitter, and it's the most delicious thing you've ever tasted.
You wrap your lips around him, taking him as deep as you can until your nose tickles with the grown hair of his pelvis, tongue swirling around the sensitive head. He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, a low, guttural sound of pleasure that makes your pussy clench.
You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your lips stretched tight around him. You can feel him hitting the back of your throat, the slight gag reflex a dull ache that only adds to the pleasure.
"Shit... look at you," he breathes, his voice a low, husky whisper, locking your hair against his pelvis, the way your throat grips him makes him hiss. The small build-up confidence that you're making him feel good is enough to look him in the eye, spit and precum spilling from the corner of your mouth warning because of how full is your mouth as he thrusts up, shamelessly using your mouth.
Right before your gag reflex betrays you, he pulls back, a thick strand of saliva connecting both. The urge of satisfying him urges you to lick at his balls, full of cum that you wished was just for you. His bony fingers grip along his wet shaft, up and down, enjoying a little too much the squelch of it all.
"You're such a dirty slut aren't you? You were crying just now, where did that shit go, uh?" A smirk playing on his lips as he continues to pump himself. "Now you're acting like you want to be treated like a dog."
You nod, your eyes glazed with lust and tears, too ashamed to speak.
"Open wide," he commands, and you obey, your mouth falling open as he guides himself back to your lips. He doesn't enter you, though, instead, he strokes himself, his movements fast and furious, until with a harsh groan, he cums, thick, white ropes of his release painting your face, your lips, your tongue. Right before you could swallow, he keeps your mouth open and kneels down, letting out a globe of spit to rest on your tongue along with his cum. Admiring his piece of art.
You close your eyes, savoring the feeling of him marking you, claiming you. It’s degrading, humiliating, and you love it.
Once his fingers leave your mouth, you willingly swallow and finally feel complete. He's in you, he has possessed your mind and your body.
You don't get time to say anything stupid before he's lifting you by the neck, sitting on the couch with you on top of him. The head of his cock's sinfully pinching you above your pelvis. Still half hard, he slides you back and forth, your wet folds coating his cock, your slickness making the friction delicious, a promise of what's to come.
"You're so fucking wet," he growls, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements. "Is this what you wanted? To be used like a cheap whore?"
You can only moan in response, your head thrown back, your hands braced on his shoulders as you grind against him. Your clit is throbbing, a desperate, aching need for more, for him to be inside you, to fill you up and claim you completely.
"Please," you beg, your voice a broken, breathless whimper. "Please, Hyuck...please, need you...please"
He smirks, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. Doesn't even try to ask what you want, he knows it for sure.
He finally pushes inside you, a slow, deliberate stretch that steals your breath. He fills you completely, the feeling of him so intense it borders on pain. But it's a pain you crave, a pain that feels like pleasure.
He lets you adjust for a moment, his hands holding you still, his eyes locked on yours. Filled to the brim, your lungs run out of air because of the way you feel him twitching raw inside you. Desperate, primal.
Then he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has you seeing stars. Your bodies move together, a perfect, messy harmony of flesh and sweat and desperate need. You lean down, your lips finding his, a hungry, desperate kiss that's all teeth and tongue, and the best of it all is that he doesn't deny it to you. He can taste himself on you, the faint, lingering taste of his cum, and it's the most intoxicating thing you've ever experienced.
His hands are everywhere, roaming your body, mapping every curve, every dip, every inch of you.
Left hand finding your hair, gripping so hard that your head is pulled back by force, his right hand groping your ass before meanly spanking you a few times that go straight to your core, tightening and clenching against him.
"Shitt, fuck!" He merely screams, thrusts fastening, your clit being tickled by his pubic hair with each movement. "You're milking the fuck out of me, huh? You want me to fill your cheap hole?"
You babble nonsense, something that sounds like a desperate plea, not like he would expect something different from you.
Your mind lost in a haze of pleasure and pain, your body writhing against him, your hips meeting his thrust for thrust. He doesn't care, he's not seeking for your orgasm but for his. This is about him and you know it, and you still don't care.
"Such a pathetic, disgusting piece of shit," he whispers against your skin, his teeth nipping at your earlobe.
Hands aggressively spreading your ass to find the hole he hasn't touched ever since he met you.
Index slightly massaging around the rim of your tight hole. The unexpected sensation makes you shudder, a loud, guttural moan escaping your lips.
"W-what...?" you manage to gasp, your body tensing at the new intrusion. No one has ever touched you there. The thought is both terrifying, but mostly electrifying.
He chuckles, a dark, wicked sound that vibrates through you. "Don't act so surprised, pretty. You'll take whatever I give you, won't you? This hole is fucking mine too, isn't it?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, just pushes harder, the tip of his index breaching the tight ring of muscle. The burn is sharp, intense, a shocking counterpoint to the pleasure building in your core. You cry out, your hands digging into his shoulders, your body torn between pulling away and pushing for more.
"Look at you, taking it so well," he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive purr. "You're so full of surprises."
Index is fully inside you now, moving in tandem with his cock, a dual invasion that has your head spinning and babbling things between yesses and pleads to stop. The pleasure is almost too much, a white-hot inferno that threatens to consume you whole. Your moans are constant now, a string of desperate, incoherent pleas for more.
"Yes, that's it..." You can tell he's getting close to the edge by the way he hisses, eyes lost on the way your tits bounce and your body convulses, loving the way you're on top of him and you're still defenseless. All consumed on his clenching teeth and the aired moans he lets slip of his pretty lips. "Milk this cock, milk my finger, take everything I'm giving you, be a good girl...come over my cock, dirty slut—"
The final command sends you over the edge.
Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, a violent, shuddering release that leaves you boneless and breathless. Your vision whites out, your body arching against him, a scream that hurts tearing from your throat and warm tears that make your eyes burn spill down your flushed face. You cry out, your body convulsing, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you shaking and breathless. Your walls clenching and contracting violently around him and your warm slick dripping down both of you, all the way to your old furniture.
He follows you moments later, with a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his lips as he spills inside, burying himself deep inside you, your warm walls milking him as he spills his hot, thick release inside you, coating your inner walls, a warm, sticky flood that makes you feel complete. His hips jerk erratically, his body shuddering against yours as he rides out the waves of his pleasure.
For a moment, you stay like that, a tangled, panting mess of sweat and satisfaction and limbs that shudder with the overstimulation, his cock twitching inside you as your pussy convulses around him.
He's still inside you, a comforting, possessive weight that makes you feel safe, cherished. Loved...
But the feeling is fleeting, a fragile bubble that bursts with the sudden coldness in his eyes.
He pulls out of you, the loss of him a sudden, sharp ache. He pushes you off him, not gently, but with a rough, impatient shove that sends you sprawling onto the floor.
You land in a heap, your legs on one side, your body aching in a dozen different places.
Afterward, as he pulls his briefs and jeans up, finding his belt with detached efficiency, you find yourself on your knees. Literally on your knees, clutching the fabric of his pants.
“Please,” you beg, the word a raw scrape in your throat. “Please, don’t go. Please...please don’t leave me.”
He looks down at you, still bare, on your knees, with tears from the fear that he might abandon you mixed with the tears from pleasure; his expression is one of faint disgust, as if looking at a persistent stain.
He pries your fingers loose, one by one. “Grow up.”
He stands over you, a magnificent, cruel god, and you are nothing but a discarded offering.
“Don’t call me,” he says, the words a final, deathly blow as he grips your cheeks with extra strength, forcing a pout that he'd never admit to love. “Don’t text me. Don’t even fucking look at me when we pass in the hallway. I'll call you when I want to, and you'll be there, every-fucking-time. You got it?” He says, pointing a threatening finger at you. “We’re done. For now.”
And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving you in the suffocating silence of your apartment.
The silence is a living thing, heavy and suffocating. It presses in on you, amplifying the frantic, panicked beating of your own heart. You’re alone.
Utterly, completely alone.
You lie there for a long time, a tangled, weeping mess on the floor, the slickness of him drying on your thighs, the phantom sting of his slaps still on your cheeks. The apartment feels cold, empty, haunted by the echo of his cruel words.
You try to piece together the shattered fragments of your dignity, but there’s nothing left to hold on to. Just the burning shame and the aching, desperate need for a man who sees you as less than nothing.
You drag yourself to the bathroom, your body aching with every movement. The tap of the water being open, on a desperate try to get his scent, his touches that still tingle off your body. The water in the shower is scalding, but you barely feel it.
You scrub your skin raw, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, the taste of him in your mouth, the feeling of him inside you. But it’s no use.
He’s etched into you, a permanent, indelible stain on your soul.
You look at your reflection in the mirror, and you barely recognize the person staring back at you. A stranger with puffy red cheeks. A broken, pathetic girl with a haunted look in her eyes.
You hate her. You hate her more than you’ve ever hated anyone.
You sink to the floor, the water still streaming down around you, and you finally let go. You scream, a raw, gut-wrenching sound of pure, unadulterated agony, until your throat is raw and your body is wracked with sobs.
This is your rock bottom. A cheap, lonely apartment, the ghost of a man who despises you, and the crushing weight of your own pathetic desperation.
❤︎₊ ⊹
He gets married the following week. The office's chat room is abuzz with pictures: Jiwon in a stunning custom gown, Haechan handsome and smiling in his tuxedo, a picture-perfect union of power and prestige.
And then, life returns to a terrible, hollow normal. You see him at the office. He doesn’t glance at you. Not in meetings, not in the hallways. You are air again. The ghost he said you were.
But the texts still come. Late at night.
The usual bar. 11 PM.
Or, more brazenly,
Parking level B2. Now.
You go. Every single time. Because when he summons you, the world narrows to a single, blinding point of possibility: this time, maybe, he will see you. This time, he will stay.
The encounters become rougher, more impersonal. He’s often angry, taking out frustrations about a case, about Jiwon, about his life on your body. He calls you the most degrading names, pushes you to your knees in dirty alleyways behind bars, fucks you in the back of his car without a kiss, a touch or word of affection afterwards.
And you let him. You welcome it. The pain is a perverse form of attention. The bruises he leaves on your skin are proof that you existed to him, if only for a few minutes.
You become an expert at hiding the marks. Makeup on your neck, long sleeves in the summer, a carefully practiced smile to mask the hollowness in your eyes that no one believes, but they don't care enough to ask for.
In the end, the reflection doesn’t come in a dramatic moment. It comes on a Tuesday evening, as you’re waiting for the kettle to boil in your silent apartment. You are waiting for a text that hasn’t come, and you realize with a dull thud of finality that you are hoping for it. You are hoping to be used.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation, beneath the loneliness, beneath everything he has taken from you, there is still that same pathetic hope.
Maybe tonight... Maybe this time...
Maybe he will finally love you.
The screen lights up.
And before you've even read the message, you're already reaching for your keys.
❤︎₊ ⊹
haaaaiiii, i finally finished thisss, i've been writing it for like 3 months and i just couldn't finish it because of uni and bc i was so blocked tfff :,c but i made it!!1 just in time for my pookie's bday!! i luv u haechi dongyuki, kisses from mx to wherever u are (as if he was reading this plek)
ANYWAYS, i really want to highlight that i do NAWT condone any of these actions (from cheating to disrespect ourselves like this) but!!! i'm so sick on my head that i find soooo hot this type of attitude specially on haechan idk why he's so mhmgmmgpdmhg. anyways, i wanted to write some naaasty smut with lots of angst, everytime i write sth i'm like "hell yea, i outdid myself" but this time i think i actually did, hopefully heheh
hope you enjoyed it!! let me know if you did!! thxs for readiiiing :3
Donghyuck is Spider-Man, but because of a spell gone wrong, everyone forgets who he is—including his girlfriend Y/N. He watches and protects her from the shadows, but it hurts him so bad that she doesn't remember who he is. Except her body remembers something her head can't. She wakes up in the middle of the night craving something she never knew she had. Donghyuck ensures they find their way back to each other eventually.
WC: 16.4k (full)
Warnings: Unprotected sex, restrained by Spiderman's webs during sex, dirty talk, kinda Dom!haechan, teasing, sex dreams (memories), casual mentions of sex throughout the entire story (the overall tone is more filthy than previous stories, beware)
Spiderman slips onto the fire escape outside Renjun's apartment, the city humming below him like a heartbeat he can't quite feel anymore. He's not here to spy—he tells himself that. He's just checking. Making sure she's safe. That's what he does now: patrols her life like a ghost, invisible and aching.
But then he hears Renjun's voice through the cracked window, and Y/N's laugh—that soft, familiar sound that used to be for him—and he can't tear himself away.
He crouches low, listening.
"So you're telling me you haven't gotten laid in, what, three months?" Renjun's voice is teasing, light. He's sprawled on his couch, a beer in hand, grinning at Y/N like they're having the most casual conversation in the world.
She's curled on the other end, legs tucked under her, a throw pillow hugged to her chest. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said. You said you're 'too wound up, stressed, can't sleep.' That's textbook horny, babe."
"Renjun!"
"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."
She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."
He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."
"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"
"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"
"Renjun!"
He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."
On the fire escape, Donghyuck's hands tighten into fists.
She's mine.
The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.
And he knows Renjun is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.
"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Renjun.
He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."
She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."
"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"
"Goodnight, Renjun!"
The door clicks shut. Renjun chuckles to himself, shaking his head.
Donghyuck stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
He knows what he has to do.
He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.
Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.
But for now, he waits.
Donghyuck stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.
She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.
He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.
The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.
It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.
But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.
"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"
He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."
She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"
"No, thanks. That's perfect."
She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.
It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.
But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.
"Here you go," she says softly.
He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."
She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.
Donghyuck takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Renjun's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.
Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.
He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Renjun says, bright and easy.
Their interactions are casual. Limited.
"Morning Haechan." That's the name he gives her, for now at least.
"The usual?" She asks.
"You know it."
A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.
It's not enough.
So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Renjun is in the back, he makes his move.
He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.
"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.
Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"
She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.
"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"Really, I can—"
"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."
She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.
"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.
"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."
"I prefer determined."
"A determined mess-maker."
He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.
They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.
"You come here a lot," she says.
"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."
Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."
"Ah. A returning native."
"Something like that."
She tilts her head. "What do you do, Haechan? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"
"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."
Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."
"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."
The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.
"I'd like that," she says quietly.
A bell rings from the back—Renjun calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.
"I should let you get back to work," Donghyuck says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"
"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.
He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.
He knows he has her attention now.
Renjun slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Donghyuck. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.
"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."
Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Haechan?"
"Obviously Haechan." Renjun leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"
"Renjun!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."
"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."
"I have not—"
"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.
Renjun groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."
"He's just a customer, Injun."
"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.
She bites her lip.
He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.
His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.
Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.
They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.
Haechan does.
He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.
She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.
But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.
---
She's restless.
The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.
She gives in.
From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.
Her mind drifts to him.
To Haechan. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.
She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—
And then she comes.
A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.
She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.
"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.
She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.
She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.
---
Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Donghyuck watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.
He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.
The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.
His name. She whispered his name—Haechan—on a desperate exhale.
And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.
He heard it all.
His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.
You're not satisfied, are you, baby?
He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.
He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.
Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.
Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.
It starts slowly.
A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.
His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.
"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."
She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.
"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"
He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.
"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."
"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"
He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—
And then she wakes up.
---
Gasping.
Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.
She blinks at the ceiling, panting.
What the fuck was that?
The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.
She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.
"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.
It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.
She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.
She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.
She doesn't know what that is.
Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.
But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.
She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.
Why does this feel like grief?
---
Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Donghyuck watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.
He knows.
He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.
He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.
He lets out a slow, shaky breath.
I'll give you what you're craving soon.
He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.
But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:
"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"
He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.
Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.
The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Renjun with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.
"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"
Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Renjun. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.
Renjun hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.
She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.
Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.
The little bell above the door jingled.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Haechan stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.
He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.
"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"
He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."
She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.
Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.
She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.
Do you remember that you gave this to me?
But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.
Of course she didn't remember.
"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.
Donghyuck stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."
He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.
She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.
Renjun slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."
Donghyuck blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.
"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."
Renjun's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Donghyuck could feel the weight of his unspoken question.
That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.
But Renjun just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.
Donghyuck exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.
He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.
He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.
The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.
The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.
She was two blocks away when the screaming started.
At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.
"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"
No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.
Oh god. That's the lobby.
Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.
"HEY!"
A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.
Spider-Man.
His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."
"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.
"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."
She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"
He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.
A sharp thwip sliced through the air.
Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.
"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"
Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."
And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.
Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.
The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.
Her breath caught.
She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.
"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."
The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.
What the fuck?
She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.
But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.
She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.
A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.
Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.
"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.
She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."
"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."
"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."
He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Then he straightened. "Bye."
And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.
Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.
Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?
She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.
And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.
Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.
But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.
The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.
But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.
Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Renjun had sent asking if she was okay.
Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.
YouTube.
Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.
The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.
She watched it twice. Then a third time.
The comments section was a battlefield.
"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"
"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"
"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"
"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"
"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"
Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.
She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.
And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.
She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.
The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."
Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.
"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."
And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.
Y/N's breath hitched.
That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm all ears."
The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.
She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.
But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.
She kept scrolling.
There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.
The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.
"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."
"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."
"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."
One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."
Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.
Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.
"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."
She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.
The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.
Sleep came heavy and reluctant.
---
She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.
"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."
She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.
She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.
"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.
Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.
She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.
Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.
Donghyuck pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.
His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.
But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.
Not when he was the only one who could fix it.
He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.
But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.
The knock that rattled Renjun's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.
"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."
Renjun closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."
She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Renjun. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."
Renjun's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.
He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."
She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."
Renjun was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."
She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.
"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.
"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."
His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."
"A club," she said flatly.
"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."
She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."
Renjun clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"
She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."
"Someone has to be."
They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.
---
Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.
Donghyuck's hands curled into fists.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
Someone new.
The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.
Even if she didn't remember it.
He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.
The hunt was on.
The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.
Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.
Renjun let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."
"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.
"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."
---
The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.
They claimed a spot at the bar, and Renjun ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.
Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.
By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.
None of them made her stomach flip.
But then the door opened.
And he walked in.
Donghyuck had planned this.
Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.
Her favorite outfit.
He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."
And she had. For hours.
He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.
There she was.
Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.
He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.
Then Renjun spotted him.
"Hey! Hyuck!"
Donghyuck turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."
Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."
Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.
Renjun gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."
"A mission?" Donghyuck raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."
Renjun sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."
Donghyuck smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.
"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."
Renjun looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."
They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—
Right into Donghyuck's arms.
Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."
His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.
He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"
She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."
If only you knew.
Renjun was already heading for the door, waving them along. Donghyuck kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.
The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.
"You smell... familiar."
His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"
"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."
Renjun shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Donghyuck just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.
They reached her building. Renjun held the door while Donghyuck helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.
When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.
"Thank you," she mumbled into Renjun's shoulder. "You're the best."
She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Donghyuck.
Her eyes met his.
The air between them thickened.
"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."
The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.
Donghyuck's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."
She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.
The lock turned.
Donghyuck stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.
"She say something?" Renjun asked from behind.
"Just saying goodnight."
Renjun hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."
Donghyuck turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."
"Uh huh." Renjun didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Haechan."
"Yeah. See you."
When Renjun disappeared down the stairwell, Donghyuck let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.
Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.
But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.
That was enough.
For now.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.
Donghyuck stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.
But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.
And he was out here. Alone. Again.
He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.
It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.
He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.
"Fuck."
He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Donghyuck saved no one. Not even himself.
He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.
But Donghyuck deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.
"You're so good, Hyuck. Fuck—don't stop—"
His hand curled into a fist.
Then his spider-sense flared.
Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.
He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.
---
The city was cruel tonight.
He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.
Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.
A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.
A break-in at a convenience store.
A fire on the Lower East Side.
He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.
But it didn't.
Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Hyuck. One day you won't come back."
And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.
Now she didn't even know to wait.
---
He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.
The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.
"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.
He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.
He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.
Soon.
Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.
Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.
But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.
For her. Always for her.
The bell above the door chimed, and Donghyuck walked in like he owned the place.
Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Renjun had convinced her to take.
She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.
"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.
He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."
"Someone regrets everything."
He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."
She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.
Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Hyuck had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Hyuck's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.
"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.
Hyuck just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.
Y/N froze.
The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.
She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.
But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.
Hyuck straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"
She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."
She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.
She needed to get this over with.
"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Renjun was being an ass, and—"
"Cute."
She stopped. "What?"
"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."
Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.
He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."
He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.
She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.
Fuck.
She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."
She shook her head, turning back to the register.
But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Haechan. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.
Maybe I have a crush on him.
She bit her lip.
Or maybe I'm just that desperate.
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.
And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Donghyuck smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.
Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.
The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Hyuck—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.
A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"
Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.
"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.
Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.
She followed without hesitation.
The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—
And then he was gone.
No. Not gone. Pinned.
A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.
"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.
Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.
She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—
A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.
She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"
"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.
Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.
She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.
He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.
"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."
She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"
She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"
She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—
And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.
She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.
Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.
And something clicked.
The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She looked up.
The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.
Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.
I know you. I've felt you before.
She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—
He stepped back.
Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.
"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."
And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.
She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.
Why does he feel so familiar?
She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.
And yet, he's a stranger.
She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.
Who are you?
The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Donghyuck watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.
The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.
Donghyuck walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.
"Morning, Y/N."
She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.
Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."
He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."
She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.
She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.
"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.
She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.
The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Renjun was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Donghyuck settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.
He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.
"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.
The moment the door clicked shut, Renjun emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Okay. Now's my chance."
Y/N frowned. "What chance?"
Renjun didn't answer. He darted to Donghyuck's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.
"Renjun, what the hell—"
"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."
Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"
"Relax, I'm just looking." Renjun's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"
"Renjun, I swear to God—"
He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."
He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.
It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.
Renjun held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."
But Y/N wasn't listening.
She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.
The same texture.
Her blood ran cold.
She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.
This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—
She looked up. Renjun was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
She was holding Spider-Man's mask.
Haechan's mask.
Haechan is Spider-Man.
----------------
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warning 18+ mdni nsfw anal sex, double penetration. choking, gagging, porn w/o plot, power inbalance, squirting, spanking, no use of y/n, light degradation, desecration
wc 900+
a/n anyone fw double penetration...?
you met chenle, when you were rushing to your second part-time job,fate seemed to have other plans. you crashed directly into a fancy black bentley parked by the curb, the impact wasn't huge. the dent, however, was definitely noticeable.
when the owner of the car appeared zhong chenle, you apologized, said you'd pay for this, with what money..? well chenle was intrigued. he stared at you as if he was scanning you completely raw. it almost feel like you were naked in front of him, he seemed amused, a faint smirk tugged on his lips, instead of looking angry, he looked suspiciously intrigued. he pulled out his phone, "give me your number," your eyes widened.
"my number?"
"so i can contact you later," he replied simply. "about the damages."
when chenle finally contacted you, you expected a repair bill or possibly a lawsuit, but not you sitting in front of him in a private dining room, and covered in luxurious silk dress you'd been given to wear by him.
this started as chenle using the dented bentley as leverage to force you out on dates with him. twice, or maybe thrice a week.
chenle spent money on you as if it meant absolutely nothing to him, he'd take you to the most expensive restaurants in the city, your closet slowly filled with luxury clothes, high-end makeup, gold jewellery boxes arrived at your doorstep.
chenle thought, it was natural, if something caught your eye, he'd buy it. if you mentioned wanting something once, it would somehow end up in your hands a few days later.
it was the fact that no matter how much money chenle spent, he still looked at you like you were worth far more.
chenle would, on a completely random tuesday afternoon, tell you to close your eyes before you could question him, he'd carefully fasten a diamond-studded necklace around your neck, he would gift you jewellery the same way most people gave flowers.
chenle would ask you to point at any building you liked, knowing there was almost no chance he wouldn’t buy it for you.
chenle could give you every luxury in the world, but what he truly wanted was the luxury of having you, feeling you, raw, unfiltered and bare.
chenle would clear out the entire VIP swimming area with a single call, just to fuck you in various places. he starts by bending you over the edge of the pool, his cock pushes into your warm walls first, stretching you open while his palm cracks across your arm, the sting shoots through you, making your walls clamp down.
he would groan at your tightness, spanking you again, harder. watching the red bloom across your skin.
chenle, then would pull out, and presses the thick head against your ass. he works himself inch by inch, the burn mixing with a deep, lewd pleasure you've never felt before.
chenle would flip you onto one of the lounge chairs next, spreading your thighs wide. this angle lets him grind deep into your ass, while his thumb circles your clit. you feel him everywhere, the stretch new and overwhelming. he leans down and, spits on your pussy before sliding to two digits inside, fucking both holes at once until you're sobbing from the intensity.
chenle, then lies his back on the wide daybed. his expensive pants shimmed down to his thighs, he tells you to climb on him. you sink dowm onto his thick length, taking him inch by inch, the diamond necklace swings between your bare breasts with every bounce. he watches your body move. the way your thighs tremble, the way your pussy drips onto the dark fabric of his pants.
chenle would grab your hips when you start to lose your rhythm and slams you harder. his free hand comes up and shoves two fingers into your mouth, you slightly taste yourself from the previous intrusion of your walls. he pushes his digits past your tongue, until you gag around them. tears spill instantly, your expensive mascara running in black streaks down your cheeks. he keeps his fingers there, making you gag and drool while you ride him, the wet sounds mixing with the slap of skin.
you come hard, squirting all over his pants. the liquid soaks through expensive material and he grins almost evilly. he flips you onto your stomach on the daybed, yanking your hips up. and drives back to your ass without mercy, "look how messy you are, doll." each thrust is a punishment and reward at once. his hand lands on your ass again and again, until your skin is hot and tender.
chenle pulls out, only to shove his cock into your mouth, making you taste yourself and him together. you gag around his length, tears flowing freely now. he jolts your head and fucks your throat until spit runs down your chin and drips onto the diamond necklace.
chenle would make you beautiful and doll you up just so he could be the one to ruin you exquiesitely and lavishly. the contrast of his tenderness and brutality keeps you floating. he kisses the tears from your cheeks even as he spanks you repeatedly, whispering how perfect you look ruined for him.
the expensive lingerine chenle bought for you was a pointless extravagence, it lies forgotten on the marble, straps torn, the real luxury being the way your body takes everything he inflicts. he knows you're just as fucked up as he is.
"please, chenle. please," you sobbed, your desperate pleas only falling on deaf ears. chenle’s low chuckle only made the tears fall harder down your cheeks. your scene of your fully undressed boyfriend, knelt on the bed between your legs, became even more of a blur. the sight of his hand slowly moving up and down his length grew fuzzier and harder to make out.
"what, baby? don't like the consequences of your actions?" his voice was rough, deeper than usual, as he chased his high, eyes fixed on you below him.
you knew teasing chenle was a dangerous game. it had started this morning when you were making breakfast for the two of you, dressed only in one of his shirts and no pants. chenle watched you intently as you stood on your tiptoes, trying to reach a bowl on the top shelf, the hem of his shirt rising to reveal the underside of your ass and a glimpse of your pink underwear. your actions only got bolder as the day went on.
chenle was sitting on the couch, watching a recap of last nights basketball game, when you decided to put your last plan into action. "lele," you sang, making your way over and straddling his lap, positioning yourself right over the bulge in his gray sweats. "babe," chenle said, glancing over your shoulder, carefully shifting you to the side so he could see the TV again.
you groaned, collapsing against his chest with your head resting on his shoulder. chenle chuckled, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close. you smiled as you started kissing down his neck, grazing the sensitive spot just below his ear. you felt him shift uncomfortably underneath you. "cut it out," he warned, his tone low and serious, but the words went in one ear and out the other. you smiled against his skin as you sucked a bruise onto his neck. "that's it," he growled, swiftly standing up from the couch, keeping you securely in his arms with his hands under your thighs.
"lele, please. im sorry," you begged. you were now lying beneath him, your shirt pushed up just above your stomach and your panties on full display. your hair was tousled from squirming around, trying to find some friction. chenle let out a small tsk, shaking his head. "keep begging, slut."
"let me touch you. please, please, please," you repeated, the words becoming a mantra. the only thought in your mind was chenle. you needed him so badly, but you knew it would take more than tears and begging to get what you wanted. you tried to sneak your hand down to find some relief for yourself, but chenle quickly caught your wrist, pinning it above your head. "what do you think you’re doing?" he asked, his voice stern. "chenle, please," you whimpered, trying to reach up to kiss him, but he moved back swiftly. "why do you think you deserve a reward? You’ve been nothing but a brat and a tease since this morning. isn’t this exactly what you wanted?" he chided. you shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "im sorry. lele, please."
he released his grip on your arm. "on your knees. show me how sorry you are."
you scrambled off the bed, kneeling at the edge where chenle was seated. you reached out to take his length in your hands, but he quickly swatted them away. "no touching. you don't deserve it."
you nodded obediently as he lined himself up with your mouth. the mix of saliva and precum made it easy for you to start bobbing your head up and down. you felt chenle gather your hair into a ponytail, his small grunts and moans spurring you on.
"breathe through your nose, princess," he said softly, guiding your mouth down farther. you gagged as he roughly pulled you up and then pushed your head back down. you kept your hands behind your back, gagging as he continued to thrust into your mouth. it wasn’t long before you tasted the salty release, and chenle pulled you off him with a soft pop.
he gently wiped your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his hand as you swallowed what was left in your mouth. "let me see," he cooed. you opened your mouth, sticking out your tongue to show him it was empty. "so, so pretty. my pretty girl. stand up. i think you deserve a reward for being so good."
chenle’s fingers gently threaded through your hair, the motion slow and soothing, as you laid sprawled on his chest, half-asleep and completely spent. your body felt heavy as you were cradled by the steady rise and fall of your boyfriends breathing. "you okay?" he murmured, his voice softer now, filled with nothing but love. he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, lingering there for a moment.
you nodded weakly, nuzzling closer to the warmth of his skin. the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was comforting as you clung onto him. you let the soft rhythm start to lull you to sleep. "mm-hmm," you whispered, your voice barely more than a sigh. "just... tired. really tired."
a small chuckle rumbled through his chest. "i didn’t go too hard, did i?" he asked, his tone teasing yet concerned, his thumb gently tracing circles on your back. "no," you managed, your words slow and drowsy.
"i love you, lele," you whispered, your words muffled against his chest. he smiled, "i love you too, princess." his voice gentle as he spoke again, "so so much." he continued stroking your hair, his touch careful, as if you were something fragile that would break at any moment. "now get some sleep, okay? we can talk more in the morning."
you managed a faint nod, your eyelids already growing heavier by the second. the last thing you felt being his lips pressing once more against your temple, the sensation pulling you into a peaceful sleep.
synopsis: Haechan would much rather spend his birthday at home, gaming with his friends. A simple night to celebrate. However, fate and Na Jaemin have other plans. He’s dragged out to a bar against his will. But, when he meets you, Haechan decides this is his favorite birthday yet.
fluff & smut, 5.7k wc
warnings: non-idol!au, fluff.reader uses she/her pronouns, haechan is referred to as donghyuck, Dreamies are annoying LMAO, smut, terrible writing, technically unprotected sex (no mention of condom or birth control), alcohol, getting drunk, bar scene, swearing. i think that’s all? Please let me know if I missed anything
a/n: Happy birthday to my favorite boy ever. Happy Hae Day!!!!!!! This is based on the lyrics of drop dead by Olivia Rodrigo. I’ve been loving this song so much and with Haechan’s birthday coming up, I wanted to combine the two. This is very rushed (life’s always busy) but I tried my best!! If you see any mistakes, I’m sorry in advance. This is also my first time posting smut SO PLEASE BE NICE THANK YOUUUUU that’s all. Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy 🤍
Donghyuck had a plan. On June 6th, he would sleep in, lounge around all day, have his brothers over, order delivery, and then game the whole night. Cake too, if he remembers.
Na Jaemin has a different plan.
A plan that Donghyuck is unaware of until now.
The birthday boy’s original plans had gone accordingly throughout the day. He woke up at a time far past morning and continued to stay in bed even later. Any other weekend, he’d have plans, appointments, places to be, but today is his day. No one and nothing to answer to unless he wills it.
Donghyuck smiles when he hears the doorbell ring- those would be his brothers, friends he’d known for the better part of a decade, the only people he wants to spend his birthday with.
He strolls up lazily to his front door, phone already open to a food delivery app.
However. When Donghyuck opens the door and sees Na Jaemin’s big smile, he feels his heart drop, dread washing over him.
He knows something is wrong when he steps back and really observes his friends.
Why is Renjun wearing his clubbing boots? Why are Jisung and Chenle holding two six packs of beer? Why is Jeno avoiding his gaze? Why is Mark wearing his good leather jacket? And, why is Jaemin looking at him with the most shit-eating grin he’s ever seen?
“What are you wearing?” Donghyuck starts, eyebrows raised so far you might think they’ll float off his face.
Jaemin claps back immediately, “What are you wearing?”
Donghyuck looks down at the sweatpants and old t-shirt he’s currently adorned in.
“I’m wearing clothes appropriate for a nice night in of pizza and gaming. Why the hell are you all dressed like that?”
Jaemin hums and they all push past the birthday boy, stepping into the apartment like they own it.
(With how much they stay over, they basically do at this point.)
The sound of the front door closing shocks Donghyuck out of his astonishment and he follows his friends into the kitchen.
“We’re going out. Tonight.” Jaemin says like it’s obvious. The friends work quickly around the space, pulling out glasses and bottle openers.
“No we’re not.” Donghyuck says sternly.
“I assure you, we are.” Jeno speaks up with a sigh, against the idea of going out in the first place but what Jaemin, Renjun, and Chenle want- they get.
“I’m sorry?” Donghyuck says, growing more frustrated by the minute. “Did you forget whose birthday it is today? I don’t want to go out.”
Jaemin walks over to face him directly.
“Baby,” he starts, to which Donghyuck rolls his eyes, “You only turn 26 once! You are a young, handsome bachelor. Why are you wasting your 26th birthday inside?”
Donghyuck steps back and rebuts- “It’s not a waste if it’s what I want to do.” Jaemin hums, point taken. But, he won’t give up. He refuses to let his friend stay home on his birthday.
“He’s not gonna take no for an answer, Hyuck. Let’s just go out tonight and we won’t bother you tomorrow.” Mark speaks up, snacking on some chips he found in his pantry.
The birthday boy scoffs. Closing his eyes as he weighs his options.
He wanted to celebrate with his friends. If his friends want to spend tonight at a bar, he guesses that’s okay.
Just as he’s about to surrender, Jaemin speaks up again.
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet a pretty lady and she can make the whole night for you,” eyes wiggling suggestively in his Jaemin manner.
Donghyuck groans and turns to walk out of the room. “Fine. I’ll go get ready.”
He only hears the echoes of cheers as a response.
-
An hour later, Donghyuck emerges back into the kitchen. Hair slightly damp from his shower but still swept back with a light gel. A nice t-shirt compliments his frame and the leather jacket he wears on top accentuates his shoulders. Bootcut dark-wash jeans elongate his legs. Tying it all together is a pair of black boots. He looks good , even if he doesn’t feel like it.
Chenle whistles and Jaemin ‘woo-hoos’ when they see the man of the evening has returned in appropriate bar attire. Donghyuck shakes his head and reaches for a beer. God, he needs a drink.
Thankfully, they ordered pizza while he was getting ready. Eating and drinking commence while camaraderie takes place around him. He listens to Mark and Renjun have a debate about the best hotpot ingredients; he watches Jisung lose drinking games again and again to Chenle while Jeno and Jaemin (and himself) watch fondly.
The beer and pizza loosen him up a little bit and he feels better about the prospective of going out tonight. It could be fun, he supposes.
7:30 p.m. comes and the group starts getting ready to go- Chenle mentioning something about Jaehyun saving them a table.
Everyone is a little tipsy and in good spirits, even the birthday boy.
-
Soon enough, their taxi pulls up to a lively bar. Donghyuck had never been here before.
“Is this place new?” He wonders out loud.
“No,” Chenle answers for him, “But, Jaehyun recently took over the management and he really revived the place.”
Donghyuck could do nothing but agree. Groups gather at every table outside the bar, drinks on tables and in hands, cigarette smoke wafting through the warm summer air, but not enough to overwhelm you. The chatter is joyful and lively- you could tell good stories are being shared all around. Lamps extending from the brick exterior of the building give enough light to see in front of you but leave enough darkness to hide an intimate moment if you wanted to.
That thought give Donghyuck chills.
He follows his friends inside the bar, feeling relief that the good energy follows as well. The inside matches the outside, except a little louder as the chatter was now contained within four walls. Stone floors, wood paneling, tables, and chairs, warm lighting, small paintings decorating the walls- it reminds him of an English pub he visited during a boy’s trip to London a few years ago. The memory warms him inside.
Chenle finds Jaehyun soon enough. The older man’s face lights up when he sees the group has arrived. He moves from behind the bar to greet them properly.
“Donghyuck!” He shakes his hand.
“Been a while.” He replies with a smile. It has been a while since he saw his friend. Jaehyun graduated a few years before him, and post-grad life kept them busier than they anticipated.
“Happy birthday man!” Jaehyun claps him on the back affectionately. “I saved a booth for you guys.”
He leads the way and the younger men follow him like ducklings. Their table is a little tucked away from the main scene, to which Donghyuck feels a little relief- it’s just a bit quieter and it gives the group a chance to be with themselves. There’s only one other table- a high-top table where three young women sit, seemingly wrapped up in their own friendship too.
Once they get settled and order their first round of drinks, Donghyuck feels more at ease. Him and his friends carry on their own lively conversation. Sharing memories, inside jokes, teasing each other- the friendship flowed effortlessly between them. Donghyuck realizes that this is all he wanted- whether it was in his own home or in the bar, the company with him is all that matters.
He stands up to help Renjun with the next round of beers- he’s strictly prohibited from paying for any round tonight- but he’ll help carry the drinks as a thank you.
Falling into conversation with Jaehyun, Donghyuck didn’t even notice another figure appear next to him. Didn’t notice until-
“Can I get three pints of Kloud please?” A sweet voice interrupts.
Nothing could prepare Donghyuck for the vision he sets his eyes on.
Is he so far gone that he’s seeing angels now?
You lean forward on the bar with a smile that matches your sweet voice. Somehow there are stars in your eyes that compliment the flush in your cheeks.
Donghyuck can’t breathe for a second- mind and body too busy taking you in- the way you look just like heaven. The conversation with Jaehyun and the beers in front of him long forgotten.
“Are you ever gonna try anything else?” Jaehyun teases you with a playful grin, preparing your pints nevertheless.
“We know what we like, nothing wrong with that.” You play back. Your smile grows and it makes Donghyuck very nervous.
Thankfully, you hadn’t noticed the silent stranger whose eyes were glued to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looked away for a moment. Unfortunately, the stranger’s friend behind the bar did notice Donghyuck’s sudden quietness.
When he takes your card from you, he nods his head toward the man next to you.
“It’s my good friend’s birthday tonight.”
Donghyuck looks away quickly to not be caught staring at you. He stares down an old water stain on the bar top while his cheeks fail to hide his blush.
When your eyes do land on the dark-haired boy, warmth rushes over you. In the moment, you’re keen to blame it on the alcohol.
It’s amazing how someone who looks so cool can simultaneously be so shy.
You feel endeared toward him and you’ve not yet spoken a word.
“Happy birthday.”
Your honey voice sounds like music to his ears and when he looks up to meet your gaze, an entire symphony erupts.
Are everyone’s eyes so pretty? How are you so pretty?
“Thank you.” He hopes you can feel his genuineness and when your smile grows just a bit more, he has a feeling you do.
Your eyes break away from his and move to the drinks sitting in front of him, “Surely you’re not paying for your own drinks tonight.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, “No, no. My friend would never let me pay tonight- they’d hide my wallet if they could.”
You giggle in response and he feels his confidence returning. Thank god. He’d never forgive himself if he fumbled that bad in front of you.
“You have good friends.”
“Yes, I do.” He agrees. You two then fall into easy conversation, how you each know Jaehyun, your jobs, where you’re from, your current neighborhood- not the most exciting conversations but Donghyuck makes it fun anyway.
Pints and beers long forgotten in front of you, swept up in the company beside you.
“I just moved a few months-“
“Donghyuck-ah!” comes the booming voice of Zhong Chenle. The man in question flinches, praying to any god listening that this younger brother won’t embarrass him.
“Why are you taking so long? The beer must be- oh.” Chenle stops his complaint as soon as he sees what- rather who- has kept Donghyuck from returning to their table. A teasing smile immediately appears on his face as he glances between you two. Donghyuck adorns a tight lipped smile while you smile as if you’re not bothered at all. Matter of fact, you’re curious about Donghyuck’s friend.
“I see.” Chenle says, mostly to himself. It’s taking every thing in him not burst into giggles.
“I’m sorry I kept your friend and your beers.” You shoot Chenle a smile, but the playful glint in your eyes tells everyone that you’re not really sorry.
“No, no. Not a problem at all.” He says, big goofy grin on his face. “I’m Chenle.” He holds his hand out, which you shake. Irritation grows in Donghyuck’s chest. He was perfectly content getting to know you within your own bubble.
“I’ve heard.” You grin, turning back to the handsome boy whose cheeks are flushed once again.
“You know he didn’t even want to come out tonight.” Chenle starts; he can’t help but being a shit-stirrer, even on his friend’s birthday.
You feign shock before sending Donghyuck a sweet smile. “Well, I’m very happy you did.”
“Me too.” He admits. Chenle grabs the beers and leaves the two of you, alone once again.
Just as you’re about to continue your conversation, a familiar melody starts playing through the bar. Donghyuck wishes he could capture the way your face lights up and frame it forever.
“Just Like Heaven” by The Cure- one of his favorite songs.
“I love this song!” You exclaims.
One of yours too it seems.
You start singing the lyrics, and Donghyuck joins in, unable to resist.
You wish you had a tape recorder so you could capture his sweet voice and listen to it on repeat forever.
No one pays attention to you both- well except for the two tables of friends who are already planning all the jokes they’ll make about the two of you. But, you pay no mind to them. You’re lost in your own world.
“You
Soft and lonely
You
Lost and lonely
You
Just like heaven”
When the song finishes, your eyes meet Donghyuck’s; and though out of breath, you both burst into a fit of giggles.
“I think we’ll deserve a drink after that.” He declares, already pulling out his wallet.
“Oh no.” You place a hand on his arm, making Donghyuck freeze. “I can’t let the man of the hour pay for a drink on his birthday.”
He shakes his head and takes out his card anyway. “Since it’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want. And, what I want is to pay for a pretty girl’s drink. What would you like? A pint of Kloud?”
You’re grateful he’s turned his head away from you so he can’t see the blush that graces your cheeks.
He’s thinks I’m pretty.
“Yes, please.”
With drinks in hand, Donghyuck offers to walk you back to your table. Initial disappointment weighs on your chest. Is this where it ends? A handsome stranger charms you to a blushing mess, buys you a drink, and now he’ll walk you back to your table and….leave you alone for the rest of the night?
No. Something inside tells you that it’s not over yet. A gut feeling. An intuition.
“Where’s your table?” Donghyuck puts his hand lightly on your lower back to help guide you through the still-crowded bar. He hopes you don’t feel the way it shakes.
“It’s in that corner back there.” You point. When Donghyuck follows your gesture, he realizes it’s the high top right next to his booth.
“Oh you’re right next to mine!”
When you get closer, you realize that you do recognize Chenle at Donghyuck’s table.
You pause in front of the tables, looking at him, hopeful that this won’t be where you part for the night.
“So, we’re here.” You prod. He can practically see the hope shining in your eyes.
“Thanks for talking with me tonight. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening with your friends.”
Donghyuck winces at this own response. He can’t believe he just said that. He’s too out of practice, too sober, to think of a flirty, clever way to talk to you more. He shifts his gaze to avoid seeing your disappointment, but is unfortunately met with the disapproval of his friends. Renjun sighs and Jisung shakes his head.
“I hope you have a good birthday.” You say softly before walking back to your table.
As soon as Donghyuck returns to his seat, the scolding begins- though at low whispers as to not be heard by the neighboring group.
“Are you stupid?” Jaemin scolds him in a whisper-shout.
“Oh my…” Mark mutters to himself.
“Even, Jisungie is better at flirting than that.” Renjun sighs out again.
“What do you guys suggest I do? Hm?” He exhales, looking at his friends expectedly. If they were going to nag him, the least they could do is offer him some solid advice.
However, as he suspected, the table grows quiet. “Exactly. Let’s keep our comments to ourselves.” Then, he takes a long sip of his beer.
Camaraderie ensues again, but Donghyuck can’t stay focused. His eyes keep moving back to you. The way you’re leaned on the hightop table, fully focused on the story your friend is telling, and how your eyes somehow sparkle in the low bar lighting- he thinks you’re so pretty.
You catch him staring at you a few times, but before you can hold the eye contact, he looks away, as if embarrassed.
“This is your chance.” Jaemin mutters to Donghyuck, snapping him out of his daydream.
“Hm?”
“Her drink. It’s empty. Offer to buy her a new one and then ask you if can talk more privately.”
Donghyuck thought for a moment. It’s actually a good idea. What’s the worst that could happen? You could laugh in his face and tell him he missed his chance.
But you wouldn’t do that.
He stands up, his own empty beer glass in his hand, and walks around to your table. He feels even more pleased with his decision when your face lights up seeing him in front of you.
“I see you’ve got an empty glass. Care for a refill?”
“Who’s paying?” You prod with a teasing grin.
“It’s on me if that’s okay with you.”
“More than okay.”
Donghyuck is sporting a full toothed grin now. Feeling brave, he holds his hand out. When you take it, he feels on top of the world. A simple gesture has him flying.
He leads you back to the bar, pays for your drink as promised. Comfortable silence comes over you while you watch Jaehyun pour your beers.
“I’m not sure how much longer you’ll be staying but I wanna talk with you more, away from my nosy friends.” He says as confidently as he can.
You blush- you were right to listen to your heart. This is not over. “I’d like that a lot actually. You know I was a little disappointed when you went back to your table.”
Donghyuck throws his head back and groans, “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” The dramatics make you giggle.
“It’s okay. I’ll just go let my friends know.” Donghyuck watches you walk back to your tables. He’s entranced by you, completely. Taking a deep breath, he prays that tonight goes in his favor.
It’s his birthday after all.
Not even minutes later, you return.
“Let’s go to that table over there.” As he follows you, he finally notices that the bar has considerably cleared out. Soft jazz music now plays through the speakers. A mellowed out vibe compared to an hour earlier. This puts him more at ease.
You both slide into the booth, only centimeters separate you. You’re practically sitting shoulder to shoulder, feeling the heat radiate off him.
Conversation between you both begins again, flowing like it never stopped. You talk about the friends here with you tonight, your go-to coffee orders, your travels- if he’s ever been to Japan or France. Everything and anything in between.
Somehow you’ve both drifted closer to each other, shoulders now touching. You’re leaning into him as he is into you. Beer glasses still half-full- too caught up in the company next to you to care.
You can hardly focus on anything at this point. His proximity makes your head spin- or maybe that’s the alcohol still in your system you’re not sure. All you know is you can hardly focus on anything but the way his lips move as he talks. They look so soft. How would they feel moving against yours?
“….That’s when I told Jeno he was absolutely crazy. Are you even listening to me right now?” He teases.
You can only hum and nod as your reply, too dazed and entranced by him to properly say yes. Even so, it’d be a lie. You were not listening; you were just staring at his lips and begging any higher power listening that they would whisper to Donghyuck that-
“Y/n….can I kiss you right now?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper as if he’s afraid he’ll pop the perfect bubble you’re in right now.
Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes
You nod and before you know it, he’s leaning in.
You expected fire- hot and heavy that makes you flinch if it burns too long. But, the moment your lips meet Donghyuck’s, it’s warm. Not sparks, a steady flow of electricity that makes you feel alive. His lips are as soft as they look. He applies the perfect amount of pressure that doesn’t push you away but still leaves you wanting more. His hand comes up to cup your jaw and bring you closer together. Your mouths move more fervently and one hand comes up to rest on his chest to keep you steady. You’re starting to squirm, that electric flow awakening other parts within you. If he stops now, you might drop dead.
To your dismay, he pulls away, leaving you both breathing heavy. He smiles, a mix between embarrassment and satisfaction.
“You know the bar closes at 11.” He mutters. You turn to check the wall clock.
10:45
“Maybe, if you never finish your beer. We’ll never have to go.” You joke, but there’s a hint of sadness in your voice. You’re worried once you exit the walls of this bar, you’ll go back to being strangers. Then, you’ll spend the rest of your life missing that one handsome man you met at a random bar in your twenties.
“I don’t think Jaehyun would like that.” He says while patting your head affectionately as you pout in response.
“It’s getting late. Let me take you home.”
Such a simple statement stirs butterflies in your chest. You’re still feeling buzzed from the kiss you just shared.
“My apartment’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Lead the way pretty girl.”
You both bid goodbye to Jaehyun who is already starting to clean up. If you two weren’t so caught up in yourselves, you would’ve read the phone messages your friends sent you that they’ve gone home.
You don’t know when your hands connected after leaving the bar but you’re more than happy they did. The action warms your heart more than the alcohol tonight ever did.
You swing your hands together almost childlike as he walks you home. The light to guide the way are the street lamps. But, you’re not scared. Not with Donghyuck by your side.
“What did you do for your birthday today? Before the bar?”
“Hmm,” He thinks for a minute, “I slept in really late and stayed in my pajamas most of the day until my friends took me to the bar.”
“You didn’t do a lot..” You murmur.
“It’s exactly how I wanted it to go.” He raises your intertwined hands and kisses the back of yours. Donghyuck of course leaves out the part that his friends had to practically drag him out of his apartment to this bar. He figures you don’t need to know that.
“Did you have any cake at least?”
“Hmm. Nope. No cake.”
You completely stop in your tracks. He walks a few steps before feeling a tug on his hand.
“You didn’t have any cake?” You ask incredulously, eyes practically bugging out of your skull. Donghyuck chuckles to himself at the sight. You’re so damn cute, and dramatic.
“I guess we just kind of forgot.” He shrugs.
“We have to fix this.” You shake your head. “There’s a convenience store the block before my apartment. Let’s see if we can find something in there.”
He doesn’t argue with you, letting you pull him forward. Donghyuck doesn’t know you well but he has a feeling once you set your mind to something, there’s no convincing you otherwise.
Sure enough, after walking a ten more minutes, you’re stood in front of a 24 hour conveniences store. The bright light glowing from the sign almost makes Donghyuck squint.
The bell rings as you push yourself inside, dragging the birthday boy behind with your intertwined hands.
The clock reads 11:07. Plenty of time.
You scan the aisles diligently; Donghyuck follows like a lost puppy (he practically is one in this moment). Finding a pack of two basic candles, all that’s left is a cake, or something close to.
“All they have is a big chocolate cookie or a cup of strawberry ice cream.” You frown. Donghyuck feels the temptation to kiss it right off you. He refrains for now- you’re on a serious mission after all.
“Whatever you want pretty.” He says, moving his thumb across your hand absentmindedly. Donghyuck truly doesn’t mind- he’s not even sure he wants a sweet treat. But, you’re so determined, he can’t say no to you.
“But it’s your birthday. I want you to choose.” You whine.
“Ok. Let’s do strawberry ice cream and we can share it.” You smile in satisfaction before taking the both of you to the register.
“Oh! Do you have a lighter?”
After he shakes his head, you take one off the shelf and start to pay. Best believe, Donghyuck insisted he pay but, you argued back that he payed for your two drinks and it’s a gift for his birthday. He conceded in the end.
Next thing you know- you’re sat on the curb outside of the store. You prepare the impromptu birthday cake, carefully placing the two candles in the very small cup of ice cream.
“Ready?”
He nods, giving you the okay to light the candles.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..”
Your voice is so sweet. He wants to drown in the honey. He wants to freeze this moment. Just between you and him, and the bright convenience store lights.
“Make a wish!” You whisper.
He closes his eyes and really wishes.
He wishes for more moments like this with you. He wishes that this isn’t the end of your journey together. He wishes that by the end of the night he’ll be brave enough to get your number. He wishes this, whatever this is, will blossom into so much more.
Donghyuck will never say any of this out loud though. He won’t risk anything for his wish to not come true.
He opens his eyes and blows out the candles. You cheer and watch the smoke dissolves into the summer night.
11:35 perfect timing.
“Happy birthday, Donghyuck.” You smile at him shyly. He wants to eat you alive. How can you have such a hold on him? Not even four hours ago, he hadn’t even known you. He never wants to go back there again.
You both dig into the ice cream. Granted, you each only get about four full bites in before the cup is finished.
“Best birthday cake ever.” He says, and you giggle in reply. He hopes you know that he means it though. Silence settles over you. It’s disgusting- the hearts that are coming out of both your eyes. Anyone would become sick looking at the two of you.
Donghyuck brings a hand up to your cheek. “You have a little something here….” And, he’s kissing you again. It’s sweeter this time- the lingering taste of strawberry on both your lips. In sheer desperation, you grab his shirt to pull him closer. He opens his mouth in response to you, his body telling you that he wants you as much as you want him. Your tongues dance together, in perfect sync. Breathing in each other’s air, you’re bordering on exhibitionism.
Maybe, not that far.
But, if he keeps this up, you might ask him to take you right here on the curb.
“Please take me home.” You whine, breaking away, an unfortunate but necessary communication.
“Okay, yes, okay.” He stands up, helping you in the process. You’re a giggling fluttering mess, practicing skipping the rest of the block to your apartment. Donghyuck follows close behind, extremely amused and equally as happy.
His hands are on your waist as you come to your front door. You fumble with the keys, from both nerves and giddiness
As soon as the door opens and closes, he’s on you again. Arms wraps around your waist to pull you close and your lips connect again, moving with more passion than before. It’s quite a haphazard scene- the two of you walking backward in the dark completely unaware and uncaring about your surroundings.
Eventually, Donghyuck taps your thigh. You hop up and wrap your legs around his waist, fully supported by him now.
“Where’s your bedroom sweet girl?” He detaches for a moment and then continues kissing down your neck, waiting for your reply.
“To the left, down the hall.”
He walks with haste; you appreciate it. Pushing open your bedroom door, he sets you down, now hovering over you.
“I should prep you baby. What do you want?” He says, searching your eyes. You look like a dream- face flushed, hair laid out around you like a halo. The moonlight that shines through your window seems to make you sparkle.
You blush at the question. What do you want? Your mind is too clouded by him . That’s the only answer you have.
“Just want you.” You murmur. He hums and thinks.
“Really want to be inside you. How about my fingers? I’ll eat you out another time- I’ll do it slow and properly next time. Is that okay?”
You nod frantically. You’d have him in anyway; it didn’t matter to you.
“Need words.” He whispers, hardly a centimeter from your face.
“Please fuck me, Donghyuck.” You practically whine out, growing patient. If you weren’t such a horny mess, you’d be more appreciative at his thoughtfulness.
With the green light, he helps to strip you, throwing the clothing across your room.
God, you’re a sight. He could come just looking at you.
He full crawls on top of you, connecting you lips once again. One arm braces himself over you while the other one snakes down your torso. You whine into his mouth when his hand stops at your hip. Your body tries to take initiative when your hips buck into him. He chuckles into your mouth.
“Okay, okay.” He relents. Donghyuck didn’t mean to tease you- he was trying to savor the moment.
Once his fingers prod your entrance, all is forgiven. It’s overwhelming- how he stimulates your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm. He curls his fingers in just the right way. Your body reacts to him so well- like you’ve known each other for years.
That familiar coil starts to wind in your stomach. You’re close. He knows it, you feel it.
“Want you inside me.” You whimper. He happily obliges to your request. Taking his fingers away from your core- you whine at the loss of contact, even though that’s what you just asked for. Donghyuck takes his fingers up to his mouth and you watch, with lust-filled eyes, him put his fingers into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean from your slick.
He moans at the taste. “You taste so sweet, baby. I promise I’ll fuck you with my tongue next time.”
After completing stripping himself, he lifts your leg and bends it, exposing your core. Donghyuck starts to nudge himself inside- the feeling making both of you close your eyes in pleasure.
You could feel him pulsing inside your walls; he no better, barely holding his sanity together.
“You’re so tight babygirl. Fuck.” He grunts.
“Move please, Hyuck.” You whimper. When he does start rocking his hips against yours, you feel euphoric all over again. The rhythm, the angle- he’s hitting all the right spots. His head is buried in your shoulder, willing himself to not come just yet.
But, something about you makes it hard for him to control himself. His movements turn frantic, chasing that high for both of you.
“I’m close.” Your grip on his arm tightens as you’re about to come undone.
“Yeah? Come for me baby.”
He leans down to connect your lips again. It’s with such passion, adding to the stimulation. Overwhelming but welcome nevertheless.
You unravel under him. Donghyuck winces when he feels you come around his cock. He rocks inside you a little more, helping you ride out your high before pulling out and finishing on your stomach. Collapsing next to you, he’s silent for a minute, catching his breath and recollecting himself. You’re doing the same. The perspiration on your skins makes you look like you’re glowing. Some could argue it’s a post-sex glow; Donghyuck argues it’s also from pure happiness.
Not long after you’ve both finished, he starts to get up- the urge to take care of you ever present. You murmur sleepily where your washcloths and pajamas are. Donghyuck is now on a mission.
First, he sneaks into your kitchen for some glasses of water. Then, he stops in your bathroom to prepare a washcloth to clean you up. His final destination is your closet where he finds a soft old t-shirt and new underwear for you to sleep in.
Once he cleans you up, he lays down next to you, pulling you into his chest. You’re so sleepy and far gone, you could think this is a dream. The last thing you feel is Donghyuck’s steady heartbeat before you’re pulled into a deep sleep.
-
It’s sunlight that pulls Donghyuck into consciousness. The light shining through your windows prods his eyes open. Then, he registers a weight on him. You’re sprawled out across him, left leg draped across his body and arm curled on his chest. He relishes in the feeling.
Donghyuck doesn’t know what time it is, if you have plans today, or how you’ll feel when you wake up. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to leave your warmth.
He doesn’t have to wonder long as he feels you start to stir as well. The way you nuzzle into his shoulder makes him melt.
“Morning.” You murmur, still refusing to open your eyes to the sunlight.
“Hi pretty girl.”
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than ever.” He grins.
“Good.” It’s quiet for a moment. Maybe, you’re feeling brave, or maybe it’s the sleep clouding your brain, you dare to ask, “How long can you stay?”
Forever, Donghyuck thinks.
But, he squeezes your waist instead and offers an answer much less overwhelming, “I have no plans other than you, baby.”
Let’s go steady.
Let's go out
And tell the whole damn world how….
disclaimer: I do not claim anything in this fic happened in reality. This is all fiction and for fun.
pixelskylines
2087
tangentwithtanner
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
